--- DICTIONARIES (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

--- QUOTES [1 / 1 - 72 / 72] (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

KEYS (10k)

   1 Aleister Crowley

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   3 Soren Kierkegaard

   2 Victoria Aveyard

   2 S ren Kierkegaard

   2 Sherrilyn Kenyon

   2 Li Bai
   2 Leo Tolstoy

   2 Katherine Arden

   2 Evangeline Anderson

   2 Cassandra Clare

   2 Ali Smith

1:In your early struggles you may have found it difficult to conquer sleep; and you may have wandered so far from the object of your meditations without noticing it, that the meditation has really been broken; but much later on, when you feel that you are "getting quite good," you will be shocked to find a complete oblivion of yourself and your surroundings. You will say: "Good heavens! I must have been to sleep!" or else "What on earth was I meditating upon?" or even "What was I doing?" "Where am I?" "Who am I?" or a mere wordless bewilderment may daze you. This may alarm you, and your alarm will not be lessened when you come to full consciousness, and reflect that you have actually forgotten who you are and what you are doing! This is only one of many adventures that may come to you; but it is one of the most typical. By this time your hours of meditation will fill most of the day, and you will probably be constantly having presentiments that something is about to happen. You may also be terrified with the idea that your brain may be giving way; but you will have learnt the real symptoms of mental fatigue, and you will be careful to avoid them. They must be very carefully distinguished from idleness! ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA ,

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:Now where am I? Lost, that’s where. ~ K Webster

2:Ask yourself: Where am I? Answer: Here. ~ Ram Dass

3:What am I? And where am I? And why am I here? ~ Leo Tolstoy

4:Where is he tonight? Where am I? Where are you? ~ Jack Kerouac

5:Where am I?’ he asked and was surprised that his voice sounded firm and clear. ~ Ian Fleming

6:Where am I? He shrugged. Back of the north wind. The end of the world. Nowhere at all. ~ Katherine Arden

7:Where am I? Who am I? How did I come to be here? What is this thing called the world? ~ Soren Kierkegaard

8:Where am I?" He shrugged. "Back of the north wind. The end of the world. Nowhere at all. ~ Katherine Arden

9:Where am I? (Nick) Hospital. (Kyrian) Really? No kidding? And here I thought I was at McDonald’s. (Nick) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon

10:Where am I? (Nick) Hospital. (Kyrian) Really? No kidding? And here I thought I was at McDonald’s. (Nick) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon

11:W-where am I? Why am I naked?” The blonde bites down on her knuckle. “So. Many. Jokes. I can’t. I just can’t, though. ~ Ruby Dixon

12:Don’t touch me,” I snarl. “What was that? What happened? Where am I?” “Careful, you’re turning into a philosopher. ~ Victoria Aveyard

13:Don’t touch me,” I snarl. “What was that? What happened? Where am I?” “Careful, you’re turning into a philosopher. ~ Victoria Aveyard

14:Where am I? What the hell difference is it? There’s plenty o’ fresh air and the moon fur a glim. Don’t be so damn pertic’lar! ~ Eugene O Neill

15:(...) I don´t want a drink. I just want to know where am I? -You´re not in Kansas anymore!- Jake chuckled at his own joke. ~ Alexandra Adornetto

16:I stick my finger into existence.. it smells of nothing. Where am I? Who am I? What is this thing called the world? What does this word mean? ~ Soren Kierkegaard

17:Where am I?" mumbled Luz. "You're tied up in a homicidal smuggler's haunted mansion," I informed her. "I remember now. My mom's going to be pissed. ~ Kirsten Miller

18:I see that. Where am I?’ ‘You are quite secure, Rachaela. You have all of us.’ Rachaela quailed. ‘But you’re all mad.’ Anna smiled her smile. ‘What can I say to that. ~ Tanith Lee

19:I wake up, but where? I don't just think this, I actually voice the question to myself: "Where am I?" As if I didn't know: I'm here. In my life. A feature of the world that is my existence. ~ Haruki Murakami

20:To get where you want to go, the first question you always have to answer is Where am I? ... We only find out where we are when we find out where He is. We only find ourselves... when we find Him. ~ Ann Voskamp

21:It doesn't benefit me to lie to people. They're eventually going to find out the truth, and then where am I? That's the problem with liberalism and socialism, by the way: it has to be propped up by lies. ~ Rush Limbaugh

22:Why does the infant cry after coming out of the womb? ‘I was in the womb, in yoga.’ After taking birth he cries and says, ‘Where, where am I? Where have I come? I was meditating on God’s lotus feet, and now where am I? ~ Sri Ramakrishna

23:Where am I? Who am I? How did I come to be here? What is this thing called the world? How did I come into the world? Why was I not consulted? And If I am compelled to take part in it, where is the director? I want to see him. ~ Soren Kierkegaard

24:I am feeling fine. I remember these words and recite them. These are the things you say when asked how you are. After all, it would be odd to say: I'm not feeling. Or, more to the point: I'm not, I have ceased to be. Where am I? ~ Marya Hornbacher

25:Where am I? Who am I? How did I come to be here? What is this thing called the world? How did I come into the world? Why was I not consulted? And If I am compelled to take part in it, where is the director? I want to see him. ~ S ren Kierkegaard

26:A day out of season, stopping the monotonous count of summer days. Stopping, too, one's own summer routine, so that, looking out on the gray skies, one says not only, 'What time of year is it?' but, 'What time of life am I in? Where am I? What am I doing? ~ Anne Morrow Lindbergh

27:You are asking yourself, as all of us must: 'Who am I?' . . . 'Where am I?' . . . 'Whence do I go?' The process of enlightenment is usually slow. But, in the end, our seeking always brings a finding. These great mysteries are, after all, enshrined in complete simplicity. ~ Bill W

28:The words had acted like a charm. They'd released it all, in seconds. They'd made everything happening stand just far enough away. &emsp It was nothing less than magic. &emsp Who needs a passport? &emsp Who am I? Where am I? What am I? &emsp I'm reading. ~ Ali Smith

29:A wispy murmur in the blackness. Blackness, where before there was only nothingness. It was dark, inky and thick, but there now existed the palpable sense of tangibility. She gasped in alarm, but no sound came out of her throat. "Where am I?," she shouted, but no words made it past her lips. ~ G S Jennsen

30:Quis hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga? ubi sum? sub ortu solis, an sub cardine glacialis ursae?" "What place is this, what region, what quarter of the world? Where am I? Under the rising of the sun or beneath the wheeling course of the frozen bear?” Hercules Furens (The Mad Hercules), Act 5, line 1138 ~ Seneca

31:I blinked blearily at the faces staring down at me. They all looked immediately relieved. And because I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to be an asshole, I said, “Where am I? Who are all of you? Why can’t I remember anything, such as my own name or country of origin or the people in my life who I am supposed to love? ~ T J Klune

32:When Thad began nuzzling her neck, pressing his opened lips against her, she smacked him in the back of the head. "Don't go vamp on me now!" "Whaa!" He shot upright, his fangs sharp. "Where am I?" She glanced at his fangs, then down. "Oh, my gods, when do you not sport wood? There are bathrooms in the back, so go burp the worm or whatever. ~ Kresley Cole

33:There’s no place like home / So where am I?” MacKaye sings with undisguised bitterness. “I just felt so betrayed by my friends,” MacKaye says, “for doing what I wanted to do, for doing what I thought was the right thing.” They performed the song only once, at their first show after reuniting. Afterward Baker and Preslar heaved handfuls of change at the audience. ~ Michael Azerrad

34:And there in the next room by the sofa sat a familiar suitcase, that of his psychiatrist Dr. Smile. Barefoot, he padded into the living room, and seated himself by the suitcase; he opened it, clicked switches, and turned on Dr. Smile. Meters began to register and the mechanism hummed. "Where am I?" Barney asked it. "And how far am I from New York?" That was the main point... ~ Philip K Dick

35:Hope is always about the future. And it isn't always good news. Sometimes, hope can imprison us with belief or expectation that something will happen in the future to change our lives. Similarly hopelessness isn't always about despair. Hopelessness can bring us right into this very moment and answer all of life's most difficult questions. Who am I? Where am I? What does this mean? And what now? ~ Daniel Gottlieb

36:This is a good look. I'm gonna mess him up," Pattinson praises Stewart. "And I'm just like, I don't know what's going on? Where am I? I just walked out of a flower bed in this scene as well.... I was standing in the flower bed and then walked out of it and then stopped and looked confused.... If I didn't have contact lenses on, that was a really spectacular look I just did.... I should have had million thoughts, like Hamlet. ~ Robert Pattinson

37:Granny Weatherwax looked out at the multi-layered, silvery world. “Where am I?” INSIDE THE MIRROR. “Am I dead?” THE ANSWER TO THAT, said Death, IS SOMEWHERE BETWEEN NO AND YES. Esme turned, and a billion figures turned with her. “When can I get out?” WHEN YOU FIND THE ONE THAT’S REAL. “Is this a trick question?” NO. Granny looked down at herself. “This one,” she said. ~ Terry Pratchett

38:It's too bright," I complain. "Where am I?" "You're at Baldwin Memorial," Luke says, as he reaches over and hits a switch on the wall, dimming the lights. A moment after that the bed is moving, adjusting me so that I'm sitting up. "Stop, you're annoying me. I'm sleeping." "You're awake and I need to check your pupils." "You're a gynecologist." "I can give you a pelvic when we're done if you like," he replies. "Open your eyes. ~ Jana Aston

39:Where am I?” I ask. “Where are my parents and my brother? Where’s my home? And who are you?” He blinks a couple of times before smiling faintly as though something has just amused him. “I’m afraid you’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.” Wizard of Oz references? I’m somewhere, I don’t know where, and that’s the best I get? Well, I’m not some dumb little girl willing to put up with that, and he certainly isn’t any kind of wizard. - Celestra Caine, FADE by Kailin Gow ~ Kailin Gow

40:My instinct tells me "purpose" is maybe the enemy of a good personal essay. In my own experience, I'm always lost and wandering and searching - where am I? how'd I get in this mess? what's the point? - right through to the final draft, and sometimes even beyond that - baffled and defeated still, confused as to purpose long after the thing's in print. I never really have a guiding purpose or a point, not at the outset, anyway. It's like life: It's all discovered en route. ~ Charles D Ambrosio

41:What the hell is this? Station after station, talk, talk, talk about the devil and the liberal democrats, what??? They still looking for communists? I dont believe this shit. Give me an amen and thank you jesus...whats with these people? This whole world is one big trailer park. They hate everybody. If theyre not hanging 'gays' they are hanging 'feminists', oh thank god for an 'off' button. Krist, my heart is pounding. Where am I? This cant be the same country I spent my entire life in. ~ Hubert Selby Jr

42:And the speck of my heart, in my shed of flesh and bone, began to sing out, the way the sun would sing if the sun could sing, if light had a mouth and a tongue, if the sky had a throat, if god wasn’t just an idea but shoulders and a spine, gathered from everywhere, even the most distant planets, blazing up. Where am I? Even the rough words come to me now, quick as thistles. Who made your tyrant’s body, your thirst, your delving, your gladness? Oh tiger, oh bone-breaker, oh tree on fire! Get away from me. Come closer. ~ Mary Oliver

43:But she did not take her eyes from the wheels of the second car. And exactly at the moment when the midpoint between the wheels drew level with her, she threw away the red bag, and drawing her head back into her shoulders, fell on her hands under the car, and with a light movement, as though she would rise immediately, dropped on her knees. And at the instant she was terror-stricken at what she was doing. 'Where am I? What am I doing? What for?' She tried to get up, to throw herself back; but something huge and merciless struck her on the head and dragged her down on her back. ~ Leo Tolstoy

44:She’d opened the book she bought today. She’d started to read, from the beginning, quite quietly, out loud. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us. The words had acted like a charm. They’d released it all, in seconds. They’d made everything happening stand just far enough away. It was nothing less than magic. Who needs a passport? Who am I? Where am I? What am I? I’m reading. ~ Ali Smith

45:I stick my finger in existence — it smells of nothing. Where am I? Who am I? How came I here? What is this thing called the world? What does this world mean? Who is it that has lured me into the world? Why was I not consulted, why not made acquainted with its manners and customs instead of throwing me into the ranks, as if I had been bought by a kidnapper, a dealer in souls? How did I obtain an interest in this big enterprise they call reality? Why should I have an interest in it? Is it not a voluntary concern? And if I am to be compelled to take part in it, where is the director? I should like to make a remark to him. Is there no director? Whither shall I turn with my complaint? ~ S ren Kierkegaard

46:Jade carved dishes - food costing more.    I throw the chopsticks down,    Food and wine are tasteless.    Draw my magic sword,    Mind confused stare round me.    See the ice floes block the Yellow River.    Feel the snowfall shroud the Tai-hang Mountains.    Quiet again I cast in dark waters,    Find the fragile boat that might drift sunwards.    Hard Journey. So many side-tracks.    Turn after turn, and where am I?    New breezes flatten down the waves ahead.    Ill set cloud sails, cross the Blue Horizon. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Li Bai, Gold painted jars - wines worth a thousand

47:Gold vessels of fine wines, thousands a gallon, Jade dishes of rare meats, costing more thousands, I lay my chopsticks down, no more can banquet, I draw my sword and stare wildly about me: Ice bars my way to cross the Yellow River, Snows from dark skies to climb the T'ai-hang mountains! At peace I drop a hook into a brooklet, At once I'm in a boat but sailing sunward (Hard is the journey, Hard is the journey, So many turnings, And now where am I?) So when a breeze breaks waves, bringing fair weather, I set a cloud for sails, cross the blue oceans! by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes ~ Li Bai, Hard Is The Journey

48:Something broke in me and left me with a nerve split in two. In the beginning the extremities linked to the cut hurt me so badly that I paled in pain and perplexity. However the split places gradually scarred over. Until coldly, I no longer hurt. I changed, without planning to. I used to look at you from my inside outward and from the inside of you, which because of love, I could guess. After the scarring I started to look at you from the outside in. And also to see myself from the outside in: I had transformed myself into a heap of facts and actions whose only root was in the domain of logic. At first I couldn't associate me with myself. Where am I? I wondered. And the one who answered was a stranger who told me coldly and categorically: you are yourself. ~ Clarice Lispector

49:Where am I?" Magnus croaked. "Nazca." So Magnus was still in Peru. That indicated that he had been rather more sensible than he'd feared. "Oh, so we went on a little trip." "You broke into a man's house," Catarina said. "You stole a carpet and enchanted it to fly. Then you sped off into the night air. We pursued you on foot." "Ah," said Magnus. "You were shouting some things." "What things?" "I prefer not to repeat them," Catarina said. She was a weary shade of blue. "I also prefer not to remember the time we spent in the desert. It is a mammoth desert, Magnus. Ordinary deserts are quite large. Mammoth deserts are so called because they are larger than ordinary deserts." "Thank you for that interesting and enlightening information, ~ Cassandra Clare

50:With apologies to the folks in Redmond, I’ll end on another Microsoft joke because it makes the point well (a point that applies everywhere, not just at Microsoft): A helicopter was flying around above Seattle when a malfunction disabled all of its electronic navigation and communications equipment. The clouds were so thick that the pilot couldn’t tell where he was. Finally, the pilot saw a tall building, flew toward it, circled, and held up a handwritten sign that said WHERE AM I? in large letters. People in the tall building quickly responded to the aircraft, drawing their own large sign: YOU ARE IN A HELICOPTER. The pilot smiled, looked at his map, determined the route to Sea-Tac Airport, and landed safely. After they were on the ground, the copilot asked the pilot how he had done it. “I knew it had to be the Microsoft building,” he said, “because they gave me a technically correct but completely useless answer. ~ William Poundstone

51:Shadow was in a dark place, and the thing staring at him wore a buffalo’s head, rank and furry with huge wet eyes. Its body was a man’s body, oiled and slick. “Changes are coming,” said the buffalo without moving its lips. “There are certain decisions that will have to be made.” Firelight flickered from wet cave walls. “Where am I?” Shadow asked. “In the earth and under the earth,” said the buffalo man. “You are where the forgotten wait.” His eyes were liquid black marbles, and his voice was a rumble from beneath the world. He smelled like wet cow. “Believe,” said the rumbling voice. “If you are to survive, you must believe.” “Believe what?” asked Shadow. “What should I believe?” He stared at Shadow, the buffalo man, and he drew himself up huge, and his eyes filled with fire. He opened his spit-flecked buffalo mouth and it was red inside with the flames that burned inside him, under the earth. “Everything,” roared the buffalo man. ~ Neil Gaiman

52:The Traveler A mountain village in Iran: Our car halts under linden trees, The heart of a poppy field Opens with a red silky sky, and a warm mild scent. Stepping out on the road, between Qasvin and Kerman A dusty traveler, I open the thermos bottle, take the mountain scene And busily look at the map: Where am I? Unknown clusters of homes, strange life, alien tongue, Kindliness in eyes, blue domed mosque, Life blossome a desert rose. Where am I? Spreading heart's harvest, and blue wind on the hills, The children's looks from under pulled-down caps, Some voice reached my receding ears, across the heavy car's horn ---Hardly did I hear--'Amid willow's murmur and the voice of waterfall in houses, With the greeen rug of grass spred under trees, And gradens with tea served in noonday's light, Rest awhile, For you are HERE: In this World, your home.' ~ Amiya Chakravarty

