The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 5 by Edgar Allan Poe (ink book reader TXT) 📗

SCENES FROM “POLITIAN” AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA. 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 sign? 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. (startling.) 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. Learned as few are learned. 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. Lal. [Lalage] Jacinta! is it thou? Jac. [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.” O, beautiful!—most beautiful—how like To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven! O happy land (pauses) She died!—the maiden died! A 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 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,