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?
_Pol._ Oh, 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 art 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—oh, 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—
Oh, 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, oh, pity me!
Oh, 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:
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 pr’ythee, 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 pr’ythee, 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. (_Exit Baldazzar._)
_Enter Castiglione._
_Cas._ The Earl of Leicester here!
_Pol._ I _am_ the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
Dost thou not? that I am here.
_Cas._ My lord, some strange,
Some singular mistake—misunderstanding—
Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
Having given thee no offence. Ha!—am I right?
’Twas a mistake?—undoubtedly—we all
Do err at times.
_Pol._ Draw, villain, and prate no more!
_Cas._ Ha!—draw?—and villain? have at thee then at once,
Proud Earl! (_draws._)
_Pol._ (_drawing_). Thus to the expiatory tomb,
Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
In the name of Lalage!
_Cas._ (_letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
stage._)
Of Lalage!
Hold off—thy sacred hand!—avaunt, I say!
Avaunt—I will not fight thee—indeed I dare not.
_Pol._ Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
Shall I be baffled thus?—now this is well;
Didst say thou _darest_ not? Ha!
_Cas._ I dare not—dare not—
Hold off thy hand—with that belovèd name
So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee—
I cannot—dare not—
_Pol._ Now, by my halidom,
I do believe thee!—coward, I do believe thee!
_Cas._ Ha!—coward!—this may not be!
(_clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his
purpose is changed before reaching him, and he falls upon
his knee at the feet of the Earl._)
Alas! my lord,
It is—it is—most true. In such a cause
I am the veriest coward. Oh, pity me!
_Pol._ (_greatly softened_). Alas!—I do—indeed I pity thee.
_Cas._ And Lalage——
_Pol._ Scoundrel!—arise and die!
_Cas._ It needeth not be—thus—thus—Oh, let me die
Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
That in this deep humiliation I perish.
For in the fight I will not raise a hand
Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home—
(_baring his bosom._)
Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon—
Strike home. I will not fight thee.
_Pol._ Now’s Death and Hell!
Am I not—am I not sorely—grievously tempted
To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir:
Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
For public insult in the streets—before
The eyes of the citizens. I’ll follow thee—
Like an avenging spirit I’ll follow thee
Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest—
Before all Rome I’ll taunt thee, villain,—I’ll taunt thee,
Dost hear? with cowardice—thou wilt not fight me?
Thou liest! thou shalt! (_Exit._)
_Cas._ Now this indeed is just!
Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!
[Illustration: LALAGE]