53:The exotic fragrance was hers, too. Incense. Goddess scent. 'Mr. Carsington, you must speak to me,' she said. He'd rather not speak. He'd rather stay exactly where he was, pillowed against her soft bosom and inhaling her scent while she gently stroked his cheek. 'Mr. Carsington.' The hand left off stroking to pat his cheek, with growing impatience. Remembering the lady had a short temper, he knew the gentle pats would shortly escalate to slaps. He opened his eyes and met her green gaze, where anxiety mingled with vexation. 'Where am I?' he said, though he knew the answer perfectly well. It was a delaying tactic. Her bosom made a perfect pillow. He did not want to leave it. 'On the floor of Anaz's storeroom,' she said. 'You seem to have fainted.' 'Fainted?' he echoed incredulously. 'I was knocked in the head. I ought to know. It's happened often enough.' 'That would explain a great deal,' she said. She started to rise. Aware she would have no compunction about letting his poor, battered head thump to the floor, he quickly sat up. ~ Loretta Chase

54:Where am I?” she asked, interrupting him. He seemed startled by her ability to speak, but he stood and retrieved a glass of some amber liquid from a corner table for her. “You sound as terrible as you look, kiddo. Have a sip.” She stared at it. “Oh, you’re no fun,” he said with a little pout. “I suppose you’ll want water instead. Wait here and be quiet—can’t raise the alarm just yet, can we?” Etta wasn’t sure what that meant, but she complied all the same, watching as the young man walked to the door and stuck his head out into the hall. “You, there—yes, you—bring me a glass of water. And don’t bloody well spit in it this time—you honestly think I’m not well versed enough in that fine art to notice?” The response was immediate and irritated. “I’m not your damned servant.” So there are guards after all. The only question was whether they were protecting him, or protecting themselves from him. “I do believe the official decree from your master and commander was, ‘Give the dear boy what he wants.’ This dear boy wants water. And make it snappy. Pep in your step and all that. Thanks, old chum. ~ Alexandra Bracken

55:Study Somewhere the long mellow note of the blackbird Quickens the unclasping hands of hazel, Somewhere the wind-flowers fling their heads back, Stirred by an impetuous wind. Some ways’ll All be sweet with white and blue violet. (Hush now, hush. Where am I?—Biuret—) On the green wood’s edge a shy girl hovers From out of the hazel-screen on to the grass, Where wheeling and screaming the petulant plovers Wave frighted. Who comes? A labourer, alas! Oh the sunset swims in her eyes’ swift pool. (Work, work, you fool——!) Somewhere the lamp hanging low from the ceiling Lights the soft hair of a girl as she reads, And the red firelight steadily wheeling Weaves the hard hands of my friend in sleep. And the white dog snuffs the warmth, appealing For the man to heed lest the girl shall weep. (Tears and dreams for them; for me Bitter science—the exams are near. I wish I bore it more patiently. I wish you did not wait, my dear, For me to come: since work I must: Though it’s all the same when we are dead.— I wish I was only a bust, All head.) ~ David Herbert Lawrence

56:I shuffled my weight from foot to foot, trying to relieve some of the soreness and wondering how long it would take Reth to figure out where I was and get into Raquel’s room. The door slid open in reply. Jack and I darted in, letting out twin sighs of relief. Lend, of course, immediately dropped to the floor. Naked, still. I doubted Raquel had anything in his size. “He was rather upset waking up in the Faerie Paths with me,” Reth said. “I can’t imagine.” I quickly scanned Raquel’s austere living room area. “There, help me get him into that closet.” Jack grabbed an arm and we dragged my poor boyfriend across the floor and shoved him into the tiny coat closet next to Raquel’s vacuum. I added watching Lend walk to the things I missed most about him. We closed the door and after a few moments a loud thunk sounded. “What the—Where am I? Evie?” “Right here,” I said, tapping on the door. “You’re in a closet in Raquel’s unit.” “Why?” “Because I’m going to search the rest of her place and I didn’t want you to risk brain damage by any more unconscious falls.” He muttered something unintelligible but distinctly grouchy and I turned, quickly scanning the room. ~ Kiersten White

57:In your early struggles you may have found it difficult to conquer sleep; and you may have wandered so far from the object of your meditations without noticing it, that the meditation has really been broken; but much later on, when you feel that you are "getting quite good," you will be shocked to find a complete oblivion of yourself and your surroundings. You will say: "Good heavens! I must have been to sleep!" or else "What on earth was I meditating upon?" or even "What was I doing?" "Where am I?" "Who am I?" or a mere wordless bewilderment may daze you. This may alarm you, and your alarm will not be lessened when you come to full consciousness, and reflect that you have actually forgotten who you are and what you are doing! This is only one of many adventures that may come to you; but it is one of the most typical. By this time your hours of meditation will fill most of the day, and you will probably be constantly having presentiments that something is about to happen. You may also be terrified with the idea that your brain may be giving way; but you will have learnt the real symptoms of mental fatigue, and you will be careful to avoid them. They must be very carefully distinguished from idleness! ~ Aleister Crowley, Liber ABA,

58:What… where am I?” She looked at me uncertainly and then recognition flooded her eyes. “What are you doing here? Where’s the wolf?” “He’s here.” I thumped my chest. “I changed back.” Her eyes flicked over my naked body, no doubt taking in my cock, which was standing at attention for her. “Uh, sorry,” I muttered, shifting to try and hide it. I wanted to pull the covers over my hip but we were sleeping on top of the spread for some reason. A look of fear crossed her face and she scooted suddenly away from me, putting distance between us. “What have you been doing to me since you changed back?” “Nothing.” I held up my hands in a “don’t shoot” gesture. “I swear.” “I don’t believe you,” she snapped. “I thought… I thought I felt your hands. We were both naked and you… you were touching me.” “Look at yourself, sweetheart,” I said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in my voice. “You’re still dressed—well, sort of. And I’m only naked because I just changed back. You must have had a dream.” “But… but why would I dream about that?” Her voice quivered. “I don’t even like that. I never want to ever again. I don’t—” “Taylor—” I started but she shook her head. “No, leave me alone. I just… I can’t.” Swiftly she jumped off the bed and ran out of the bedroom. “Watch out for the sun,” I shouted after her. “It’s three in the afternoon and this is the only light-tight room in the house. ~ Evangeline Anderson

59:Sometimes he wakes so far from himself that he can’t even remember who he is. “Where am I?” he asks, desperate, and then, “Who am I? Who am I?” And then he hears, so close to his ear that it is as if the voice is originating inside his own head, Willem’s whispered incantation. “You’re Jude St. Francis. You are my oldest, dearest friend. You’re the son of Harold Stein and Julia Altman. You’re the friend of Malcolm Irvine, of Jean-Baptiste Marion, of Richard Goldfarb, of Andy Contractor, of Lucien Voigt, of Citizen van Straaten, of Rhodes Arrowsmith, of Elijah Kozma, of Phaedra de los Santos, of the Henry Youngs. “You’re a New Yorker. You live in SoHo. You volunteer for an arts organization; you volunteer for a food kitchen. “You’re a swimmer. You’re a baker. You’re a cook. You’re a reader. You have a beautiful voice, though you never sing anymore. You’re an excellent pianist. You’re an art collector. You write me lovely messages when I’m away. You’re patient. You’re generous. You’re the best listener I know. You’re the smartest person I know, in every way. You’re the bravest person I know, in every way. “You’re a lawyer. You’re the chair of the litigation department at Rosen Pritchard and Klein. You love your job; you work hard at it. “You’re a mathematician. You’re a logician. You’ve tried to teach me, again and again. “You were treated horribly. You came out on the other end. You were always you. ~ Hanya Yanagihara

60:THIRSTY. Sand in the throat. Eyes won’t open. Or maybe they do. Total darkness. Engine roar. I sense someone standing over me. “Terese . . .” I think I say it out loud, but I’m not sure.       NEXT snippet of memory: voices. They seem very far away. I don’t understand any of the words. Sounds, that’s all. Something angry. It gets closer. Louder. In my ear now. My eyes open. I see white. The voice keeps repeating the same thing over and over. Sounds like “Al-sabr wal-sayf.” I don’t understand. Gibberish maybe. Or a foreign language. I don’t know. “Al-sabr wal-sayf.” Someone is shouting in my ear. My eyes squeeze shut. I want it to stop. “Al-sabr wal-sayf.” The voice is angry, incessant. I think I say I’m sorry. “He doesn’t understand,” someone says. Silence.       PAIN in my side. “Terese . . . ,” I say again. No reply. Where am I? I hear a voice again, but I can’t understand what it’s saying. Feel alone, isolated. I’m lying down. I think I’m shaking.       “LET me explain the situation to you.” I still can’t move. I try to open my mouth, but I can’t. Open my eyes. Blurry. Feels like my entire head is wrapped in thick, sticky cobwebs. I try to scrape the cobwebs away. They stay. “You used to work for the government, didn’t you?” Is the voice talking to me? I nod but stay very still. “Then you know places like this exist. That they’ve always existed. You heard the rumors, at the very least.” I never believed the rumors. Maybe after 9/11. But not before. I think I say no but that might just be in my head. ~ Harlan Coben

61:Four, large warm hands on her body woke her up. They weren’t touching her anywhere inappropriate—shoulders, hips, thighs—but they were there, on her bare skin. Bare skin…oh my God—I’m naked! And so were the large, male bodies bracketing her own. She could feel their muscular warmth against her back and breasts, surrounding her, invading her, owning her. The familiar current of sexual electricity was running through her body—the feeling she always got when Deep and Lock were touching her bare skin at the same time. When the three of them were… Kat’s eyes flew open and she found herself looking into Lock’s melted chocolate gaze. “Welcome back to the land of the living, my lady,” he murmured with a smile. “We’re very glad to have you back.” “Lock’s right—you gave us quite a scare,” Deep’s voice rumbled from behind her. “We didn’t think you would make it, there for awhile.” “I almost died,” Kat blurted, the memory momentarily overcoming her shock at finding herself naked between them. “I was floating above my own body, looking down. I saw you talking about me. And then…” She frowned. “I had another dream. It was terrible but—” “But it’s over now,” Lock finished for her, soothingly. “You’re getting better, Kat, but you’re not out of danger yet.” “In my dream you were taking me to Twin Moons. Where am I?” she demanded. “I would think that would be obvious,” Deep growled in her ear. “You’re in our bed, little Kat. And that’s where you’re going to stay until you’re all better.” “What are you talking about?” She struggled to get up but they held her down, gently but firmly. “Don’t be upset,” Lock pleaded. “We won’t hurt you, my lady. You must know that by now.” “Look, ~ Evangeline Anderson

62:ALEXANDRA WAS having the most extraordinary, most incredible, most marvelous dream. Tris was kissing her. Long, slow kisses that made her senses spin. Even in her dream, she was shocked, but as it was only a dream, she decided to let it continue. To just lie back and imagine this was real, that they could truly be this close to each other. Just lie back… Indeed, she realized, she was lying back…on a bed. Her bed. Her eyes were closed, but she knew it was her bed regardless, perhaps because it was her dream. Tris was lying beside her. She’d never kissed Tris while lying down. It felt glorious, being sandwiched snugly between his body and the mattress. Perhaps also because it was her dream, she didn’t wonder if she was doing it right. The kissing, that is. This was nothing like any kiss they’d ever shared before. Their lips were parted, and their tongues were touching. It felt wonderfully bizarre. She didn’t know if other people kissed in this fashion, but if they didn’t, she felt sorry for them. She sighed happily and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him even closer. She could barely conceive of acting so forward in real life, but this was a dream, so she could do as she pleased. She slid her hands over his back, feeling his muscles through his dressing gown. He felt so warm and solid, and so very, very real— Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. “Tris!” she cried. “What?” Her lids flew open. In the dim light from the dying fire, his eyes looked wide. “Where am I?” he asked, and she felt foggy, confused. He struggled to rise to an elbow, his gray gaze sweeping the room. “How on earth did I come to be here—” He broke off as he focused on her beside him, then gasped. “Oh, blast it,” he ground out. THIRTY-ONE ALEXANDRA snatched the counterpane up to her chin, but not before Tristan could observe that she wore nothing but a prim white nightgown. ~ Lauren Royal

63:You gonna wake up?” She lazily opened her eyes and jolted awake, scooting up on her elbows. “What? What?” “Easy. It’s okay. Sort of.” She blinked a few times and then her eyes were wide. “Where am I?” “I brought you inside. I had to. You were on your way to freezing to death. You must not have a brain in your head.” She squinted at him, pursing her lips. “Oh—I have a brain. I’m just not real experienced in mountain life.” She struggled to sit up. “Gee, if I’d known you got your eyebrow back and grew your beard in red, I might’ve found you sooner. I’ll get out of your hair, which I notice, you have plenty of.” “You’re not going anywhere,” he said, putting a big hand against her sternum, holding her down. “You’re stuck—and so am I.” “No problem,” she said. “I sleep in the car every night. I have a good sleeping bag…” “Did you hear me? You were passed out on your way back from the john, covered with snow and damn near frozen to death. You wanted to see me, you’re going to get your wish.” Her eyes widened suddenly. “I’m…ah…naked under here?” “You’re not naked. You have underwear. I had to get your wet clothes off you. That or just let you die. It wasn’t an easy decision,” he lied. “You undressed me and wrapped me in this quilt?” she asked. “Pretty much,” he said. And felt your small, soft body against mine for an hour, the first female body that’s been against mine in five years. Until tonight, he hadn’t thought he missed that feeling. “What happened out there? How’d you end up in the doorway of the john like that?” “I don’t have the first idea. I was so glad there was an outhouse for once and I wouldn’t have to squat behind a bush. I was going to make it quick, but I was so tired I could hardly move, and that’s the last thing I remember till I woke up.” She coughed. “I didn’t think I was so tired I’d fall asleep on the way.” “You didn’t fall asleep,” he said. “You lost consciousness. Hypothermia. Like I said—half frozen.” “Hmm. ~ Robyn Carr

64:...he asked, "Where are you today, right now?" Eagerly, I started talking about myself. However, I noticed that I was still being sidetracked from getting answers to my questions. Still, I told him about my distant and recent past and about my inexplicable depressions. He listened patiently and intently, as if he had all the time in the world, until I finished several hours later. "Very well," he said. "But you still have not answered my question about where you are." "Yes I did, remember? I told you how I got to where I am today: by hard work." "Where are you?" "What do you mean, where am I?" "Where Are you?" he repeated softly. "I'm here." "Where is here?" "In this office, in this gas station!" I was getting impatient with this game. "Where is this gas station?" "In Berkeley?" "Where is Berkeley?" "In California?" "Where is California?" "In the United States?" "On a landmass, one of the continents in the Western Hemisphere. Socrates, I..." "Where are the continents? I sighed. "On the earth. Are we done yet?" "Where is the earth?" "In the solar system, third planet from the sun. The sun is a small star in the Milky Way galaxy, all right?" "Where is the Milky Way?" "Oh, brother, " I sighed impatiently, rolling my eyes. "In the universe." I sat back and crossed my arms with finality. "And where," Socrates smiled, "is the universe?" "The universe is well, there are theories about how it's shaped..." "That's not what I asked. Where is it?" "I don't know - how can I answer that?" "That is the point. You cannot answer it, and you never will. There is no knowing about it. You are ignorant of where the universe is, and thus, where you are. In fact, you have no knowledge of where anything is or of What anything is or how is came to be. Life is a mystery. "My ignorance is based on this understanding. Your understanding is based on ignorance. This is why I am a humorous fool, and you are a serious jackass. ~ Dan Millman

65:Where am I?" Magnus croaked. "Nazca." "Oh, so we went on a little trip." "You broke into a man's house," Catarina said. "You stole a carpet and enchanted it to fly. Then you sped off into the night air. We pursued you on foot." "Ah," said Magnus. "You were shouting some things." "What things?" "I prefer not to repeat them," Catarina said. "I also prefer not to remember the time we spent in the desert. It is a mammoth desert, Magnus. Ordinary deserts are quite large. Mammoth deserts are so called because they are larger than ordinary deserts." "Thank you for that interesting and enlightening information," Magnus croaked. "You told us to leave you in the desert, because you planned to start a new life as a cactus," Catarina said, her voice flat. "Then you conjured up tiny needles and threw them at us. With pinpoint accuracy." "Well," he said with dignity. "Considering my highly intoxicated state, you must have been impressed with my aim." "'Impressed' is not the word to use to describe how I felt last night, Magnus." "I thank you for stopping me there," Magnus said. "It was for the best. You are a true friend. No harm done. Let's say no more about it. Could you possibly fetch me - " "Oh, we couldn't stop you," Catarina interrupted. "We tried, but you giggled, leaped onto the carpet, and flew away again. You kept saying that you wanted to go to Moquegua." "What did I do in Moquegua?" "You never got there," Catarina said. "But you were flying about and yelling and trying to, ahem, write messages for us with your carpet in the sky." "We then stopped for a meal," Catarina said. "You were most insistent that we try a local specialty that you called cuy. We actually had a very pleasant meal, even though you were still very drunk." "I'm sure I must have been sobering up at that point," Magnus argued. "Magnus, you were trying to flirt with your own plate." "I'm a very open-minded sort of fellow!" "Ragnor is not," Catarina said. "When he found out that you were feeding us guinea pigs, he hit you over the head with your plate. It broke." "So ended our love," Magnus said. "Ah, well. It would never have worked between me and the plate anyway. I'm sure the food did me good, Catarina, and you were very good to feed me and put me to bed - " Catarina shook her head."You fell down on the floor. Honestly, we thought it best to leave you sleeping on the ground. We thought you would remain there for some time, but we took our eyes off you for one minute, and then you scuttled off. Ragnor claims he saw you making for the carpet, crawling like a huge demented crab. ~ Cassandra Clare

