Scenes from “Politian” — Edgar Allan Poe (reading text) — reading text

Pol. Thou heardst it not!—Baldazaar, 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—schoolfellows— 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 betrothed of Castiglione, His son and heir. Pol. Be still!—it comes again! Voice “And is thy heart so strong (very faintly) As for to leave me thus Who hath 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 “Is it so strong (more loudly) As for to leave me thus Who hath 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 use— Thy presence is expected in the hall Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian? Voice “Who hath loved thee so long (distinctly) 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 savored 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 veiled 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. Lalge. 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 wo 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 dishonored Lalage abide? Thy wife, and with a tainted memory— MY seared and blighted name, how would it tally With the ancestral honors 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 unhonored 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. Oh, 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? Pol. O, wilt thou—wilt thou Fly to that Paradise—my Lalage, wilt thou Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten, And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all. And life shall then be mine, for I will live For thee, and in thine eyes—and thou shalt be No more a mourner—but the radiant Joys Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee And worship thee, and call thee my beloved, My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife, My all;—oh, wilt thou—wilt thou, Lalage, Fly thither with me? Lal. A deed is to be done— Castiglione lives! Pol. And he shall die! (exit) Lal. (after a pause.) And—he—shall—die!—alas! Castiglione die? Who spoke the words? Where am I?—what was it he said?—Politian! Thou art not gone—thou are not gone, Politian! I feel thou art not gone—yet dare not look, Lest I behold thee not; thou couldst not go With those words upon thy lips—O, speak to me! And let me hear thy voice—one word—one word, To say thou art not gone,—one little sentence, To say how thou dost scorn—how thou dost hate My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou art not gone— O speak to me! I knew thou wouldst not go! I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go. Villain, thou art not gone—thou mockest me! And thus I clutch thee—thus!—He is gone, he is gone Gone—gone. Where am I?—’tis well—’tis very well! So that the blade be keen—the blow be sure, ’Tis well, ’tis very well—alas! alas! V. The suburbs. Politian alone. Politian. This weakness grows upon me. I am faint, And much I fear me ill—it will not do To die ere I have lived!—Stay, stay thy hand, O Azrael, yet awhile!—Prince of the Powers Of Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me! O pity me! let me not perish now, In the budding of my Paradisal Hope! Give me to live yet—yet a little while: ’Tis I who pray for life—I who so late Demanded but to die!—what sayeth the Count? Enter Baldazzar. Baldazzar. That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud Between the Earl Politian and himself. He doth decline your cartel. Pol. What didst thou say? What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar? With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes Laden from yonder bowers!—a fairer day, Or one more worthy Italy, methinks No mortal eyes have seen!—what said the Count? Bal. That he, Castiglione’ not being aware Of any feud existing, or any cause Of quarrel between your lordship and himself, Cannot accept the challenge. Pol. It is most true— All this is very true. When saw you, sir, When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid Ungenial Britain which we left so lately, A heaven so calm as this—so utterly free From the evil taint of clouds?—and he did say? Bal. No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir: The Count Castiglione will not fight, Having no cause for quarrel. Pol. Now this is true— All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar, And I have not forgotten it—thou’lt do me A piece of service; wilt thou go back and say Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester, Hold him a villain?—thus much, I prythee, say Unto the Count—it is exceeding just He should have cause for quarrel. Bal. My lord!—my friend!— Pol. (aside.) ’Tis he!—he comes himself? (aloud) Thou reasonest well. I know what thou wouldst say—not send the message— Well!—I will think of it—I will not send it. Now prythee, leave me—hither doth come a person With whom affairs of a most private nature I would adjust. Bal. I go—to-morrow we meet, Do we not?—at the Vatican. Pol. At the Vatican.