Scenes from Politian (1)

I

    ROME.—A Hall in a Palace. Alessandra and Castiglione.
    Alessandra. Thou art sad, Castiglione.
    Castiglione. Sad!—not I.
    Oh, I’m the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
    A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
    Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!
    Aless. Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
    Thy happiness—what ails thee, cousin of mine?
    Why didst thou sigh so deeply?
    Cas. Did I sigh?
    I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
    A silly—a most silly fashion I have
    When I am very happy. Did I sigh? (sighing.)
    Aless. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
    Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
    Late hours and wine, Castiglione,—these
    Will ruin thee! thou art already altered—
    Thy looks are haggard—nothing so wears away
    The constitution as late hours and wine.
    Cas. (musing). Nothing, fair cousin, nothing—not even deep sorrow—
    Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
    I will amend.
    Aless. Do it! I would have thee drop
    Thy riotous company, too—fellows low born;
    Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio’s heir
    And Alessandra’s husband.
    Cas. I will drop them.
    Aless. Thou wilt—thou must. Attend thou also more
    To thy dress and equipage—they are over plain
    For thy lofty rank and fashion—much depends
    Upon appearances.
    Cas. I’ll see to it.
    Aless. Then see to it!—pay more attention, sir,
    To a becoming carriage—much thou wantest
    In dignity.
    Cas. Much, much, oh, much I want
    In proper dignity.
    Aless. (haughtily). Thou mockest me, sir!
    Cas. (abstractedly). Sweet, gentle Lalage!
    Aless. Heard I aright?
    I speak to him—he speaks of Lalage!
    Sir Count! (places her hand on his shoulder) what art thou dreaming? He’s not well!
    What ails thee, sir?
    Cas. (starting). Cousin! fair cousin!—madam!
    I crave thy pardon—indeed I am not well—
    Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
    This air is most oppressive!—Madam—the Duke!
    Enter Di Broglio.
    Di Broglio. My son, I’ve news for thee!—hey?—what’s the matter? (observing Alessandra.)
    I’ the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
    You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!
    I’ve news for you both. Politian is expected
    Hourly in Rome—Politian, Earl of Leicester!
    We’ll have him at the wedding. ’Tis his first visit
    To the imperial city.
    Aless. What! Politian
    Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?
    Di Brog. The same, my love.
    We’ll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
    In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him
    But rumour speaks of him as of a prodigy
    Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth,
    And high descent. We’ll have him at the wedding.
    Aless. I have heard much of this Politian.
    Gay, volatile and giddy—is he not,
    And little given to thinking?
    Di Brog. Far from it, love.
    No branch, they say, of all philosophy
    So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
    Learnèd as few are learnèd.
    Aless. ’Tis very strange!
    I have known men have seen Politian
    And sought his company. They speak of him
    As of one who entered madly into life,
    Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.
    Cas. Ridiculous! Now I have seen Politian
    And know him well—nor learned nor mirthful he.
    He is a dreamer, and a man shut out
    From common passions.
    Di Brog. Children, we disagree.
    Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
    Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
    Politian was a melancholy man? (Exeunt.)