66:An Offer Of Marriage Once I 'dipt into the future far as human eye could see,' And saw-it was not Sandow, nor John Sullivan, but she The Emancipated Woman, who was weeping as she ran Here and there for the discovery of Expurgated Man. But the sun of Evolution ever rose and ever set, And that tardiest of mortals hadn't evoluted yet. Hence the tears that she cascaded, hence the sighs that tore apart All the tendinous connections of her indurated heart. Cried Emancipated Woman, as she wearied of the search: 'In Advancing I have left myself distinctly in the lurch! Seeking still a worthy partner, from the land of brutes and dudes I have penetrated rashly into manless solitudes. Now without a mate of any kind where am I?-that's to say, Where shall I be to-morrow?-where exert my rightful sway And the purifying strength of my emancipated mind? Can solitude be lifted up, vacuity refined? Calling, calling from the shadows in the rear of my Advance From the Region of Unprogress in the Dark Domain of Chance Long I heard the Unevolvable beseeching my return To share the degradation he's reluctant to unlearn. But I fancy I detected-though I pray it wasn't that A low reverberation, like an echo in a hat. So I've held my way regardless, evoluting year by year, Till I'm what you now behold me-or would if you were here A condensed Emancipation and a Purifier proud An Independent Entity appropriately loud! Independent? Yes, in spirit, but (O, woful, woful state!) Doomed to premature extinction by privation of a mate To extinction or reversion, for Unexpurgated Man Still awaits me in the backward if I sicken of the van. O the horrible dilemma!-to be odiously linked With an Undeveloped Species, or become a Type Extinct!' As Emancipated Woman wailed her sorrow to the air, Stalking out of desolation came a being strange and rare Plato's Man!-bipedal, featherless from mandible to rump, Its wings two quilless flippers and its tail a plumeless stump. First it scratched and then it clucked, as if in hospitable terms It invited her to banquet on imaginary worms. 167 Then it strutted up before her with a lifting of the head, And in accents of affection and of sympathy it said: 'My estate is some 'at 'umble, but I'm qualified to draw Near the hymeneal altar and whack up my heart and claw To Emancipated Anything as walks upon the earth; And them things is at your service for whatever they are worth. I'm sure to be congenial, marm, nor e'er deserve a scowl I'm Emancipated Rooster, I am Expurgated Fowl!' From the future and its wonders I withdrew my gaze, and then Wrote this wild unfestive prophecy about the Coming Hen. ~ Ambrose Bierce

67:If somebody swapped the real sword for the fake while it was in Dumbledore’s office,” she panted, as they propped the painting against the side of the tent, “Phineas Nigellus would have seen it happen, he hangs right beside the case!” “Unless he was asleep,” said Harry, but he still held his breath as Hermione knelt down in front of the empty canvas, her wand directed at its center, cleared her throat, then said: “Er--Phineas? Phineas Nigellus?” Nothing happened. “Phineas Nigellus?” said Hermione again. “Professor Black? Please could we talk to you? Please?” “‘Please’ always helps,” said a cold, snide voice, and Phineas Nigellus slid into his portrait. At once, Hermione cried: “Obscuro!” A black blindfold appeared over Phineas Nigellus’s clever, dark eyes, causing him to bump into the frame and shriek with pain. “What--how dare--what are you--?” “I’m very sorry, Professor Black,” said Hermione, “but it’s a necessary precaution!” “Remove this foul addition at once! Remove it, I say! You are ruining a great work of art! Where am I? What is going on?” “Never mind where we are,” said Harry, and Phineas Nigellus froze, abandoning his attempts to peel off the painted blindfold. “Can that possibly be the voice of the elusive Mr. Potter?” “Maybe,” said Harry, knowing that this would keep Phineas Nigellus’s interest. “We’ve got a couple of questions to ask you--about the sword of Gryffindor.” “Ah,” said Phineas Nigellus, now turning his head this way and that in an effort to catch sight of Harry, “yes. That silly girl acted most unwisely there--” “Shut up about my sister,” said Ron roughly. Phineas Nigellus raised supercilious eyebrows. “Who else is here?” he asked, turning his head from side to side. “Your tone displeases me! The girl and her friends were foolhardy in the extreme. Thieving from the headmaster!” “They weren’t thieving,” said Harry. “That sword isn’t Snape’s.” “It belongs to Professor Snape’s school,” said Phineas Nigellus. “Exactly what claim did the Weasley girl have upon it? She deserved her punishment, as did the idiot Longbottom and the Lovegood oddity!” “Neville is not an idiot and Luna is not an oddity!” said Hermione. “Where am I?” repeated Phineas Nigellus, staring to wrestle with the blindfold again. “Where have you brought me? Why have you removed me from the house of my forebears?” “Never mind that! How did Snape punish Ginny, Neville, and Luna?” asked Harry urgently. “Professor Snape sent them into the Forbidden Forest, to do some work for the oaf, Hagrid.” “Hagrid’s not an oaf!” said Hermione shrilly. “And Snape might’ve thought that was a punishment,” said Harry, “but Ginny, Neville, and Luna probably had a good laugh with Hagrid. The Forbidden Forest…they’ve faced plenty worse than the Forbidden Forest, big deal! ~ J K Rowling

68:She was a hunchback with a sweet smile. She smiled sweetly at anything; she couldn't help it; the trees, me, the grass, anything. The basket pulled her down, dragging her toward the ground. She was such a tiny woman, with a hurt face, as if slapped forever. She wore a funny old hat, an absurd hat, a maddening hat, a hat to make me cry, a hat with faded red berries on the brim. And there she was, smiling at everything, struggling across the carpet with a heavy basket containing Lord knew what, wearing a plumed hat with red berries. I got up. It was so mysterious. There I was, like magic, standing up, my two feet on the ground, my eyes drenched. I said, "Let me help." She smiled again and gave me the basket. We began to walk. She led the way. Beyond the trees it was stifling. And she smiled. It was so sweet it nearly tore my head off. She talked, she told me things I never remembered. It didn't matter. In a« dream she held me, in a dream I followed under the blinding sun. For blocks we went forward. I hoped it would never end. Always she talked in a low voice made of human music. What words! What she said! I remembered nothing. I was only happy. But in my heart I was dying. It should have been so. We stepped from so many curbs, I wondered why she did not sit upon one and hold my head while I drifted away. It was the chance that never came again. That old woman with the bent back! Old woman, I feel so joyfully your pain. Ask me a favor, you old woman you! Anything. To die is easy. Make it that. To cry is easy, lift your skirt and let me cry and let my tears wash your feet to let you know I know what life has been for you, because my back is bent too, but my heart is whole, my tears are delicious, my love is yours, to give you joy where God has failed. To die is so easy and you may have my life if you wish it, you old woman, you hurt me so, you did, I will do anything for you, to die for you, the blood of my eighteen years flowing in the gutters of Wilmington and down to the sea for you, for you that you might find such joy as is now mine and stand erect without the horror of that twist. I left the old woman at her door. The trees shimmered. The clouds laughed. The blue sky took me up. Where am I? Is this Wilmington, California? Haven't I been here before? A melody moved my feet. The air soared with Arturo in it, puffing him in and out and making him something and nothing. My heart laughed and laughed. Goodbye to Nietzsche and Schopenhauer and all of you, you fools, I am much greater than all of you! Through my veins ran music of blood. Would it last? It could not last. I must hurry. But where? And I ran toward home. Now I am home. I left the book in the park. To hell with it. No more books for me. I kissed my mother. I clung to her passionately. On my knees I fell at her feet to kiss her feet and cling to her ankles until it must have hurt her and amazed her that it was I. ~ John Fante

69:Midnight 1. The night is clear and still. The moon rides high. The green leaves whisper where the soft winds blow. Above, the stars shine in a sapphire sky — The city sleeps below. 2. Sleeps? Nay. The million- fibred heart is wrung With wild desire and ceaseless pain and fear. Could its dumb anguish find a fitting tongue, The very dead would hear. 3. Under these quiet roofs, this silvery haze, How many a captive spirit wakes and weeps! How many a sorrow, hid from human gaze, Each shadowy dwelling keeps! 4. The struggling men, the lonely maids unwed, The desolate mothers and the martyred wives, The starving little ones that cry for bread, Still live their suffering lives. 5. Though moon shines fair and winds are breathing low — 138 Though the great dream-like city lies in light — The smoke of all that seething human woe Darkens my mind to- night. 6. Brothers, for whom the world can find no place — Brothers and sisters, born to want and wrong — Born weak and maimed, to run a hopeless race Against the hale and strong — 7. How can I rest while they are racked with pain? While they toil on with toil that cannot cease? While hungry children wail for bread in vain, How can I sleep in peace? 8. Ah, hapless fate! To hope, to fail, to spend, From chilling dawn till midnight shadows fall; Perchance to gain no haven at the end — No new world — after all! 9. When poor, brief hopes and joys have passed away — When the long toil is done and pain is past — To reach the limit of life's little day, And find naught else, at last 10. 139 When strength is spent, when soul and spirit sink — With helpless hands outstretched and nerveless brain — To stand alone upon that dreadful brink And cry for light in vain! 11. Poor mortal wanderers in immortal realms, For whom no staff avails, no beacons shine! My kindred soul their burden overwhelms — My brothers' woes are mine. 12. For me the night has come — the day is done — A wall of darkness hides both sea and shore; My little lamps have failed me, one by one — I grope and crawl no more. 13. Where am I? — oh, where am I? I can feel — To feel my pain — but neither hear nor see; My heart is faint, my brain begins to reel — O God, speak Thou to me! 14. Help me! Or, in Thy pity, take me hence While feeling heart and thinking brain are whole — Or give me any rag of carnal sense To wrap my naked soul. 140 15. Some common cloak of vulgar hopes and fears, Some earth- spun veil, that shall be warm and stout To keep this infinite Silence from mine ears — To shut this Darkness out! 16. The mocking moon shines on. The flowers are sweet. The night is still. The winds are breathing balm. The silver city clustered at my feet Seems bathed in light and calm. 17. But I? — I choke in this grief- laden air. I turn and weep — I close my window now. One voice breaks forth from my profound despair — Beloved, where art thou? 18. She sleeps. She stirs. She hears the lightest fall Of my hushed footsteps on her chamber floor. Her spirit answers to my spirit's call, And I take heart once more. 19. She draws me down upon that faithful breast; I clasp her close — those sweetest lips I kiss — And soul and body, in her arms at rest, 141 Swim in deep seas of bliss. 20. She makes me strong with stronger Fate to cope — Fresh fire to mine her beating pulses give. O my true mate, in thee alone I hope! In thee alone I live! 21. O love, till blood is cold and brain is dust, I can fight on — if thou wilt fight with me — If I can shelter in thy truth and trust, And bear life's woes with thee! ~ Ada Cambridge

70:Hail to thee, mountain beloved, with thy glittering purple-dyed summit! Hail to thee also, fair sun, looking so lovingly on! Thee, too, I hail, thou smiling plain, and ye murmuring lindens, Ay, and the chorus so glad, cradled on yonder high boughs; Thee, too, peaceably azure, in infinite measure extending Round the dusky-hued mount, over the forest so green, Round about me, who now from my chamber's confinement escaping, And from vain frivolous talk, gladly seek refuge with thee. Through me to quicken me runs the balsamic stream of thy breezes, While the energetical light freshens the gaze as it thirsts. Bright o'er the blooming meadow the changeable colors are gleaming, But the strife, full of charms, in its own grace melts away Freely the plain receives me,with carpet far away reaching, Over its friendly green wanders the pathway along. Round me is humming the busy bee, and with pinion uncertain Hovers the butterfly gay over the trefoil's red flower. Fiercely the darts of the sun fall on me,the zephyr is silent, Only the song of the lark echoes athwart the clear air. Now from the neighboring copse comes a roar, and the tops of the alders Bend low down,in the wind dances the silvery grass; Night ambrosial circles me round; in the coolness so fragrant Greets me a beauteous roof, formed by the beeches' sweet shade. In the depths of the wood the landscape suddenly leaves me And a serpentine path guides up my footsteps on high. Only by stealth can the light through the leafy trellis of branches Sparingly pierce, and the blue smilingly peeps through the boughs, But in a moment the veil is rent, and the opening forest Suddenly gives back the day's glittering brightness to me! Boundlessly seems the distance before my gaze to be stretching, And in a purple-tinged hill terminates sweetly the world. Deep at the foot of the mountain, that under me falls away steeply, Wanders the greenish-hued stream, looking like glass as it flows. Endlessly under me see I the ether, and endlessly o'er Giddily look I above, shudderingly look I below, But between the infinite height and the infinite hollow Safely the wanderer moves over a well-guarded path. Smilingly past me are flying the banks all teeming with riches, And the valley so bright boasts of its industry glad. See how yonder hedgerows that sever the farmer's possessions Have by Demeter been worked into the tapestried plain! Kindly decree of the law, of the Deity mortal-sustaining, Since from the brazen world love vanished forever away. But in freer windings the measured pastures are traversed (Now swallowed up in the wood, now climbing up to the hills) By a glimmering streak, the highway that knits lands together; Over the smooth-flowing stream, quietly glide on the rafts. Ofttimes resound the bells of the flocks in the fields that seem living, And the shepherd's lone song wakens the echo again. Joyous villages crown the stream, in the copse others vanish, While from the back of the mount, others plunge wildly below. Man still lives with the land in neighborly friendship united, And round his sheltering roof calmly repose still his fields; Trustingly climbs the vine high over the low-reaching window, While round the cottage the tree circles its far-stretching boughs. Happy race of the plain! Not yet awakened to freedom, Thou and thy pastures with joy share in the limited law; Bounded thy wishes all are by the harvest's peaceable circuit, And thy lifetime is spent e'en as the task of the day! But what suddenly hides the beauteous view? A strange spirit Over the still-stranger plain spreads itself quickly afar Coyly separates now, what scarce had lovingly mingled, And 'tis the like that alone joins itself on to the like. Orders I see depicted; the haughty tribes of the poplars Marshalled in regular pomp, stately and beauteous appear. All gives token of rule and choice, and all has its meaning, 'Tis this uniform plan points out the Ruler to me. Brightly the glittering domes in far-away distance proclaim him. Out of the kernel of rocks rises the city's high wall. Into the desert without, the fauns of the forest are driven, But by devotion is lent life more sublime to the stone. Man is brought into nearer union with man, and around him Closer, more actively wakes, swifter moves in him the world. See! the emulous forces in fiery conflict are kindled, Much, they effect when they strive, more they effect when they join. Thousands of hands by one spirit are moved, yet in thousands of bosoms Beats one heart all alone, by but one feeling inspired Beats for their native land, and glows for their ancestors' precepts; Here on the well-beloved spot, rest now time-honored bones. Down from the heavens descends the blessed troop of immortals, In the bright circle divine making their festal abode; Granting glorious gifts, they appear: and first of all, Ceres Offers the gift of the plough, Hermes the anchor brings next, Bacchus the grape, and Minerva the verdant olive-tree's branches, Even his charger of war brings there Poseidon as well. Mother Cybele yokes to the pole of her chariot the lions, And through the wide-open door comes as a citizen in. Sacred stones! 'Tis from ye that proceed humanity's founders, Morals and arts ye sent forth, e'en to the ocean's far isles. 'Twas at these friendly gates that the law was spoken by sages; In their Penates' defence, heroes rushed out to the fray. On the high walls appeared the mothers, embracing their infants, Looking after the march, till the distance 'twas lost. Then in prayer they threw themselves down at the deities' altars, Praying for triumph and fame, praying for your safe return. Honor and triumph were yours, but naught returned save your glory, And by a heart-touching stone, told are your valorous deeds. "Traveller! when thou com'st to Sparta, proclaim to the people That thou hast seen us lie here, as by the law we were bid." Slumber calmly, ye loved ones! for sprinkled o'er by your life-blood, Flourish the olive-trees there, joyously sprouts the good seed. In its possessions exulting, industry gladly is kindled. And from the sedge of the stream smilingly signs the blue god. Crushingly falls the axe on the tree, the Dryad sighs sadly; Down from the crest of the mount plunges the thundering load. Winged by the lever, the stone from the rocky crevice is loosened; Into the mountain's abyss boldly the miner descends. Mulciber's anvil resounds with the measured stroke of the hammer; Under the fist's nervous blow, spurt out the sparks of the steel. Brilliantly twines the golden flax round the swift-whirling spindles, Through the strings of the yarn whizzes the shuttle away. Far in the roads the pilot calls, and the vessels are waiting, That to the foreigner's land carry the produce of home; Others gladly approach with the treasures of far-distant regions, High on the mast's lofty head flutters the garland of mirth. See how yon markets, those centres of life and of gladness, are swarming! Strange confusion of tongues sounds in the wondering ear. On to the pile the wealth of the earth is heaped by the merchant, All that the sun's scorching rays bring forth on Africa's soil, All that Arabia prepares, that the uttermost Thule produces, High with heart-gladdening stores fills Amalthea her horn. Fortune wedded to talent gives birth there to children immortal, Suckled in liberty's arms, flourish the arts there of joy. With the image of life the eyes by the sculptor are ravished, And by the chisel inspired, speaks e'en the sensitive stone. Skies artificial repose on slender Ionian columns, And a Pantheon includes all that Olympus contains. Light as the rainbow's spring through the air, as the dart from the bowstring, Leaps the yoke of the bridge over the boisterous stream. But in his silent chamber the thoughtful sage is projecting Magical circles, and steals e'en on the spirit that forms, Proves the force of matter, the hatreds and loves of the magnet, Follows the tune through the air, follows through ether the ray, Seeks the familiar law in chance's miracles dreaded, Looks for the ne'er-changing pole in the phenomena's flight. Bodies and voices are lent by writing to thought ever silent, Over the centuries' stream bears it the eloquent page. Then to the wondering gaze dissolves the cloud of the fancy, And the vain phantoms of night yield to the dawning of day. Man now breaks through his fetters, the happy one! Oh, let him never Break from the bridle of shame, when from fear's fetters he breaks Freedom! is reason's cry,ay, freedom! The wild raging passions Eagerly cast off the bonds Nature divine had imposed. Ah! in the tempest the anchors break loose, that warningly held him On to the shore, and the stream tears him along in its flood, Into infinity whirls him,the coasts soon vanish before him, High on the mountainous waves rocks all-dismasted the bark; Under the clouds are hid the steadfast stars of the chariot, Naught now remains,in the breast even the god goes astray. Truth disappears from language, from life all faith and all honor Vanish, and even the oath is but a lie on the lips. Into the heart's most trusty bond, and into love's secrets, Presses the sycophant base, tearing the friend from the friend. Treason on innocence leers, with looks that seek to devour, And the fell slanderer's tooth kills with its poisonous bite. In the dishonored bosom, thought is now venal, and love, too, Scatters abroad to the winds, feelings once god-like and free. All thy holy symbols, O truth, deceit has adopted, And has e'en dared to pollute Nature's own voices so fair, That the craving heart in the tumult of gladness discovers; True sensations are now mute and can scarcely be heard. Justice boasts at the tribune, and harmony vaunts in the cottage, While the ghost of the law stands at the throne of the king. Years together, ay, centuries long, may the mummy continue, And the deception endure, apeing the fulness of life. Until Nature awakes, and with hands all-brazen and heavy 'Gainst the hollow-formed pile time and necessity strikes. Like a tigress, who, bursting the massive grating iron, Of her Numidian wood suddenly, fearfully thinks, So with the fury of crime and anguish, humanity rises Hoping nature, long-lost in the town's ashes, to find. Oh then open, ye walls, and set the captive at freedom To the long desolate plains let him in safety return! But where am I? The path is now hid, declivities rugged Bar, with their wide-yawning gulfs, progress before and behind. Now far behind me is left the gardens' and hedges' sure escort, Every trace of man's hand also remains far behind. Only the matter I see piled up, whence life has its issue, And the raw mass of basalt waits for a fashioning hand. Down through its channel of rock the torrent roaringly rushes, Angrily forcing a path under the roots of the trees. All is here wild and fearfully desolate. Naught but the eagle Hangs in the lone realms of air, knitting the world to the clouds. Not one zephyr on soaring pinion conveys to my hearing Echoes, however remote, marking man's pleasures and pains. Am I in truth, then, alone? Within thine arms, on thy bosom, Nature, I lie once again!Ah, and 'twas only a dream That assailed me with horrors so fearful; with life's dreaded phantom, And with the down-rushing vale, vanished the gloomy one too. Purer my life I receive again from thine altar unsullied, Purer receive the bright glow felt by my youth's hopeful days. Ever the will is changing its aim and its rule, while forever, In a still varying form, actions revolve round themselves. But in enduring youth, in beauty ever renewing. Kindly Nature, with grace thou dost revere the old law! Ever the same, for the man in thy faithful hands thou preservest That which the child in its sport, that which the youth lent to thee; At the same breast thou dost suckle the ceaselessly-varying ages; Under the same azure vault, over the same verdant earth, Races, near and remote, in harmony wander together, See, even Homer's own sun looks on us, too, with a smile! ~ Friedrich Schiller, The Walk

71: V - AUERBACH'S CELLAR IN LEIPZIG CAROUSAL OF JOLLY COMPANIONS FROSCH Is no one laughing? no one drinking? I'll teach you how to grin, I'm thinking. To-day you're like wet straw, so tame; And usually you're all aflame. BRANDER Now that's your fault; from you we nothing see, No beastliness and no stupidity. FROSCH (Pours a glass of wine over BRANDER'S head.) There's both together! BRANDER Twice a swine! FROSCH You wanted them: I've given you mine. SIEBEL Turn out who quarrelsout the door! With open throat sing chorus, drink and roar! Up! holla! ho! ALTMAYER Woe's me, the fearful bellow! Bring cotton, quick! He's split my ears, that fellow. SIEBEL When the vault echoes to the song, One first perceives the bass is deep and strong. FROSCH Well said! and out with him that takes the least offence! Ah, tara, lara da! ALTMAYER Ah, tara, lara, da! FROSCH The throats are tuned, commence! (Sings.) The dear old holy Roman realm, How does it hold together? BRANDER A nasty song! Fie! a political song A most offensive song! Thank God, each morning, therefore, That you have not the Roman realm to care for! At least, I hold it so much gain for me, That I nor Chancellor nor Kaiser be. Yet also we must have a ruling head, I hope, And so we'll choose ourselves a Pope. You know the quality that can Decide the choice, and elevate the man. FROSCH (sings) Soar up, soar up, Dame Nightingale! Ten thousand times my sweetheart hail! SIEBEL No, greet my sweetheart not! I tell you, I'll resent it. FROSCH My sweetheart greet and kiss! I dare you to prevent it! (Sings.) Draw the latch! the darkness makes: Draw the latch! the lover wakes. Shut the latch! the morning breaks SIEBEL Yes, sing away, sing on, and praise, and brag of her! I'll wait my proper time for laughter: Me by the nose she led, and now she'll lead you after. Her paramour should be an ugly gnome, Where four roads cross, in wanton play to meet her: An old he-goat, from Blocksberg coming home, Should his good-night in lustful gallop bleat her! A fellow made of genuine flesh and blood Is for the wench a deal too good. Greet her? Not I: unless, when meeting, To smash her windows be a greeting! BRANDER (pounding on the table) Attention! Hearken now to me! Confess, Sirs, I know how to live. Enamored persons here have we, And I, as suits their quality, Must something fresh for their advantage give. Take heed! 'Tis of the latest cut, my strain, And all strike in at each refrain! (He sings.) There was a rat in the cellar-nest, Whom fat and butter made smoother: He had a paunch beneath his vest Like that of Doctor Luther. The cook laid poison cunningly, And then as sore oppressed was he As if he had love in his bosom. CHORUS (shouting) As if he had love in his bosom! BRANDER He ran around, he ran about, His thirst in puddles laving; He gnawed and scratched the house throughout. But nothing cured his raving. He whirled and jumped, with torment mad, And soon enough the poor beast had, As if he had love in his bosom. CHORUS As if he had love in his bosom! BRANDER And driven at last, in open day, He ran into the kitchen, Fell on the hearth, and squirming lay, In the last convulsion twitching. Then laughed the murderess in her glee: "Ha! ha! he's at his last gasp," said she, "As if he had love in his bosom!" CHORUS As if he had love in his bosom! SIEBEL How the dull fools enjoy the matter! To me it is a proper art Poison for such poor rats to scatter. BRANDER Perhaps you'll warmly take their part? ALTMAYER The bald-pate pot-belly I have noted: Misfortune tames him by degrees; For in the rat by poison bloated His own most natural form he sees. FAUST AND MEPHISTOPHELES MEPHISTOPHELES Before all else, I bring thee hither Where boon companions meet together, To let thee see how smooth life runs away. Here, for the folk, each day's a holiday: With little wit, and ease to suit them, They whirl in narrow, circling trails, Like kittens playing with their tails? And if no headache persecute them, So long the host may credit give, They merrily and careless live. BRANDER The fact is easy to unravel, Their air's so odd, they've just returned from travel: A single hour they've not been here. FROSCH You've verily hit the truth! Leipzig to me is dear: Paris in miniature, how it refines its people! SIEBEL Who are the strangers, should you guess? FROSCH Let me alone! I'll set them first to drinking, And then, as one a child's tooth draws, with cleverness, I'll worm their secret out, I'm thinking. They're of a noble house, that's very clear: Haughty and discontented they appear. BRANDER They're mountebanks, upon a revel. ALTMAYER Perhaps. FROSCH Look out, I'll smoke them now! MEPHISTOPHELES (to FAUST) Not if he had them by the neck, I vow, Would e'er these people scent the Devil! FAUST Fair greeting, gentlemen! SIEBEL Our thanks: we give the same. (Murmurs, inspecting MEPHISTOPHELES from the side.) In one foot is the fellow lame? MEPHISTOPHELES Is it permitted that we share your leisure? In place of cheering drink, which one seeks vainly here, Your company shall give us pleasure. ALTMAYER A most fastidious person you appear. FROSCH No doubt 'twas late when you from Rippach started? And supping there with Hans occasioned your delay? MEPHISTOPHELES We passed, without a call, to-day. At our last interview, before we parted Much of his cousins did he speak, entreating That we should give to each his kindly greeting. (He bows to FROSCH.) ALTMAYER (aside) You have it now! he understands. SIEBEL A knave sharp-set! FROSCH Just wait awhile: I'll have him yet. MEPHISTOPHELES If I am right, we heard the sound Of well-trained voices, singing chorus; And truly, song must here rebound Superbly from the arches o'er us. FROSCH Are you, perhaps, a virtuoso? MEPHISTOPHELES O no! my wish is great, my power is only so-so. ALTMAYER Give us a song! MEPHISTOPHELES If you desire, a number. SIEBEL So that it be a bran-new strain! MEPHISTOPHELES We've just retraced our way from. Spain, The lovely land of wine, and song, and slumber. (Sings.) There was a king once reigning, Who had a big black flea FROSCH Hear, hear! A flea! D'ye rightly take the jest? I call a flea a tidy guest. MEPHISTOPHELES (sings) There was a king once reigning, Who had a big black flea, And loved him past explaining, As his own son were he. He called his man of stitches; The tailor came straightway: Here, measure the lad for breeches. And measure his coat, I say! BRANDER But mind, allow the tailor no caprices: Enjoin upon him, as his head is dear, To most exactly measure, sew and shear, So that the breeches have no creases! MEPHISTOPHELES In silk and velvet gleaming He now was wholly drest Had a coat with ribbons streaming, A cross upon his breast. He had the first of stations, A minister's star and name; And also all his relations Great lords at court became. And the lords and ladies of honor Were plagued, awake and in bed; The queen she got them upon her, The maids were bitten and bled. And they did not dare to brush them, Or scratch them, day or night: We crack them and we crush them, At once, whene'er they bite. CHORUS (shouting) We crack them and we crush them, At once, whene'er they bite! FROSCH Bravo! bravo! that was fine. SIEBEL Every flea may it so befall! BRANDER Point your fingers and nip them all! ALTMAYER Hurrah for Freedom! Hurrah for wine! MEPHISTOPHELES I fain would drink with you, my glass to Freedom clinking, If 'twere a better wine that here I see you drinking. SIEBEL Don't let us hear that speech again! MEPHISTOPHELES Did I not fear the landlord might complain, I'd treat these worthy guests, with pleasure, To some from out our cellar's treasure. SIEBEL Just treat, and let the landlord me arraign! FROSCH And if the wine be good, our praises shall be ample. But do not give too very small a sample; For, if its quality I decide, With a good mouthful I must be supplied. ALTMAYER (aside) They're from the Rhine! I guessed as much, before. MEPHISTOPHELES Bring me a gimlet here! BRANDER What shall therewith be done? You've not the casks already at the door? ALTMAYER Yonder, within the landlord's box of tools, there's one! MEPHISTOPHELES (takes the gimlet) (To FROSCH.) Now, give me of your taste some intimation. FROSCH How do you mean? Have you so many kinds? MEPHISTOPHELES The choice is free: make up your minds. ALTMAYER (to FROSCH) Aha! you lick your chops, from sheer anticipation. FROSCH Good! if I have the choice, so let the wine be Rhenish! Our Fatherl and can best the sparkling cup replenish. MEPHISTOPHELES (boring a hole in the edge of the table, at the place where FROSCH sits) Get me a little wax, to make the stoppers, quick! ALTMAYER Ah! I perceive a juggler's trick. MEPHISTOPHELES (to BRANDER) And you? BRANDER Champagne shall be my wine, And let it sparkle fresh and fine! MEPHISTOPHELES (bores: in the meantime one has made the wax stoppers, and plugged the holes with them.) BRANDER What's foreign one can't always keep quite clear of, For good things, oft, are not so near; A German can't endure the French to see or hear of, Yet drinks their wines with hearty cheer. SIEBEL (as MEPHISTOPHELES approaches his seat) For me, I grant, sour wine is out of place; Fill up my glass with sweetest, will you? MEPHISTOPHELES (boring) Tokay shall flow at once, to fill you! ALTMAYER Nolook me, Sirs, straight in the face! I see you have your fun at our expense. MEPHISTOPHELES O no! with gentlemen of such pretence, That were to venture far, indeed. Speak out, and make your choice with speed! With what a vintage can I serve you? ALTMAYER With anyonly satisfy our need. (After the holes have been bored and plugged) MEPHISTOPHELES (with singular gestures) Grapes the vine-stem bears, Horns the he-goat wears! The grapes are juicy, the vines are wood, The wooden table gives wine as good! Into the depths of Nature peer, Only believe there's a miracle here! Now draw the stoppers, and drink your fill! ALL (as they draw out the stoppers, and the wine which has been desired flows into the glass of each) O beautiful fountain, that flows at will! MEPHISTOPHELES But have a care that you nothing spill! (They drink repeatedly.) ALL (sing) As 'twere five hundred hogs, we feel So cannibalic jolly! MEPHISTOPHELES See, now, the race is happyit is free! FAUST To leave them is my inclination. MEPHISTOPHELES Take notice, first! their bestiality Will make a brilliant demonstration. SIEBEL (drinks carelessly: the wine spills upon the earth, and turns to flame) Help! Fire! Help! Hell-fire is sent! MEPHISTOPHELES (charming away the flame) Be quiet, friendly element! (To the revellers) A bit of purgatory 'twas for this time, merely. SIEBEL What mean you? Wait!you'll pay for't dearly! You'll know us, to your detriment. FROSCH Don't try that game a second time upon us! ALTMAYER I think we'd better send him packing quietly. SIEBEL What, Sir! you dare to make so free, And play your hocus-pocus on us! MEPHISTOPHELES Be still, old wine-tub. SIEBEL Broomstick, you! You face it out, impertinent and heady? BRANDER Just wait! a shower of blows is ready. ALTMAYER (draws a stopper out of the table: fire flies in his face.) I burn! I burn! SIEBEL 'Tis magic! Strike The knave is outlawed! Cut him as you like! (They draw their knives, and rush upon MEPHISTOPHELES.) MEPHISTOPHELES (with solemn gestures) False word and form of air, Change place, and sense ensnare! Be here and there! (They stand amazed and look at each other.) ALTMAYER Where am I? What a lovely land! FROSCH Vines? Can I trust my eyes? SIEBEL And purple grapes at hand! BRANDER Here, over this green arbor bending, See what a vine! what grapes depending! (He takes SIEBEL by the nose: the others do the same reciprocally, and raise their knives.) MEPHISTOPHELES (as above) Loose, Error, from their eyes the band, And how the Devil jests, be now enlightened! (He disappears with FAUST: the revellers start and separate.) SIEBEL What happened? ALTMAYER How? FROSCH Was that your nose I tightened? BRANDER (to SIEBEL) And yours that still I have in hand? ALTMAYER It was a blow that went through every limb! Give me a chair! I sink! my senses swim. FROSCH But what has happened, tell me now? SIEBEL Where is he? If I catch the scoundrel hiding, He shall not leave alive, I vow. ALTMAYER I saw him with these eyes upon a wine-cask riding Out of the cellar-door, just now. Still in my feet the fright like lead is weighing. (He turns towards the table.) Why! If the fount of wine should still be playing? SIEBEL 'Twas all deceit, and lying, false design! FROSCH And yet it seemed as I were drinking wine. BRANDER But with the grapes how was it, pray? ALTMAYER Shall one believe no miracles, just say! ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, AUERBACHS CELLAR