II

    ROME.—A Lady’s Apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden. Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and a hand-mirror. In the background Jacinta (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon a chair.
    Lalage. Jacinta! is it thou?
    Jacinta (pertly). Yes, ma’am, I’m here.
    Lal. I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
    Sit down!—let not my presence trouble you—
    Sit down!—for I am humble, most humble.
    Jac. (aside). ’Tis time.
    (Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous look. Lalage continues to read.)
    Lal. “It in another climate, so he said,
    Bore a bright golden flower, but not i’ this soil!”
    (pauses—turns over some leaves, and resumes.)
    “No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower—
    But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
    Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind.”
    Oh, beautiful!—most beautiful!—how like
    To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
    O happy land! (pauses) She died!—the maiden died!
    O still more happy maiden who couldst die!
    Jacinta!
    (Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes.)
    Again!—a similar tale
    Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
    Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play—
    “She died full young”—one Bossola answers him—
    “I think not so—her infelicity
    Seemed to have years too many”—Ah, luckless lady!
    Jacinta! (still no answer).
    Here’s a far sterner story—
    But like—oh, very like in its despair—
    Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
    A thousand hearts—losing at length her own.
    She died. Thus endeth the history—and her maids
    Lean over her and weep—two gentle maids
    With gentle names—Eiros and Charmion!
    Rainbow and Dove!—Jacinta!
    Jac. (pettishly). Madam, what is it?
    Lal. Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
    As go down in the library and bring me
    The Holy Evangelists?
    Jac. Pshaw! (Exit.)
    Lal. If there be balm
    For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there!
    Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
    Will there be found—“dew sweeter far than that
    Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill.”
    (re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table.)
    Jac. There, ma’am, ’s the book. (aside.) Indeed she is very troublesome.
    Lal. (astonished). What didst thou say, Jacinta? Have I done aught
    To grieve thee or to vex thee?—I am sorry.
    For thou hast served me long and ever been
    Trustworthy and respectful. (resumes her reading.)
    Jac. (aside.) I can’t believe
    She has any more jewels—no—no—she gave me all.
    Lal. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
    Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
    How fares good Ugo?—and when is it to be?
    Can I do aught?—is there no further aid
    Thou needest, Jacinta?
    Jac. (aside.) Is there no further aid?
    That’s meant for me. (aloud.) I’m sure, madam, you need not
    Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.
    Lal. Jewels! Jacinta,—now indeed, Jacinta,
    I thought not of the jewels.
    Jac. Oh, perhaps not!
    But then I might have sworn it. After all,
    There’s Ugo says the ring is only paste,
    For he’s sure the Count Castiglione never
    Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
    And at the best I’m certain, madam, you cannot
    Have use for jewels now. But I might have sworn it. (Exit.)
    (Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table—after a short pause raises it.)
    Lal. Poor Lalage!—and is it come to this?
    Thy servant maid!—but courage!—’tis but a viper
    Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul! (taking up the mirror.)
    Ha! here at least’s a friend—too much a friend
    In earlier days—a friend will not deceive thee.
    Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
    A tale—a pretty tale—and heed thou not
    Though it be rife with woe. It answers me.
    It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
    And Beauty long deceased—remembers me,
    Of Joy departed—Hope, the Seraph Hope,
    Inurnèd and entombed!—now, in a tone
    Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
    Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
    For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!—thou liest not!
    Thou hast no end to gain—no heart to break—
    Castiglione lied who said he loved——
    Thou true—he false!—false!—false!
    (While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches unobserved.)
    Monk. Refuge thou hast,
    Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
    Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!
    Lal. (arising hurriedly). I cannot pray!—My soul is at war with God!
    The frightful sounds of merriment below
    Disturb my senses—go! I cannot pray—
    The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
    Thy presence grieves me—go!—thy priestly raiment
    Fills me with dread—thy ebony crucifix
    With horror and awe!
    Monk. Think of thy precious soul!
    Lal. Think of my early days!—think of my father
    And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,
    And the rivulet that ran before the door!
    Think of my little sisters!—think of them!
    And think of me!—think of my trusting love
    And confidence—his vows—my ruin—think—think
    Of my unspeakable misery!——begone!
    Yet stay! yet stay!—what was it thou saidst of prayer
    And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
    And vows before the throne?
    Monk. I did.
    Lal. ’Tis well.
    There is a vow ’twere fitting should be made—
    A sacred vow, imperative and urgent,
    A solemn vow!
    Monk. Daughter, this zeal is well!
    Lal. Father, this zeal is anything but well!
    Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
    A crucifix whereon to register
    This sacred vow? (he hands her his own.)
    Not that—Oh! no!—no!—no! (shuddering.)
    Not that! Not that!—I tell thee, holy man,
    Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
    Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,—
    I have a crucifix! Methinks ’twere fitting
    The deed—the vow—the symbol of the deed—
    And the deed’s register should tally, father!
    (draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high.)
    Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
    Is written in Heaven!
    Monk. Thy words are madness, daughter,
    And speak a purpose unholy—thy lips are livid—
    Thine eyes are wild—tempt not the wrath divine!
    Pause ere too late!—oh, be not—be not rash!
    Swear not the oath—oh, swear it not!
    Lal. ’Tis sworn!