72:DRAMATIS PERSON Count Francesco Cenci. Giacomo, his Son. Bernardo, his Son. Cardinal Camillo. Orsino, a Prelate. Savella, the Pope's Legate. Olimpio, Assassin. Marzio, Assassin. Andrea, Servant to Cenci. Nobles, Judges, Guards, Servants. Lucretia, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother of his children. Beatrice, his Daughter. The Scene lies principally in Rome, but changes during the Fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines. Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII. ACT I Scene I. An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. Enter Count Cenci, and Cardinal Camillo. Camillo. That matter of the murder is hushed up If you consent to yield his Holiness Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate. It needed all my interest in the conclave To bend him to this point: he said that you Bought perilous impunity with your gold; That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded Enriched the Church, and respited from hell An erring soul which might repent and live: But that the glory and the interest Of the high throne he fills, little consist With making it a daily mart of guilt As manifold and hideous as the deeds Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes. Cenci. The third of my possessionslet it go! Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope Had sent his architect to view the ground, Meaning to build a villa on my vines The next time I compounded with his uncle: I little thought he should outwit me so! Henceforth no witnessnot the lampshall see That which the vassal threatened to divulge Whose throat is choked with dust for his reward. The deed he saw could not have rated higher Than his most worthless life:it angers me! Respited me from Hell!So may the Devil Respite their souls from Heaven. No doubt Pope Clement, And his most charitable nephews, pray That the Apostle Peter and the Saints Will grant for their sake that I long enjoy Strength, wealth, and pride, and lust, and length of days Wherein to act the deeds which are the stewards Of their revenue.But much yet remains To which they show no title. Camillo.                Oh, Count Cenci! So much that thou mightst honourably live And reconcile thyself with thine own heart And with thy God, and with the offended world. How hideously look deeds of lust and blood Through those snow white and venerable hairs! Your children should be sitting round you now, But that you fear to read upon their looks The shame and misery you have written there. Where is your wife? Where is your gentle daughter? Methinks her sweet looks, which make all things else Beauteous and glad, might kill the fiend within you. Why is she barred from all society But her own strange and uncomplaining wrongs? Talk with me, Count,you know I mean you well I stood beside your dark and fiery youth Watching its bold and bad career, as men Watch meteors, but it vanished notI marked Your desperate and remorseless manhood; now Do I behold you in dishonoured age Charged with a thousand unrepented crimes. Yet I have ever hoped you would amend, And in that hope have saved your life three times. Cenci. For which Aldobrandino owes you now My fief beyond the Pincian.Cardinal, One thing, I pray you, recollect henceforth, And so we shall converse with less restraint. A man you knew spoke of my wife and daughter He was accustomed to frequent my house; So the next day his wife and daughter came And asked if I had seen him; and I smiled: I think they never saw him any more. Camillo. Thou execrable man, beware! Cenci.                 Of thee? Nay this is idle:We should know each other. As to my character for what men call crime Seeing I please my senses as I list, And vindicate that right with force or guile, It is a public matter, and I care not If I discuss it with you. I may speak Alike to you and my own conscious heart For you give out that you have half reformed me, Therefore strong vanity will keep you silent If fear should not; both will, I do not doubt. All men delight in sensual luxury, All men enjoy revenge; and most exult Over the tortures they can never feel Flattering their secret peace with others' pain. But I delight in nothing else. I love The sight of agony, and the sense of joy, When this shall be another's, and that mine. And I have no remorse and little fear, Which are, I think, the checks of other men. This mood has grown upon me, until now Any design my captious fancy makes The picture of its wish, and it forms none But such as men like you would start to know, Is as my natural food and rest debarred Until it be accomplished. Camillo.               Art thou not Most miserable? Cenci.         Why, miserable? No.I am what your theologians call Hardened;which they must be in impudence, So to revile a man's peculiar taste. True, I was happier than I am, while yet Manhood remained to act the thing I thought; While lust was sweeter than revenge; and now Invention palls:Ay, we must all grow old And but that there yet remains a deed to act Whose horror might make sharp an appetite Duller than mineI'd doI know not what. When I was young I thought of nothing else But pleasure; and I fed on honey sweets: Men, by St. Thomas! cannot live like bees, And I grew tired:yet, till I killed a foe, And heard his groans, and heard his children's groans, Knew I not what delight was else on earth, Which now delights me little. I the rather Look on such pangs as terror ill conceals, The dry fixed eyeball; the pale quivering lip, Which tell me that the spirit weeps within Tears bitterer than the bloody sweat of Christ. I rarely kill the body, which preserves, Like a strong prison, the soul within my power, Wherein I feed it with the breath of fear For hourly pain. Camillo.          Hell's most abandoned fiend Did never, in the drunkenness of guilt, Speak to his heart as now you speak to me; I thank my God that I believe you not. Enter Andrea. Andrea. My Lord, a gentleman from Salamanca Would speak with you. Cenci.            Bid him attend me in The grand saloon. [Exit Andrea. Camillo.          Farewell; and I will pray Almighty God that thy false, impious words Tempt not his spirit to abandon thee. [Exit Camillo. Cenci. The third of my possessions! I must use Close husbandry, or gold, the old man's sword, Falls from my withered hand. But yesterday There came an order from the Pope to make Fourfold provision for my cursd sons; Whom I had sent from Rome to Salamanca, Hoping some accident might cut them off; And meaning if I could to starve them there. I pray thee, God, send some quick death upon them! Bernardo and my wife could not be worse If dead and damned:then, as to Beatrice [Looking around him suspiciously. I think they cannot hear me at that door; What if they should? And yet I need not speak Though the heart triumphs with itself in words. O, thou most silent air, that shalt not hear What now I think! Thou, pavement, which I tread Towards her chamber,let your echoes talk Of my imperious step scorning surprise, But not of my intent!Andrea! [Enter Andrea. Andrea.                 My lord?                 Cenci. Bid Beatrice attend me in her chamber This evening:no, at midnight and alone. [Exeunt. Scene II. A Garden of the Cenci Palace. EnterBeatrice and Orsino, as in conversation. Beatrice. Pervert not truth, Orsino. You remember where we held That conversation;nay, we see the spot Even from this cypress;two long years are past Since, on an April midnight, underneath The moonlight ruins of mount Palatine, I did confess to you my secret mind. Orsino. You said you loved me then. Beatrice.                You are a Priest, Speak to me not of love. Orsino.              I may obtain The dispensation of the Pope to marry. Because I am a Priest do you believe Your image, as the hunter some struck deer, Follows me not whether I wake or sleep? Beatrice. As I have said, speak to me not of love; Had you a dispensation I have not; Nor will I leave this home of misery Whilst my poor Bernard, and that gentle lady To whom I owe life, and these virtuous thoughts, Must suffer what I still have strength to share. Alas, Orsino! All the love that once I felt for you, is turned to bitter pain. Ours was a youthful contract, which you first Broke, by assuming vows no Pope will loose. And thus I love you still, but holily, Even as a sister or a spirit might; And so I swear a cold fidelity. And it is well perhaps we shall not marry. You have a sly, equivocating vein That suits me not.Ah, wretched that I am! Where shall I turn? Even now you look on me As you were not my friend, and as if you Discovered that I thought so, with false smiles Making my true suspicion seem your wrong. Ah, no! forgive me; sorrow makes me seem Sterner than else my nature might have been; I have a weight of melancholy thoughts, And they forbode,but what can they forbode Worse than I now endure? Orsino.              All will be well. Is the petition yet prepared? You know My zeal for all you wish, sweet Beatrice; Doubt not but I will use my utmost skill So that the Pope attend to your complaint. Beatrice. Your zeal for all I wish;Ah me, you are cold! Your utmost skill . . . speak but one word . . . (aside) Alas! Weak and deserted creature that I am, Here I stand bickering with my only friend! [To Orsino. This night my father gives a sumptuous feast, Orsino; he has heard some happy news From Salamanca, from my brothers there, And with this outward show of love he mocks His inward hate. 'Tis bold hypocrisy, For he would gladlier celebrate their deaths, Which I have heard him pray for on his knees: Great God! that such a father should be mine! But there is mighty preparation made, And all our kin, the Cenci, will be there, And all the chief nobility of Rome. And he has bidden me and my pale Mother Attire ourselves in festival array. Poor lady! She expects some happy change In his dark spirit from this act; I none. At supper I will give you the petition: Till whenfarewell. Orsino.            Farewell. (Exit Beatrice.)                 I know the Pope Will ne'er absolve me from my priestly vow But by absolving me from the revenue Of many a wealthy see; and, Beatrice, I think to win thee at an easier rate. Nor shall he read her eloquent petition: He might bestow her on some poor relation Of his sixth cousin, as he did her sister, And I should be debarred from all access. Then as to what she suffers from her father, In all this there is much exaggeration: Old men are testy and will have their way; A man may stab his enemy, or his vassal, And live a free life as to wine or women, And with a peevish temper may return To a dull home, and rate his wife and children; Daughters and wives call this foul tyranny. I shall be well content if on my conscience There rest no heavier sin than what they suffer From the devices of my lovea net From which she shall escape not. Yet I fear Her subtle mind, her awe-inspiring gaze, Whose beams anatomize me nerve by nerve And lay me bare, and make me blush to see My hidden thoughts.Ah, no! A friendless girl Who clings to me, as to her only hope: I were a fool, not less than if a panther Were panic-stricken by the antelope's eye, If she escape me. [Exit. 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 meetings An 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 cheer In 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 heart Lifts from this earth to the great Father of all A 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 farfor I am he. Beatrice (to Lucretia). Great God! How horrible! Some dreadful ill Must 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 sons Are 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 way Are their last cost. The Pope, I think, will not Expect I should maintain them in their coffins. Rejoice with memy 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 call To witness that I speak the sober truth; And whose most favouring Providence was shown Even in the manner of their deaths. For Rocco Was kneeling at the mass, with sixteen others, When the church fell and crushed him to a mummy, The rest escaped unhurt. Cristofano Was 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 mark The 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; though 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 leaps And bubbles gaily in this golden bowl Under the lamplight, as my spirits do, To hear the death of my accursd 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 art Superfluous; 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 company Check the abandoned villain? Camillo.                For God's sake Let 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 revenge Is as the sealed commission of a king That 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 hate Stand sheltered by a father's hoary hair? What, if 'tis he who clothed us in these limbs Who tortures them, and triumphs? What, if we, The desolate and the dead, were his own flesh, His children and his wife, whom he is bound To love and shelter? Shall we therefore find No refuge in this merciless wide world? O think what deep wrongs must have blotted out First 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 hand Which crushed us to the earth, and thought its stroke Was perhaps some paternal chastisement! Have excused much, doubted; and when no doubt Remained, have sought by patience, love, and tears To soften him, and when this could not be I have knelt down through the long sleepless nights And lifted up to God, the Father of all, Passionate prayers: and when these were not heard I have still borne,until I meet you here, Princes and kinsmen, at this hideous feast Given at my brothers' deaths. Two yet remain, His wife remains and I, whom if ye save not, Ye may soon share such merriment again As 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 here Will think of their own daughtersor perhaps Of their own throatsbefore they lend an ear To this wild girl. Beatrice (not noticing the words of Cenci).           Dare no one look on me? None answer? Can one tyrant overbear The sense of many best and wisest men? Or is it that I sue not in some form Of scrupulous law, that ye deny my suit? O God! That I were buried with my brothers! And that the flowers of this departed spring Were fading on my grave! And that my father Were 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 thyself Where never eye can look upon thee more! Wouldst thou have honour and obedience Who art a torturer? Father, never dream Though thou mayst overbear this company, But ill must come of ill.Frown not on me! Haste, hide thyself, lest with avenging looks My 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, there, Bow thy white head before offended God, And we will kneel around, and fervently Pray that he pity both ourselves and thee. Cenci. My friends, I do lament this insane girl Has spoilt the mirth of our festivity. Good night, farewell; I will not make you longer Spectators 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 said I would not drink this evening; but I must; For, strange to say, I feel my spirits fail With thinking what I have decreed to do. [Drinking the wine. Be thou the resolution of quick youth Within my veins, and manhood's purpose stern, And age's firm, cold, subtle villainy; As if thou wert indeed my children's blood Which I did thirst to drink! The charm works well; It must be done; it shall be done, I swear! [Exit. END OF THE FIRST ACT. ACT II Scene I. An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. Enter Lucretia and Bernardo. Lucretia. Weep not, my gentle boy; he struck but me Who have borne deeper wrongs. In truth, if he Had 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 been My 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 been A 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 Father Has sent back your petition thus unopened. [Giving a paper. And he demands at what hour 'twere secure To 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 stand Wrapped 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 did After that dreadful feast? Could it be worse Than when he smiled, and cried, 'My sons are dead!' And every one looked in his neighbour's face To see if others were as white as he? At the first word he spoke I felt the blood Rush 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 words Checked his unnatural pride; and I could see The devil was rebuked that lives in him. Until this hour thus have you ever stood Between us and your father's moody wrath Like a protecting presence: your firm mind Has been our only refuge and defence: What can have thus subdued it? What can now Have 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 neverOh! Before worse comes of it 'Twere wise to die: it ends in that at last. Lucretia. Oh, talk not so, dear child! Tell me at once What did your father do or say to you? He stayed not after that accursd feast One moment in your chamber.Speak to me. Bernardo. Oh, 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 me Under his feet, and made the blood stream down My pallid cheeks. And he has given us all Ditch-water, and the fever-stricken flesh Of buffaloes, and bade us eat or starve, And we have eaten.He has made me look On my beloved Bernardo, when the rust Of heavy chains has gangrened his sweet limbs, And I have never yet despairedbut 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 all Beyond 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 I Who loved him once, and now must live with him Till 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 coil Shall 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 you In infancy, with gentle words and looks, To win our father not to murder us? And shall I now desert you? May the ghost Of my dead Mother plead against my soul If I abandon her who filled the place She left, with more, even, than a mother's love! Bernardo. And I am of my sister's mind. Indeed I would not leave you in this wretchedness, Even though the Pope should make me free to live In some blithe place, like others of my age, With sports, and delicate food, and the fresh air. Oh, 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 look With disobedient insolence upon me, Bending a stern and an inquiring brow On what I meant; whilst I then sought to hide That which I came to tell youbut 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 words Fell from my lips, and who with tottering steps Fled from your presence, as you now from mine. Stay, I command youfrom this day and hour Never 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 cursd mother, [To Bernardo. Thy milky, meek face makes me sick with hate! [Exeunt Beatrice and Bernardo. (Aside.) So much has passed between us as must make Me bold, her fearful.'Tis an awful thing To 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 rote Parricide with his alphabet? Nor Giacomo? Nor those two most unnatural sons, who stirred Enmity 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 nothing Of 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, or Put 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 none But you to be the executioners Of 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 again I'll kill you. What! It was not by your counsel That Beatrice disturbed the feast last night? You did not hope to stir some enemies Against me, and escape, and laugh to scorn What 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 salvation I knew not aught that Beatrice designed; Nor do I think she designed any thing Until she heard you talk of her dead brothers. Cenci. Blaspheming liar! You are damned for this! But I will take you where you may persuade The stones you tread on to deliver you: For men shall there be none but those who dare All thingsnot question that which I command. On Wednesday next I shall set out: you know That savage rock, the Castle of Petrella: 'Tis safely walled, and moated round about: Its dungeons underground, and its thick towers Never told tales; though they have heard and seen What might make dumb things speak.Why do you linger? Make speediest preparation for the journey! [Exit Lucretia. The all-beholding sun yet shines; I hear A 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 hole Is penetrated with the insolent light. Come darkness! Yet, what is the day to me? And wherefore should I wish for night, who do A deed which shall confound both night and day? 'Tis she shall grope through a bewildering mist Of horror: if there be a sun in heaven She 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 all For me: I bear a darker deadlier gloom Than the earth's shade, or interlunar air, Or constellations quenched in murkiest cloud, In which I walk secure and unbeheld Towards 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 law By which you might obtain a bare provision Of food and clothing Giacomo.             Nothing more? Alas! Bare must be the provision which strict law Awards, and agd, sullen avarice pays. Why did my father not apprentice me To some mechanic trade? I should have then Been trained in no highborn necessities Which I could meet not by my daily toil. The eldest son of a rich nobleman Is heir to all his incapacities; He has wide wants, and narrow powers. If you, Cardinal Camillo, were reduced at once From 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 I Have a dear wife, a lady of high birth, Whose dowry in ill hour I lent my father Without 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 interpose And stretch authority beyond the law? Camillo. Though your peculiar case is hard, I know The Pope will not divert the course of law. After that impious feast the other night I spoke with him, and urged him then to check Your father's cruel hand; he frowned and said, 'Children are disobedient, and they sting Their fathers' hearts to madness and despair, Requiting years of care with contumely. I pity the Count Cenci from my heart; His outraged love perhaps awakened hate, And thus he is exasperated to ill. In the great war between the old and young I, who have white hairs and a tottering body, Will keep at least blameless neutrality.' Enter Orsino. You, my good Lord Orsino, heard those words. Orsino. What words? Giacomo.       Alas, repeat them not again! There then is no redress for me, at least None but that which I may achieve myself, Since I am driven to the brink.But, say, My innocent sister and my only brother Are dying underneath my father's eye. The memorable torturers of this land, Galeaz Visconti, Borgia, Ezzelin, Never inflicted on the meanest slave What these endure; shall they have no protection? Camillo. Why, if they would petition to the Pope I see not how he could refuse ityet He holds it of most dangerous example In aught to weaken the paternal power, Being, as 'twere, the shadow of his own. I pray you now excuse me. I have business That will not bear delay. [Exit Camillo. Giacomo.               But you, Orsino, Have the petition: wherefore not present it? Orsino. I have presented it, and backed it with My earnest prayers, and urgent interest; It was returned unanswered. I doubt not But that the strange and execrable deeds Alleged in itin truth they might well baffle Any beliefhave turned the Pope's displeasure Upon the accusers from the criminal: So I should guess from what Camillo said. Giacomo. My friend, that palace-walking devil Gold Has whispered silence to his Holiness: And we are left, as scorpions ringed with fire. What should we do but strike ourselves to death? For he who is our murderous persecutor Is shielded by a father's holy name, Or I would [Stops abruptly. Orsino.       What? Fear not to speak your thought. Words are but holy as the deeds they cover: A priest who has forsworn the God he serves; A judge who makes Truth weep at his decree; A friend who should weave counsel, as I now, But as the mantle of some selfish guile; A father who is all a tyrant seems, Were the profaner for his sacred name. Giacomo. Ask me not what I think; the unwilling brain Feigns often what it would not; and we trust Imagination with such phantasies As the tongue dares not fashion into words, Which have no words, their horror makes them dim To the mind's eye.My heart denies itself To think what you demand. Orsino.               But a friend's bosom Is as the inmost cave of our own mind Where we sit shut from the wide gaze of day, And from the all-communicating air. You look what I suspected Giacomo.                Spare me now! I am as one lost in a midnight wood, Who dares not ask some harmless passenger The path across the wilderness, lest he, As my thoughts are, should bea murderer. I know you are my friend, and all I dare Speak to my soul that will I trust with thee. But now my heart is heavy, and would take Lone counsel from a night of sleepless care. Pardon me, that I say farewellfarewell! I would that to my own suspected self I could address a word so full of peace. Orsino. Farewell!Be your thoughts better or more bold. [Exit Giacomo. I had disposed the Cardinal Camillo To feed his hope with cold encouragement: It fortunately serves my close designs That 'tis a trick of this same family To analyse their own and other minds. Such self-anatomy shall teach the will Dangerous secrets: for it tempts our powers, Knowing what must be thought, and may be done, Into the depth of darkest purposes: So Cenci fell into the pit; even I, Since Beatrice unveiled me to myself, And made me shrink from what I cannot shun, Show a poor figure to my own esteem, To which I grow half reconciled. I'll do As little mischief as I can; that thought Shall fee the accuser conscience. (After a pause.)                   Now what harm If Cenci should be murdered?Yet, if murdered, Wherefore by me? And what if I could take The profit, yet omit the sin and peril In such an action? Of all earthly things I fear a man whose blows outspeed his words; And such is Cenci: and while Cenci lives His daughter's dowry were a secret grave If a priest wins her.Oh, fair Beatrice! Would that I loved thee not, or loving thee Could but despise danger and gold and all That frowns between my wish and its effect, Or smiles beyond it! There is no escape . . . Her bright form kneels beside me at the altar, And follows me to the resort of men, And fills my slumber with tumultuous dreams, So when I wake my blood seems liquid fire; And if I strike my damp and dizzy head My hot palm scorches it: her very name, But spoken by a stranger, makes my heart Sicken and pant; and thus unprofitably I clasp the phantom of unfelt delights Till weak imagination half possesses The self-created shadow. Yet much longer Will I not nurse this life of feverous hours: From the unravelled hopes of Giacomo I must work out my own dear purposes. I see, as from a tower, the end of all: Her father dead; her brother bound to me By a dark secret, surer than the grave; Her mother scared and unexpostulating From the dread manner of her wish achieved: And she!Once more take courage, my faint heart; What dares a friendless maiden matched with thee? I have such foresight as assures success: Some unbeheld divinity doth ever, When dread events are near, stir up men's minds To black suggestions; and he prospers best, Not who becomes the instrument of ill, But who can flatter the dark spirit, that makes Its empire and its prey of other hearts Till it become his slave . . . as I will do. [Exit. END OF THE SECOND ACT. ACT III Scene I. An Apartment in the Cenci Palace. Lucretia, to her enter Beatrice. Beatrice. (She enters staggering, and speaks wildly.) Reach me that handkerchief!My brain is hurt; My eyes are full of blood; just wipe them for me . . . I see but indistinctly . . . Lucretia.                My sweet child, You have no wound; 'tis only a cold dew That starts from your dear brow . . . Alas! Alas! What has befallen? Beatrice.           How comes this hair undone? Its wandering strings must be what blind me so, And yet I tied it fast.O, horrible! The pavement sinks under my feet! The walls Spin round! I see a woman weeping there, And standing calm and motionless, whilst I Slide giddily as the world reels. . . . My God! The beautiful blue heaven is flecked with blood! The sunshine on the floor is black! The air Is changed to vapours such as the dead breathe In charnel pits! Pah! I am choked! There creeps A clinging, black, contaminating mist About me . . . 'tis substantial, heavy, thick, I cannot pluck it from me, for it glues My fingers and my limbs to one another, And eats into my sinews, and dissolves My flesh to a pollution, poisoning The subtle, pure, and inmost spirit of life! My God! I never knew what the mad felt Before; for I am mad beyond all doubt! (More wildly.) No, I am dead! These putrefying limbs Shut round and sepulchre the panting soul Which would burst forth into the wandering air! (A pause.) What hideous thought was that I had even now? 'Tis gone; and yet its burthen remains here O'er these dull eyes . . . upon this weary heart! 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 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. (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; 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! 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 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 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. 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 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? 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? 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 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 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, 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 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 Thy sufferings from my fear. Beatrice.                I hide them not. What are the words which you 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 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, 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. 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 . . . 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 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 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. Ask me not what it is, for there are deeds Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue. 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, 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 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, 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 mouthd story; A mock, a byword, an astonishment: 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 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 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 mayst become 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 . . . 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? 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 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? 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 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 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, 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, 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, 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, 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 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, 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. 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, 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 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 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, 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. 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 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 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? 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? 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: 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 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, 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 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 raggd babes, 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 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 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 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; 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. 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 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, 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 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, 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, 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 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, 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 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 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! 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 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. [Exeunt severally. Scene II. 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-wingd lightning would not fall On stones and trees. My wife and children sleep: 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 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 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 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, 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; 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? 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 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? 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. 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; 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. 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 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 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 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: 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 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. When next we meetmay all be done! Giacomo.                    And all Forgotten: Oh, that I had never been! [Exeunt. END OF THE THIRD ACT. ACT IV Scene I. 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? 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 Which by its own consent shall stoop as low As that which drags it down. Enter Lucretia.                Thou loathd wretch! Hide thee from my abhorrence: fly, begone! Yet stay! Bid Beatrice come hither. Lucretia.                    Oh, Husband! I pray for thine own wretched sake 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, 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? 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. 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 If God, to punish his enormous crimes, Harden his dying heart!' Cenci.              Whysuch 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 . . . Repentance is an easy moment's work And more depends on God than me. Well . . . well . . . I must give up the greater point, which was To poison and corrupt her soul. [A pause; Lucretia approaches anxiously, and then shrinks back as he speaks.                  One, two; Ay . . . Rocco and Cristofano my curse Strangled: and Giacomo, I think, will find Life a worse Hell than that beyond the grave: Beatrice shall, if there be skill in hate, Die in despair, blaspheming: to Bernardo, He is so innocent, I will bequeath The memory of these deeds, and make his youth The sepulchre of hope, where evil thoughts Shall grow like weeds on a neglected tomb. When all is done, out in the wide Campagna, I will pile up my silver and my gold; My costly robes, paintings and tapestries; My parchments and all records of my wealth, And make a bonfire in my joy, and leave Of my possessions nothing but my name; Which shall be an inheritance to strip Its wearer bare as infamy. That done, My soul, which is a scourge, will I resign Into the hands of him who wielded it; Be it for its own punishment or theirs, He will not ask it of me till the lash Be broken in its last and deepest wound; Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet, Lest death outspeed my purpose, let me make Short work and sure . . . [Going. Lucretia. (Stops him.)               Oh, stay! It was a feint: She had no vision, and she heard no voice. I said it but to awe thee. Cenci.               That is well. Vile palterer with the sacred truth of God, Be thy soul choked with that blaspheming lie! For Beatrice worse terrors are in store To bend her to my will. Lucretia.             Oh! to what will? What cruel sufferings more than she has known Canst thou inflict? Cenci.           Andrea! Go call my daughter, And if she comes not tell her that I come. What sufferings? I will drag her, step by step, Through infamies unheard of among men: She shall stand shelterless in the broad noon Of public scorn, for acts blazoned abroad, One among which shall be . . . What? Canst thou guess? She shall become (for what she most abhors Shall have a fascination to entrap Her loathing will) to her own conscious self All she appears to others; and when dead, As she shall die unshrived and unforgiven, A rebel to her father and her God, Her corpse shall be abandoned to the hounds; Her name shall be the terror of the earth; Her spirit shall approach the throne of God Plague-spotted with my curses. I will make Body and soul a monstrous lump of ruin. Enter Andrea. Andrea. The Lady Beatrice . . . Cenci.             Speak, pale slave! What Said she? Andrea.      My Lord, 'twas what she looked; she said: 'Go tell my father that I see the gulf Of Hell between us two, which he may pass, I will not.' [Exit Andrea. Cenci.       Go thou quick, Lucretia, Tell her to come; yet let her understand Her coming is consent: and say, moreover, That if she come not I will curse her. [Exit Lucretia.                      Ha! With what but with a father's curse doth God Panic-strike armd victory, and make pale Cities in their prosperity? The world's Father Must grant a parent's prayer against his child, Be he who asks even what men call me. Will not the deaths of her rebellious brothers Awe her before I speak? For I on them Did imprecate quick ruin, and it came. Enter Lucretia. Well; what? Speak, wretch! Lucretia.               She said, 'I cannot come; Go tell my father that I see a torrent Of his own blood raging between us.' Cenci (kneeling).                     God! Hear me! If this most specious mass of flesh, Which Thou hast made my daughter; this my blood, This particle of my divided being; Or rather, this my bane and my disease, Whose sight infects and poisons me; this devil Which sprung from me as from a hell, was meant To aught good use; if her bright loveliness Was kindled to illumine this dark world; If nursed by Thy selectest dew of love Such virtues blossom in her as should make The peace of life, I pray Thee for my sake, As Thou the common God and Father art Of her, and me, and all; reverse that doom! Earth, in the name of God, let her food be Poison, until she be encrusted round With leprous stains! Heaven, rain upon her head The blistering drops of the Maremma's dew, Till she be speckled like a toad; parch up Those love-enkindled lips, warp those fine limbs To loathd lameness! All-beholding sun, Strike in thine envy those life-darting eyes With thine own blinding beams! Lucretia.                 Peace! Peace! For thine own sake unsay those dreadful words. When high God grants He punishes such prayers. Cenci (leaping up, and throwing his right hand towards Heaven). He does His will, I mine! This in addition, That if she have a child . . . Lucretia.                 Horrible thought!                 Cenci. That if she ever have a child; and thou, Quick Nature! I adjure thee by thy God, That thou be fruitful in her, and increase And multiply, fulfilling his command, And my deep imprecation! May it be A hideous likeness of herself, that as From a distorting mirror, she may see Her image mixed with what she most abhors, Smiling upon her from her nursing breast. And that the child may from its infancy Grow, day by day, more wicked and deformed, Turning her mother's love to misery: And that both she and it may live until It shall repay her care and pain with hate, Or what may else be more unnatural. So he may hunt her through the clamorous scoffs Of the loud world to a dishonoured grave. Shall I revoke this curse? Go, bid her come, Before my words are chronicled in Heaven. [Exit Lucretia. I do not feel as if I were a man, But like a fiend appointed to chastise The offences of some unremembered world. My blood is running up and down my veins; A fearful pleasure makes it prick and tingle: I feel a giddy sickness of strange awe; My heart is beating with an expectation Of horrid joy. Enter Lucretia.        What? Speak!        Lucretia.               She bids thee curse; And if thy curses, as they cannot do, Could kill her soul . . . Cenci.               She would not come. 'Tis well, I can do both: first take what I demand, And then extort concession. To thy chamber! Fly ere I spurn thee: and beware this night That thou cross not my footsteps. It were safer To come between the tiger and his prey.[Exit Lucretia. It must be late; mine eyes grow weary dim With unaccustomed heaviness of sleep. Conscience! Oh, thou most insolent of lies! They say that sleep, that healing dew of Heaven, Steeps not in balm the foldings of the brain Which thinks thee an impostor. I will go First to belie thee with an hour of rest, Which will be deep and calm, I feel: and then . . . O, multitudinous Hell, the fiends will shake. Thine arches with the laughter of their joy! There shall be lamentation heard in Heaven As o'er an angel fallen; and upon Earth All good shall droop and sicken, and ill things Shall with a spirit of unnatural life Stir and be quickened . . . even as I am now. [Exit. Scene II. Before the Castle of Petrella. Enter Beatrice andLucretia above on the Ramparts. Beatrice. They come not yet. Lucretia.           'Tis scarce midnight.           Beatrice.                      How slow Behind the course of thought, even sick with speed, Lags leaden-footed time! Lucretia.              The minutes pass . . . If he should wake before the deed is done? Beatrice. O, mother! He must never wake again. What thou hast said persuades me that our act Will but dislodge a spirit of deep hell Out of a human form. Lucretia.            'Tis true he spoke Of death and judgement with strange confidence For one so wicked; as a man believing In God, yet recking not of good or ill. And yet to die without confession! . . . Beatrice.                       Oh! Believe that Heaven is merciful and just, And will not add our dread necessity To the amount of his offences. Enter Olimpio and Marzio, below. Lucretia.                 See, They come. Beatrice.      All mortal things must hasten thus To their dark end. Let us go down. [Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice from above. Olimpio. How feel you to this work? Marzio.               As one who thinks A thousand crowns excellent market price For an old murderer's life. Your cheeks are pale. Olimpio. It is the white reflection of your own, Which you call pale. Marzio.            Is that their natural hue?            Olimpio. Or 'tis my hate and the deferred desire To wreak it, which extinguishes their blood. Marzio. You are inclined then to this business? Olimpio.                      Ay. If one should bribe me with a thousand crowns To kill a serpent which had stung my child, I could not be more willing. Enter Beatrice and Lucretia, below.                Noble ladies!                Beatrice. Are ye resolved? Olimpio.          Is he asleep?          Marzio.                 Is all Quiet? Lucretia.    I mixed an opiate with his drink: He sleeps so soundly . . . Beatrice.               That his death will be But as a change of sin-chastising dreams, A dark continuance of the Hell within him, Which God extinguish! But ye are resolved? Ye know it is a high and holy deed? Olimpio. We are resolved. Marzio.          As to the how this act Be warranted, it rests with you. Beatrice.                  Well, follow!                  Olimpio. Hush! Hark! What noise is that? Marzio.                  Ha! some one comes!                  Beatrice. Ye conscience-stricken cravens, rock to rest Your baby hearts. It is the iron gate, Which ye left open, swinging to the wind, That enters whistling as in scorn. Come, follow! And be your steps like mine, light, quick and bold. [Exeunt. Scene III. An Apartment in the Castle. Enter Beatrice and Lucretia. Lucretia. They are about it now. Beatrice.             Nay, it is done.             Lucretia. I have not heard him groan. Beatrice.                He will not groan.                Lucretia. What sound is that? Beatrice.           List! 'tis the tread of feet About his bed. Lucretia.        My God! If he be now a cold stiff corpse . . . Beatrice.                      O, fear not What may be done, but what is left undone: The act seals all. Enter Olimpio and Marzio.           Is it accomplished?           Marzio.                     What?                     Olimpio. Did you not call? Beatrice.          When?          Olimpio.             Now.             Beatrice.               I ask if all is over?               Olimpio. We dare not kill an old and sleeping man; His thin gray hair, his stern and reverend brow, His veind hands crossed on his heaving breast, And the calm innocent sleep in which he lay, Quelled me. Indeed, indeed, I cannot do it. Marzio. But I was bolder; for I chid Olimpio, And bade him bear his wrongs to his own grave And leave me the reward. And now my knife Touched the loose wrinkled throat, when the old man Stirred in his sleep, and said, 'God! hear, O, hear, A father's curse! What, art Thou not our Father?' And then he laughed. I knew it was the ghost Of my dead father speaking through his lips, And could not kill him. Beatrice.             Miserable slaves! Where, if ye dare not kill a sleeping man, Found ye the boldness to return to me With such a deed undone? Base palterers! Cowards and traitors! Why, the very conscience Which ye would sell for gold and for revenge Is an equivocation: it sleeps over A thousand daily acts disgracing men; And when a deed where mercy insults Heaven . . . Why do I talk? [Snatching a dagger from one of them and raising it.        Hadst thou a tongue to say, 'She murdered her own father!'I must do it! But never dream ye shall outlive him long! Olimpio. Stop, for God's sake! Marzio.            I will go back and kill him.            Olimpio. Give me the weapon. we must do thy will. Beatrice. Take it! Depart! Return! [Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio.              How pale thou art! We do but that which 'twere a deadly crime To leave undone. Lucretia.          Would it were done!          Beatrice.                    Even whilst That doubt is passing through your mind, the world Is conscious of a change. Darkness and Hell Have swallowed up the vapour they sent forth To blacken the sweet light of life. My breath Comes, methinks, lighter, and the jellied blood Runs freely through my veins. Hark! Enter Olimpio and Marzio.                    He is . . .                    Olimpio.                          Dead!                          Marzio. We strangled him that there might be no blood; And then we threw his heavy corpse i' the garden Under the balcony; 'twill seem it fell. Beatrice (giving them a bag of coin). Here, take this gold, and hasten to your homes. And, Marzio, because thou wast only awed By that which made me tremble, wear thou this! [Clothes him in a rich mantle. It was the mantle which my grandfather Wore in his high prosperity, and men Envied his state: so may they envy thine. Thou wert a weapon in the hand of God To a just use. Live long and thrive! And, mark, If thou hast crimes, repent: this deed is none. [A horn is sounded. Lucretia. Hark, 'tis the castle horn; my God! it sounds Like the last trump. Beatrice            Some tedious guest is coming.            Lucretia. The drawbridge is let down; there is a tramp Of horses in the court; fly, hide yourselves! [Exeunt Olimpio and Marzio. Beatrice. Let us retire to counterfeit deep rest; I scarcely need to counterfeit it now: The spirit which doth reign within these limbs Seems strangely undisturbed. I could even sleep Fearless and calm: all ill is surely past. [Exeunt. Scene IV. Another Apartment in the Castle. Enter on one side the Legate Savella, introduced by a Servant, and on the other Lucretia and Bernardo. Savella. Lady, my duty to his Holiness Be my excuse that thus unseasonably I break upon your rest. I must speak with Count Cenci; doth he sleep? Lucretia (in a hurried and confused manner).                I think he sleeps; Yet wake him not, I pray, spare me awhile, He is a wicked and a wrathful man; Should he be roused out of his sleep to-night, Which is, I know, a hell of angry dreams, It were not well; indeed it were not well. Wait till day break . . . (aside) O, I am deadly sick! Savella. I grieve thus to distress you, but the Count Must answer charges of the gravest import, And suddenly; such my commission is. Lucretia (with increased agitation). I dare not rouse him: I know none who dare . . . 'Twere perilous; . . . you might as safely waken A serpent; or a corpse in which some fiend Were laid to sleep. Savella.           Lady, my moments here Are counted. I must rouse him from his sleep, Since none else dare. Lucretia (aside).            O, terror! O, despair! (To Bernardo.) Bernardo, conduct you the Lord Legate to Your father's chamber. [Exeunt Savella and Bernardo. Enter Beatrice. Beatrice.             'Tis a messenger Come to arrest the culprit who now stands Before the throne of unappealable God. Both Earth and Heaven, consenting arbiters, Acquit our deed. Lucretia.          Oh, agony of fear! Would that he yet might live! Even now I heard The Legate's followers whisper as they passed They had a warrant for his instant death. All was prepared by unforbidden means Which we must pay so dearly, having done. Even now they search the tower, and find the body; Now they suspect the truth; now they consult Before they come to tax us with the fact; O, horrible, 'tis all discovered! Beatrice.                   Mother, What is done wisely, is done well. Be bold As thou art just. 'Tis like a truant child To fear that others know what thou hast done, Even from thine own strong consciousness, and thus Write on unsteady eyes and altered cheeks All thou wouldst hide. Be faithful to thyself, And fear no other witness but thy fear. For if, as cannot be, some circumstance Should rise in accusation, we can blind Suspicion with such cheap astonishment, Or overbear it with such guiltless pride, As murderers cannot feign. The deed is done, And what may follow now regards not me. I am as universal as the light; Free as the earth-surrounding air; as firm As the world's centre. Consequence, to me, Is as the wind which strikes the solid rock But shakes it not. [A cry within and tumult. Voices.           Murder! Murder! Murder!           Enter Bernardo and Savella. Savella (to his followers). Go search the castle round; sound the alarm; Look to the gates that none escape! Beatrice.                    What now?                    Bernardo. I know not what to say . . . my father's dead. Beatrice. How; dead! he only sleeps; you mistake, brother. His sleep is very calm, very like death; 'Tis wonderful how well a tyrant sleeps. He is not dead? Bernardo.         Dead; murdered.         Lucretia (with extreme agitation).                 Oh no, no He is not murdered though he may be dead; I have alone the keys of those apartments. Savella. Ha! Is it so? Beatrice.        My Lord, I pray excuse us; We will retire; my mother is not well: She seems quite overcome with this strange horror. [Exeunt Lucretia and Beatrice. Savella. Can you suspect who may have murdered him? Bernardo. I know not what to think. Savella.               Can you name any Who had an interest in his death? Bernardo.                   Alas! I can name none who had not, and those most Who most lament that such a deed is done; My mother, and my sister, and myself. Savella. 'Tis strange! There were clear marks of violence. I found the old man's body in the moonlight Hanging beneath the window of his chamber, Among the branches of a pine: he could not Have fallen there, for all his limbs lay heaped And effortless; 'tis true there was no blood . . . Favour me, Sir; it much imports your house That all should be made clear; to tell the ladies That I request their presence. [Exit Bernardo. Enter Guards bringing in Marzio. Guard.                 We have one.                 Officer. My Lord, we found this ruffian and another Lurking among the rocks; there is no doubt But that they are the murderers of Count Cenci: Each had a bag of coin; this fellow wore A gold-inwoven robe, which shining bright Under the dark rocks to the glimmering moon Betrayed them to our notice: the other fell Desperately fighting. Savella.            What does he confess?            Officer. He keeps firm silence; but these lines found on him May speak. Savella.      Their language is at least sincere.      [Reads. 'To the Lady Beatrice. 'That the atonement of what my nature sickens to conjecture may soon arrive, I send thee, at thy brother's desire, those who will speak and do more than I dare write. . . 'Thy devoted servant, Orsino.' Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Bernardo. Knowest thou this writing, Lady? Beatrice.                  No.                  Savella.                    Nor thou?                    Lucretia. (Her conduct throughout the scene is marked by extreme agitation.) Where was it found? What is it? It should be Orsino's hand! It speaks of that strange horror Which never yet found utterance, but which made Between that hapless child and her dead father A gulf of obscure hatred. Savella.               Is it so? Is it true, Lady, that thy father did Such outrages as to awaken in thee Unfilial hate? Beatrice.        Not hate, 'twas more than hate: This is most true, yet wherefore question me? Savella. There is a deed demanding question done; Thou hast a secret which will answer not. Beatrice. What sayest? My Lord, your words are bold and rash. Savella. I do arrest all present in the name Of the Pope's Holiness. You must to Rome. Lucretia. O, not to Rome! Indeed we are not guilty. Beatrice. Guilty! Who dares talk of guilt? My Lord, I am more innocent of parricide Than is a child born fatherless . . . Dear mother, Your gentleness and patience are no shield For this keen-judging world, this two-edged lie, Which seems, but is not. What! will human laws, Rather will ye who are their ministers, Bar all access to retribution first, And then, when Heaven doth interpose to do What ye neglect, arming familiar things To the redress of an unwonted crime, Make ye the victims who demanded it Culprits? 'Tis ye are culprits! That poor wretch Who stands so pale, and trembling, and amazed, If it be true he murdered Cenci, was A sword in the right hand of justest God. Wherefore should I have wielded it? Unless The crimes which mortal tongue dare never name God therefore scruples to avenge. Savella.                   You own That you desired his death? Beatrice.                