III

    An Apartment in a Palace. Politian and Baldazzar.
    Baldazzar. Arouse thee now, Politian!
    Thou must not—nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
    Give way unto these humours. Be thyself!
    Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee,
    And live, for now thou diest!
    Politian. Not so, Baldazzar!
    Surely I live.
    Bal. Politian, it doth grieve me
    To see thee thus!
    Pol. Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
    To give thee cause for grief, my honoured friend.
    Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?
    At thy behest I will shake off that nature
    Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
    Which with my mother’s milk I did imbibe,
    And be no more Politian, but some other.
    Command me, sir!
    Bal. To the field then—to the field—
    To the senate or the field.
    Pol. Alas! alas!
    There is an imp would follow me even there!
    There is an imp hath followed me even there!
    There is——what voice was that?
    Bal. I heard it not.
    I heard not any voice except thine own,
    And the echo of thine own.
    Pol. Then I but dreamed.
    Bal. Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp—the court
    Befit thee—Fame awaits thee—Glory calls—
    And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
    In hearkening to imaginary sounds
    And phantom voices.
    Pol. It is a phantom voice!
    Didst thou not hear it then?
    Bal. I heard it not.
    Pol. Thou heardst it not!——Baldazzar, speak no more
    To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
    Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
    Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
    Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile!
    We have been boys together—school-fellows—
    And now are friends—yet shall not be so long—
    For in the Eternal City thou shalt do me
    A kind and gentle office, and a Power—
    A Power august, benignant, and supreme—
    Shall then absolve thee of all further duties
    Unto thy friend.
    Bal. Thou speakest a fearful riddle
    I will not understand.
    Pol. Yet now as Fate
    Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
    The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
    And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!
    I cannot die, having within my heart
    So keen a relish for the beautiful
    As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
    Is balmier now than it was wont to be—
    Rich melodies are floating in the winds—
    A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth—
    And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
    Sitteth in Heaven.—Hist! hist! thou canst not say
    Thou hearest not now, Baldazzar?
    Bal. Indeed I hear not.
    Pol. Not hear it!—listen now—listen!—the faintest sound
    And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
    A lady’s voice!—and sorrow in the tone!
    Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
    Again!—again!—how solemnly it falls
    Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice
    Surely I never heard—yet it were well
    Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones
    In earlier days!
    Bal. I myself hear it now.
    Be still!—the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
    Proceeds from yonder lattice—which you may see
    Very plainly through the window—it belongs,
    Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
    The singer is undoubtedly beneath
    The roof of his Excellency—and perhaps
    Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
    As the betrothèd of Castiglione,
    His son and heir.
    Pol. Be still!—it comes again!
    Voice (very faintly). “And is thy heart so strong
    As for to leave me thus,
    That have loved thee so long,
    In wealth and woe among?
    And is thy heart so strong
    As for to leave me thus?
    Say nay! say nay!”
    Bal. The song is English, and I oft have heard it
    In merry England—never so plaintively—
    Hist! hist! it comes again!
    Voice (more loudly). “Is it so strong
    As for to leave me thus,
    That have loved thee so long,
    In wealth and woe among?
    And is thy heart so strong
    As for to leave me thus?
    Say nay! say nay!”
    Bal. ’Tis hushed and all is still!
    Pol. All is not still.
    Bal. Let us go down.
    Pol. Go down, Baldazzar, go!
    Bal. The hour is growing late—the Duke awaits us,—
    Thy presence is expected in the hall
    Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?
    Voice (distinctly). “Who have loved thee so long,
    In wealth and woe among,
    And is thy heart so strong?
    Say nay! say nay!”
    Bal. Let us descend!—’tis time. Politian, give
    These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,
    Your bearing lately savoured much of rudeness
    Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember!
    Pol. Remember? I do. Lead on! I do remember (going.)
    Let us descend. Believe me I would give,
    Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
    To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice—
    “To gaze upon that veilèd face, and hear
    Once more that silent tongue.”
    Bal. Let me beg you, sir,
    Descend with me—the Duke may be offended.
    Let us go down, I pray you.
    Voice (loudly). “Say nay!—say nay!”
    Pol. (aside). ’Tis strange!—’tis very strange—methought the voice
    Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay! (approaching the window.)
    Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
    Now be this Fancy, by Heaven, or be it Fate,
    Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make
    Apology unto the Duke for me;
    I go not down to-night.
    Bal. Your lordship’s pleasure
    Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.
    Pol. Good-night, my friend, good-night.