It would have been A crime no less than his, if for one moment That fierce desire had faded in my heart. 'Tis true I did believe, and hope, and pray, Ay, I even knew . . . for God is wise and just, That some strange sudden death hung over him. 'Tis true that this did happen, and most true There was no other rest for me on earth, No other hope in Heaven . . . now what of this? Savella. Strange thoughts beget strange deeds; and here are both: I judge thee not. Beatrice.          And yet, if you arrest me, You are the judge and executioner Of that which is the life of life: the breath Of accusation kills an innocent name, And leaves for lame acquittal the poor life Which is a mask without it. 'Tis most false That I am guilty of foul parricide; Although I must rejoice, for justest cause, That other hands have sent my father's soul To ask the mercy he denied to me. Now leave us free; stain not a noble house With vague surmises of rejected crime; Add to our sufferings and your own neglect No heavier sum: let them have been enough: Leave us the wreck we have. Savella.                I dare not, Lady. I pray that you prepare yourselves for Rome: There the Pope's further pleasure will be known. Lucretia. O, not to Rome! O, take us not to Rome! Beatrice. Why not to Rome, dear mother? There as here Our innocence is as an armd heel To trample accusation. God is there As here, and with His shadow ever clothes The innocent, the injured and the weak; And such are we. Cheer up, dear Lady, lean On me; collect your wandering thoughts. My Lord, As soon as you have taken some refreshment, And had all such examinations made Upon the spot, as may be necessary To the full understanding of this matter, We shall be ready. Mother; will you come? Lucretia. Ha! they will bind us to the rack, and wrest Self-accusation from our agony! Will Giacomo be there? Orsino? Marzio? All present; all confronted; all demanding Each from the other's countenance the thing Which is in every heart! O, misery! [She faints, and is borne out. Savella. She faints: an ill appearance this. Beatrice.                    My Lord, She knows not yet the uses of the world. She fears that power is as a beast which grasps And loosens not: a snake whose look transmutes All things to guilt which is its nutriment. She cannot know how well the supine slaves Of blind authority read the truth of things When written on a brow of guilelessness: She sees not yet triumphant Innocence Stand at the judgement-seat of mortal man, A judge and an accuser of the wrong Which drags it there. Prepare yourself, my Lord; Our suite will join yours in the court below. [Exeunt. END OF THE FOURTH ACT. ACT V Scene I. An Apartment in Orsino's Palace. Enter Orsino and Giacomo. Giacomo. Do evil deeds thus quickly come to end? O, that the vain remorse which must chastise Crimes done, had but as loud a voice to warn As its keen sting is mortal to avenge! O, that the hour when present had cast off The mantle of its mystery, and shown The ghastly form with which it now returns When its scared game is roused, cheering the hounds Of conscience to their prey! Alas! Alas! It was a wicked thought, a piteous deed, To kill an old and hoary-headed father. Orsino. It has turned out unluckily, in truth. Giacomo. To violate the sacred doors of sleep; To cheat kind Nature of the placid death Which she prepares for overwearied age; To drag from Heaven an unrepentant soul Which might have quenched in reconciling prayers A life of burning crimes . . . Orsino.                 You cannot say I urged you to the deed. Giacomo.              O, had I never Found in thy smooth and ready countenance The mirror of my darkest thoughts; hadst thou Never with hints and questions made me look Upon the monster of my thought, until It grew familiar to desire . . . Orsino.                  'Tis thus Men cast the blame of their unprosperous acts Upon the abettors of their own resolve; Or anything but their weak, guilty selves. And yet, confess the truth, it is the peril In which you stand that gives you this pale sickness Of penitence; confess 'tis fear disguised From its own shame that takes the mantle now Of thin remorse. What if we yet were safe? Giacomo. How can that be? Already Beatrice, Lucretia and the murderer are in prison. I doubt not officers are, whilst we speak, Sent to arrest us. Orsino.           I have all prepared For instant flight. We can escape even now, So we take fleet occasion by the hair. Giacomo. Rather expire in tortures, as I may. What! will you cast by self-accusing flight Assured conviction upon Beatrice? She, who alone in this unnatural work, Stands like God's angel ministered upon By fiends; avenging such a nameless wrong As turns black parricide to piety; Whilst we for basest ends . . . I fear, Orsino, While I consider all your words and looks, Comparing them with your proposal now, That you must be a villain. For what end Could you engage in such a perilous crime, Training me on with hints, and signs, and smiles, Even to this gulf? Thou art no liar? No, Thou art a lie! Traitor and murderer! Coward and slave! But, no, defend thyself; [Drawing. Let the sword speak what the indignant tongue Disdains to brand thee with. Orsino.                Put up your weapon. Is it the desperation of your fear Makes you thus rash and sudden with a friend, Now ruined for your sake? If honest anger Have moved you, know, that what I just proposed Was but to try you. As for me, I think, Thankless affection led me to this point, From which, if my firm temper could repent, I cannot now recede. Even whilst we speak The ministers of justice wait below: They grant me these brief moments. Now if you Have any word of melancholy comfort To speak to your pale wife, 'twere best to pass Out at the postern, and avoid them so. Giacomo. O, generous friend! How canst thou pardon me? Would that my life could purchase thine! Orsino.                       That wish Now comes a day too late. Haste; fare thee well! Hear'st thou not steps along the corridor? [Exit Giacomo. I'm sorry for it; but the guards are waiting At his own gate, and such was my contrivance That I might rid me both of him and them. I thought to act a solemn comedy Upon the painted scene of this new world, And to attain my own peculiar ends By some such plot of mingled good and ill As others weave; but there arose a Power Which grasped and snapped the threads of my device And turned it to a net of ruin . . . Ha! [A shout is heard. Is that my name I hear proclaimed abroad? But I will pass, wrapped in a vile disguise; Rags on my back, and a false innocence Upon my face, through the misdeeming crowd Which judges by what seems. 'Tis easy then For a new name and for a country new, And a new life, fashioned on old desires, To change the honours of abandoned Rome. And these must be the masks of that within, Which must remain unaltered . . . Oh, I fear That what is past will never let me rest! Why, when none else is conscious, but myself, Of my misdeeds, should my own heart's contempt Trouble me? Have I not the power to fly My own reproaches? Shall I be the slave Of . . . what? A word? which those of this false world Employ against each other, not themselves; As men wear daggers not for self-offence. But if I am mistaken, where shall I Find the disguise to hide me from myself, As now I skulk from every other eye? [Exit. Scene II. A Hall of Justice. Camillo, Judges, &c., are discovered seated; Marzio is led in. First Judge. Accused, do you persist in your denial? I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty? I demand who were the participators In your offence? Speak truth and the whole truth. Marzio. My God! I did not kill him; I know nothing; Olimpio sold the robe to me from which You would infer my guilt. Second Judge.               Away with him!               First Judge. Dare you, with lips yet white from the rack's kiss Speak false? Is it so soft a questioner, That you would bandy lover's talk with it Till it wind out your life and soul? Away! Marzio. Spare me! O, spare! I will confess. First Judge.                    Then speak.                    Marzio. I strangled him in his sleep. First Judge.                 Who urged you to it?                 Marzio. His own son Giacomo, and the young prelate Orsino sent me to Petrella; there The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia Tempted me with a thousand crowns, and I And my companion forthwith murdered him. Now let me die. First Judge.         This sounds as bad as truth. Guards, there, Lead forth the prisoner! Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Giacomo, guarded.              Look upon this man; When did you see him last? Beatrice.               We never saw him.               Marzio. You know me too well, Lady Beatrice. Beatrice. I know thee! How? where? when? Marzio.                 You know 'twas I Whom you did urge with menaces and bribes To kill your father. When the thing was done You clothed me in a robe of woven gold And bade me thrive: how I have thriven, you see. You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia, You know that what I speak is true. [Beatrice advances towards him; he covers his face, and shrinks back.                    Oh, dart The terrible resentment of those eyes On the dead earth! Turn them away from me! They wound: 'twas torture forced the truth. My Lords, Having said this let me be led to death. Beatrice. Poor wretch, I pity thee: yet stay awhile. Camillo. Guards, lead him not away. Beatrice.               Cardinal Camillo, You have a good repute for gentleness And wisdom: can it be that you sit here To countenance a wicked farce like this? When some obscure and trembling slave is dragged From sufferings which might shake the sternest heart And bade to answer, not as he believes, But as those may suspect or do desire Whose questions thence suggest their own reply: And that in peril of such hideous torments As merciful God spares even the damned. Speak now The thing you surely know, which is that you, If your fine frame were stretched upon that wheel, And you were told: 'Confess that you did poison Your little nephew; that fair blue-eyed child Who was the lodestar of your life:'and though All see, since his most swift and piteous death, That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time, And all the things hoped for or done therein Are changed to you, through your exceeding grief, Yet you would say, 'I confess anything:' And beg from your tormentors, like that slave, The refuge of dishonourable death. I pray thee, Cardinal, that thou assert My innocence. Camillo. (much moved).        What shall we think, my Lords? Shame on these tears! I thought the heart was frozen Which is their fountain. I would pledge my soul That she is guiltless. Judge.             Yet she must be tortured.             Camillo. I would as soon have tortured mine own nephew (If he now lived he would be just her age; His hair, too, was her colour, and his eyes Like hers in shape, but blue and not so deep) As that most perfect image of God's love That ever came sorrowing upon the earth. She is as pure as speechless infancy! Judge. Well, be her purity on your head, my Lord, If you forbid the rack. His Holiness Enjoined us to pursue this monstrous crime By the severest forms of law; nay even To stretch a point against the criminals. The prisoners stand accused of parricide Upon such evidence as justifies Torture. Beatrice. What evidence? This man's? Judge.               Even so.               Beatrice (to Marzio). Come near. And who art thou thus chosen forth Out of the multitude of living men To kill the innocent? Marzio.            I am Marzio, Thy father's vassal. Beatrice.            Fix thine eyes on mine; Answer to what I ask. [Turning to the Judges.            I prithee mark His countenance: unlike bold calumny Which sometimes dares not speak the thing it looks, He dares not look the thing he speaks, but bends His gaze on the blind earth. (To Marzio.)                What! wilt thou say That I did murder my own father? Marzio.                  Oh! Spare me! My brain swims round . . . I cannot speak . . . It was that horrid torture forced the truth. Take me away! Let her not look on me! I am a guilty miserable wretch; I have said all I know; now, let me die! Beatrice. My Lords, if by my nature I had been So stern, as to have planned the crime alleged, Which your suspicions dictate to this slave, And the rack makes him utter, do you think I should have left this two-edged instrument Of my misdeed; this man, this bloody knife With my own name engraven on the heft, Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes, For my own death? That with such horrible need For deepest silence, I should have neglected So trivial a precaution, as the making His tomb the keeper of a secret written On a thief's memory? What is his poor life? What are a thousand lives? A parricide Had trampled them like dust; and, see, he lives! (Turning to Marzio.) And thou . . . Marzio.        Oh, spare me! Speak to me no more! That stern yet piteous look, those solemn tones, Wound worse than torture. (To the Judges.               I have told it all; For pity's sake lead me away to death. Camillo. Guards, lead him nearer the Lady Beatrice, He shrinks from her regard like autumn's leaf From the keen breath of the serenest north. Beatrice. O thou who tremblest on the giddy verge Of life and death, pause ere thou answerest me; So mayst thou answer God with less dismay: What evil have we done thee? I, alas! Have lived but on this earth a few sad years, And so my lot was ordered, that a father First turned the moments of awakening life To drops, each poisoning youth's sweet hope; and then Stabbed with one blow my everlasting soul; And my untainted fame; and even that peace Which sleeps within the core of the heart's heart; But the wound was not mortal; so my hate Became the only worship I could lift To our great father, who in pity and love, Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him off; And thus his wrong becomes my accusation; And art thou the accuser? If thou hopest Mercy in heaven, show justice upon earth: Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart. If thou hast done murders, made thy life's path Over the trampled laws of God and man, Rush not before thy Judge, and say: 'My maker, I have done this and more; for there was one Who was most pure and innocent on earth; And because she endured what never any Guilty or innocent endured before: Because her wrongs could not be told, not thought; Because thy hand at length did rescue her; I with my words killed her and all her kin.' Think, I adjure you, what it is to slay The reverence living in the minds of men Towards our ancient house, and stainless fame! Think what it is to strangle infant pity, Cradled in the belief of guileless looks, Till it become a crime to suffer. Think What 'tis to blot with infamy and blood All that which shows like innocence, and is, Hear me, great God! I swear, most innocent, So that the world lose all discrimination Between the sly, fierce, wild regard of guilt, And that which now compels thee to reply To what I ask: Am I, or am I not A parricide? Marzio.       Thou art not!       Judge.               What is this?               Marzio. I here declare those whom I did accuse Are innocent. 'Tis I alone am guilty. Judge. Drag him away to torments; let them be Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the folds Of the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him not Till he confess. Marzio.          Torture me as ye will: A keener pang has wrung a higher truth From my last breath. She is most innocent! Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves well with me; I will not give you that fine piece of nature To rend and ruin. [Exit Marzio, guarded. Camillo.          What say ye now, my Lords?          Judge. Let tortures strain the truth till it be white As snow thrice sifted by the frozen wind. Camillo. Yet stained with blood. Judge (to Beatrice).             Know you this paper, Lady?             Beatrice. Entrap me not with questions. Who stands here As my accuser? Ha! wilt thou be he, Who art my judge? Accuser, witness, judge, What, all in one? Here is Orsino's name; Where is Orsino? Let his eye meet mine. What means this scrawl? Alas! ye know not what, And therefore on the chance that it may be Some evil, will ye kill us? Enter an Officer. Officer.                Marzio's dead.                Judge. What did he say? Officer.          Nothing. As soon as we Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled on us, As one who baffles a deep adversary; And holding his breath, died. Judge.                 There remains nothing But to apply the question to those prisoners, Who yet remain stubborn. Camillo.              I overrule Further proceedings, and in the behalf Of these most innocent and noble persons Will use my interest with the Holy Father. Judge. Let the Pope's pleasure then be done. Meanwhile Conduct these culprits each to separate cells; And be the engines ready: for this night If the Pope's resolution be as grave, Pious, and just as once, I'll wring the truth Out of those nerves and sinews, groan by groan. [Exeunt. Scene III. 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. 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! 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. 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 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. 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 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.                 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 Sunlike, above the reek of mortal fame, Changed to a mockery and a byword? 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, 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, 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, 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 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; 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, 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! 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 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 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? 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, 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, 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, Linger not here! Beatrice.          Oh, tear him not away!          Judge. Guards, do your duty. Bernardo (embracing Beatrice).            Oh! would ye divide Body from soul? Officer.         That is the headsman's business.         [Exeunt all but Lucretia, Beatrice, and Giacomo. Giacomo. Have I confessed? Is it all over now? No hope! No refuge! O weak, wicked tongue Which hast destroyed me, would that thou hadst been 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! 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! 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, '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. 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, 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, 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 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? 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; 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. Scene IV. A Hall of the Prison. Enter Camillo and Bernardo. Camillo. The Pope is stern; not to be moved or bent. He looked as calm and keen as is the engine Which tortures and which kills, exempt itself From aught that it inflicts; a marble form, A rite, a law, a custom: not a man. He frowned, as if to frown had been the trick Of his machinery, on the advocates Presenting the defences, which he tore And threw behind, muttering with hoarse, harsh voice: 'Which among ye defended their old father Killed in his sleep?' Then to another: 'Thou Dost this in virtue of thy place; 'tis well.' He turned to me then, looking deprecation, And said these three words, coldly: 'They must die.' Bernardo. And yet you left him not? Camillo.               I urged him still; Pleading, as I could guess, the devilish wrong Which prompted your unnatural parent's death. And he replied: 'Paolo Santa Croce Murdered his mother yester evening, And he is fled. Parricide grows so rife That soon, for some just cause no doubt, the young Will strangle us all, dozing in our chairs. Authority, and power, and hoary hair Are grown crimes capital. You are my nephew, You come to ask their pardon; stay a moment; Here is their sentence; never see me more Till, to the letter, it be all fulfilled.' Bernardo. O God, not so! I did believe indeed That all you said was but sad preparation For happy news. Oh, there are words and looks To bend the sternest purpose! Once I knew them, Now I forget them at my dearest need. What think you if I seek him out, and bathe His feet and robe with hot and bitter tears? Importune him with prayers, vexing his brain With my perpetual cries, until in rage He strike me with his pastoral cross, and trample Upon my prostrate head, so that my blood May stain the senseless dust on which he treads, And remorse waken mercy? I will do it! Oh, wait till I return! [Rushes out. Camillo.             Alas! poor boy! A wreck-devoted seaman thus might pray To the deaf sea. Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, and Giacomo, guarded. Beatrice.          I hardly dare to fear That thou bring'st other news than a just pardon. Camillo. May God in heaven be less inexorable To the Pope's prayers, than he has been to mine. Here is the sentence and the warrant. Beatrice (wildly).                     O My God! Can it be possible I have To die so suddenly? So young to go Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground! To be nailed down into a narrow place; To see no more sweet sunshine; hear no more Blithe voice of living thing; muse not again Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost How fearful! to be nothing! Or to be . . . What? Oh, where am I? Let me not go mad! Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts! If there should be No God, no Heaven, no Earth in the void world; The wide, gray, lampless, deep, unpeopled world! If all things then should be . . . my father's spirit, His eye, his voice, his touch surrounding me; The atmosphere and breath of my dead life! If sometimes, as a shape more like himself, Even the form which tortured me on earth, Masked in gray hairs and wrinkles, he should come And wind me in his hellish arms, and fix His eyes on mine, and drag me down, down, down! For was he not alone omnipotent On Earth, and ever present? Even though dead, Does not his spirit live in all that breathe, And work for me and mine still the same ruin, Scorn, pain, despair? Who ever yet returned To teach the laws of Death's untrodden realm? Unjust perhaps as those which drive us now, Oh, whither, whither? Lucretia.            Trust in God's sweet love, The tender promises of Christ: ere night, Think, we shall be in Paradise. Beatrice.                  'Tis past! Whatever comes my heart shall sink no more. And yet, I know not why, your words strike chill: How tedious, false and cold seem all things. I Have met with much injustice in this world; No difference has been made by God or man, Or any power moulding my wretched lot, 'Twixt good or evil, as regarded me. I am cut off from the only world I know, From light, and life, and love, in youth's sweet prime. You do well telling me to trust in God, I hope I do trust in Him. In whom else Can any trust? And yet my heart is cold. [During the latter speeches Giacomo has retired conversing with Camillo, who now goes out; Giacomo advances. Giacomo. Know you not, Mother . . . Sister, know you not? Bernardo even now is gone to implore The Pope to grant our pardon. Lucretia.                 Child, perhaps It will be granted. We may all then live To make these woes a tale for distant years: Oh, what a thought! It gushes to my heart Like the warm blood. Beatrice.            Yet both will soon be cold. Oh, trample out that thought! Worse than despair, Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope: It is the only ill which can find place Upon the giddy, sharp and narrow hour Tottering beneath us. Plead with the swift frost That it should spare the eldest flower of spring: Plead with awakening earthquake, o'er whose couch Even now a city stands, strong, fair, and free; Now stench and blackness yawn, like death. Oh, plead With famine, or wind-walking Pestilence, Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not with man! Cruel, cold, formal man; righteous in words, In deeds a Cain. No, Mother, we must die: Since such is the reward of innocent lives; Such the alleviation of worst wrongs. And whilst our murderers live, and hard, cold men, Smiling and slow, walk through a world of tears To death as to life's sleep; 'twere just the grave Were some strange joy for us. Come, obscure Death, And wind me in thine all-embracing arms! Like a fond mother hide me in thy bosom, And rock me to the sleep from which none wake. Live ye, who live, subject to one another As we were once, who now . . . Bernardo rushes in. Bernardo.                 Oh, horrible! That tears, that looks, that hope poured forth in prayer, Even till the heart is vacant and despairs, Should all be vain! The ministers of death Are waiting round the doors. I thought I saw Blood on the face of one . . . What if 'twere fancy? Soon the heart's blood of all I love on earth Will sprinkle him, and he will wipe it off As if 'twere only rain. O life! O world! Cover me! let me be no more! To see That perfect mirror of pure innocence Wherein I gazed, and grew happy and good, Shivered to dust! To see thee, Beatrice, Who made all lovely thou didst look upon . . . Thee, light of life . . . dead, dark! while I say, sister, To hear I have no sister; and thou, Mother, Whose love was as a bond to all our loves . . . Dead! The sweet bond broken! Enter Camillo and Guards.                They come! Let me Kiss those warm lips before their crimson leaves Are blighted . . . white . . . cold. Say farewell, before Death chokes that gentle voice! Oh, let me hear You speak! Beatrice.      Farewell, my tender brother. Think Of our sad fate with gentleness, as now: And let mild, pitying thoughts lighten for thee Thy sorrow's load. Err not in harsh despair, But tears and patience. One thing more, my child: For thine own sake be constant to the love Thou bearest us; and to the faith that I, Though wrapped in a strange cloud of crime and shame, Lived ever holy and unstained. And though Ill tongues shall wound me, and our common name Be as a mark stamped on thine innocent brow For men to point at as they pass, do thou Forbear, and never think a thought unkind Of those, who perhaps love thee in their graves. So mayest thou die as I do; fear and pain Being subdued. Farewell! Farewell! Farewell! Bernardo. I cannot say, farewell! Camillo.             Oh, Lady Beatrice!             Beatrice. Give yourself no unnecessary pain, My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, Mother, tie My girdle for me, and bind up this hair In any simple knot; ay, that does well. And yours I see is coming down. How often Have we done this for one another; now We shall not do it any more. My Lord, We are quite ready. Well, 'tis very well. THE END Composed at Rome and near Leghorn (Villa Valsovano), May - August 8, 1819; published 1820 (spring) by C. & J. Ollier, London. This edition of 250 copies was printed in Italy 'because,' writes Shelley to Peacock, Sept. 21, 1819, 'it costs, with all duties and freightage, about half what it would cost in London.' ~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Cenci - A Tragedy In Five Acts