IV

    The Gardens of a Palace—Moonlight. Lalage and Politian.
    Lalage. And dost thou speak of love
    To me, Politian?—dost thou speak of love
    To Lalage?—ah woe—ah woe is me!
    This mockery is most cruel—most cruel indeed!
    Politian. Weep not! oh, sob not thus!—thy bitter tears
    Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage—
    Be comforted! I know—I know it all,
    And still I speak of love. Look at me, brightest,
    And beautiful Lalage!—turn here thine eyes!
    Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
    Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen.
    Thou askest me that—and thus I answer thee—
    Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (kneeling.)
    Sweet Lalage, I love thee—love thee—love thee;
    Thro’ good and ill—thro’ weal and woe, I love thee.
    Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
    Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
    Not on God’s altar, in any time or clime,
    Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
    Within my spirit for thee. And do I love? (arising.)
    Even for thy woes I love thee—even for thy woes—
    Thy beauty and thy woes.
    Lal. Alas, proud Earl,
    Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
    How, in thy father’s halls, among the maidens
    Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
    Could the dishonoured Lalage abide?
    Thy wife, and with a tainted memory?—
    My seared and blighted name, how would it tally
    With the ancestral honours of thy house,
    And with thy glory?
    Pol. Speak not to me of glory!
    I hate—I loathe the name; I do abhor
    The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
    Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian?
    Do I not love—art thou not beautiful—
    What need we more? Ha! glory! now speak not of it:
    By all I hold most sacred and most solemn—
    By all my wishes now—my fears hereafter—
    By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven—
    There is no deed I would more glory in,
    Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
    And trample it under foot. What matters it—
    What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
    That we go down unhonoured and forgotten
    Into the dust—so we descend together?
    Descend together—and then—and then perchance—
    Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian?
    Pol. And then perchance
    Arise together, Lalage, and roam
    The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
    And still—
    Lal. Why dost thou pause, Politian?
    Pol. And still together—together!
    Lal. Now, Earl of Leicester!
    Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts
    I feel thou lovest me truly.
    Pol. O Lalage! (throwing himself upon his knee.)
    And lovest thou me?
    Lal. Hist! hush! within the gloom
    Of yonder trees methought a figure passed—
    A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless—
    Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless. (walks across and returns.)
    I was mistaken—’twas but a giant bough
    Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!
    Pol. My Lalage—my love! why art thou moved?
    Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience’ self,
    Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
    Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
    Is chilly—and these melancholy boughs
    Throw over all things a gloom.
    Lal. Politian!
    Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land
    With which all tongues are busy—a land new found—
    Miraculously found by one of Genoa—
    A thousand leagues within the golden west?
    A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,—
    And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
    And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
    Of Heaven untrammelled flow—which air to breathe
    Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
    In days that are to come?