--- IN CHAPTERS (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)

10

   5 Poetry
   3 Integral Yoga
   1 Occultism
   1 Fiction


   2 Satprem
   2 Li Bai


   2 On the Way to Supermanhood
   2 Li Bai - Poems

1.00_-_Preliminary_Remarks, #Liber ABA, #Aleister Crowley, #Philosophy      In your early struggles you may have found it difficult to conquer sleep; and you may have wandered so far from the object of your meditations without noticing it, that the meditation has really been broken; but much later on, when you feel that you are getting quite good, you will be shocked to find a complete oblivion of yourself and your surroundings. You will say: Good heavens! I must have been to sleep! or else What on earth was I meditation upon? or even What was I doing Where am I? Who am I? or a mere wordless bewilderment may daze you. This may alarm you, and your alarm will not be lessened when you come to full consciousness, and reflect that you have actually forgotten who you are and what you are doing!

1.03_-_The_Sunlit_Path, #On the Way to Supermanhood, #Satprem, #Integral Yoga      We are Bill Smith, a name without a meaning, a legal artifice to tie us to the great Machine and to an obscure genealogy we do not know much about, except that we are the son of our father, who was the son of his father, who was the son of his father, and that evidently we shall be the father of our son, who will be the father of his son, who will be the father of his son, and so on endlessly. And we walk up and down the great boulevard of the world, here or there, in a Los Angeles which looks more and more like Tokyo, which looks more and more like Mexico City, which looks more and more like every city in the world, just as one anthill looks like another. We can very well take a plane, but we will find ourselves again everywhere. We are French or American, but, to tell the truth, that is only history and passports, another artifice to bind us hand and foot to one machine or another, while our brother in Calcutta or Rangoon walks the same boulevard with the same question, under a yellow, red or orange flag. All this is the vestige of the hunting grounds, but there is not much left to hunt, save ourselves, and we are well on our way to being crushed out of that possibility, too, under the steamroller of the great Machine. So we go up and down the stairs, make phone calls, rush around, rush to vacation or enjoy life, like our brother under a yellow or a brown skin: in English, French and Chinese, we are harassed on all sides, exhausted, and we are not quite sure whether we are enjoying life or life is enjoying us. But it goes on and on all the same. And through it all, there is something that goes up and down, rushes and rushes, and sometimes, for a second, there is a sort of little cry inside: Who am I? Who am I? Where is me? Where am I?

1.06_-_The_Breaking_of_the_Limits, #On the Way to Supermanhood, #Satprem, #Integral Yoga      We had set out in search of a self amid all this inner and outer machinery; we so much needed something other than this generic sum, this legal fiction, this curriculum vitae which is like a curriculum of death, this sum of actions and daily gestures adding up to zero or perpetually in hope of an inscrutable and elusive something, this crest of existence forever slipping away from under our feet and receding into the distance, toward another wave, the more or less happy repetition of the same old story, of the same program stored in the computer with our parents' chromosomes, our studies, our formative and deformative years; something that was not the attach case we lug around everywhere, nor the stethoscope, nor the pen, not the sum of our feelings nor the sum of our changeless thoughts that leave us forever the same and alone in our little island of self which is not self, which is millions of things crammed into us from the outside, from around and above and below us, from life, from the world, from other beings where is the self? What is me in all that? Where am I? The question had become so unbearable that one day we stepped outside stepped into nothing, which was perhaps something, but it was everything, the only way out of the leaden island. Then, little by little, in the tiny empty interval between this shadow of mechanical self and that something, or nothing, which watches it all, we saw a flame of need grow in us, a need that became more and more intense and burning as the darkness grew thicker in and around us, an inexplicable flame leaping in that stifling nothingness. And slowly, very slowly, like a vague dawn emerging from under the night, like a faraway city wrapped in fog, we saw twinkling little lights start to appear, faint signs, so faint they looked like lights floating on a dark sea, which could have been ten feet or ten miles away, unless they were the reflection of stars or the phosphorescence of noctilucas beneath the waves. But even that nothing was already something in a world filled with such unsurpassed nothingness. So we persevered. The little flame of need settled in us (or was it outside us, or in our stead?); it became our companion, our presence amid an absence of everything, our gauge, our ever-burning intimacy. And the more it grew, calling out from within us, calling so desperately in this empty and suffocating nothing, the brighter the signs grew, twinkled a little everywhere beneath our steps, as if to say, See? See?, as if calling the new world brought it to birth, as if something answered, became steadier, formed into lines, coordinates, channels, and we began to enter another country, another consciousness, another way of being but where is me in all this, the one who directs and owns, that singular traveler, the center that is neither of the ape nor of man?

1.fs_-_The_Walk, #Schiller - Poems, #Friedrich Schiller, #Poetry       But Where am I? The path is now hid, declivities rugged    Bar, with their wide-yawning gulfs, progress before and behind.

1.lb_-_Gold_painted_jars_-_wines_worth_a_thousand, #Li Bai - Poems, #Li Bai, #Poetry      Hard Journey. So many side-tracks.      Turn after turn, and Where am I?      New breezes flatten down the waves ahead.

1.lb_-_Hard_Is_The_Journey, #Li Bai - Poems, #Li Bai, #Poetry   So many turnings,   And now Where am I?)

1.pbs_-_The_Cenci_-_A_Tragedy_In_Five_Acts, #Shelley - Poems, #Percy Bysshe Shelley, #Fiction   How fearful! to be nothing! Or to be . . .   What? Oh, Where am I? Let me not go mad!   Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts! If there should be

2.40_-_2.49_-_THE_MASTER_AT_THE_HOUSES_OF_BALARM_AND_GIRISH, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism      Here vanish my pride of race and caste! Where am I? Where art Thou, O Hari?

3.1.3_-_Difficulties_of_the_Physical_Being, #Letters On Yoga IV, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga      It is the doubt that most or many are raising now in the Asram. Where am I? Where am I going? Am I really doing the Yoga? It seems to me I am getting nothing. There is no progress anywhere. All is dry and mechanical. What is the use of being here? These are the thoughts that have been moving about in the atmosphere of the Asram and when you get such thoughts, it means that they are coming to you as suggestions from the atmosphere. If they are in the minds of any of those you move with, it is natural they should try to enter you, but even otherwise they can come to you, just as people catch cold because the germs are in the atmosphere.

Aeneid, #unset, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga   Bring torches, spread your sails, and ply your oars!   What am I saying? Where am I? What madness   has turned awry what I had meant to do?