CHARACTERS
Edgar Allan Poe
Virginia Clemm
Mrs. Maria Clemm
Helen Truelord
Mrs. Truelord
Roger Bridgmore
Nelson Clemm
Mrs. Delormis
Doctor Barlow
Mrs. Schmidt
George Thomas, Barkeeper
Haines, Juggers, Sharp, Black, gamblers
Bookseller
Mum Zurie, Tat, Bony, servants at Clemm cottage.
Gertrude, Mabel, Annie, Sallie, Dora, Gladys, Ethel, Alma, Allie, friends of Virginia.
THE POET
ACT I.
Scene: Room in the Truelord House. Helen lies on a couch before large windows, rear, reading by light from a small lamp on table near couch. She wears a loose robe over night-dress.
A light knock is heard at door, left centre.
Hel. (Sitting up) Mamma?
Voice. Yes, dear.
Hel. (Kissing book and closing it) Good-bye, my poet! (Drops book on couch and goes to door)
Voice, as Helen opens door. I saw your light. (Enter Mrs. Truelord) Forgive me, love. I could not rest. (Helen is closing door) No! Kate is coming.
Mrs. Delormis. (In door) Yes, I ’m here, too, Helen.
Hel. Come in, Cousin Catherine.
(All three advance)
Mrs. Del. Madela had a feminine version of the jim-jams—tea-nerves, you know—so must get us both up.
Hel. (Drawing forward a huge chair for Mrs. Truelord while Mrs. Delormis takes a smaller one) I was not in bed.
Mrs. Tru. (Looking toward bed in alcove, right) But you have been! You could not sleep either. Ah!
(Sighs deeply)
Hel. (Goes to couch) Now, mamma!
Mrs. Tru. (Embarrassed by Helen’s straightforward look) Helen—I—I ’ve just got to have it out to-night. You are only my step-daughter, but I ’ve loved you like my own.
Hel. (Quaintly) Yes.
Mrs. Tru. Have n’t I always treated you as if you were my daughter born?
Hel. (Slowly) You have indeed!
Mrs. Tru. And I can’t bear for you to—to—O, I just can’t bear it, I say!
Hel. Bear what, mamma?
Mrs. Tru. This—this man—
Mrs. Del. Edgar Poe, Helen.
Mrs. Tru. You are going to give up Roger—Roger who has worshipped you since you were a baby, who has lived under the same roof and been a brother to you since you were two years old—you are going to give him up for a strange man—a man without a penny—a man you have seen but once—(Almost shrieking)—but once—(Rising)
Hel. (Crosses, and stands before her, speaking calmly) We know angels at first sight, mamma.
Mrs. Tru. (Grabbing Helen by the shoulders and staring at her) You have done it already! (Falls to chair as if fainting)
Hel. Soothe her, Catherine. I will get some wine. (Exit)
Mrs. Tru. (Sitting up, at once recovered) She ’s made up her mind. When her eyes shine like that it ’s no use to argue. And all of Roger’s fortune in Mr. Truelord’s hands! We ’ve considered it a family resource for years!
Mrs. Del. What a fool Roger was to bring Edgar Poe to the house!
Mrs. Tru. He ’s crazy about the man. Says he ’s a genius, and all that stuff.
Mrs. Del. Well, he is. But to introduce him to a girl like Helen! They ’ll be off before morning!
Mrs. Tru. Oh-h! Don’t, Kate! Roger actually wants me to ask him to stay in the house.
Mrs. Del. Idiot! He deserves to lose her.... But your guest! (Laughs) Poor Madela! How he would upset your nice, comfortable theories of life! Why, you could n’t hand him a cup of tea without feeling the planet quake.
Mrs. Tru. But what are we to do? Kate, you must help me.
Mrs. Del. I ’m going to. You can’t tell her father, because Helen must be persuaded, not opposed. And don’t speak about the money. If she loved a beggar she would trudge barefoot behind him.
Mrs. Tru. (Despairingly) O, don’t I know it?
Mrs. Del. Now you leave this to me, Madela. I will say a few things to Helen about meeting Mr. Poe in Europe—and—you know—
Mrs. Tru. (Kissing her violently) O, Kate! Tell her all—and more, if necessary! Don’t think about your reputation if you can save Roger’s fortune—
Mrs. Del. Sh!—
(Enter Helen, with wine and a glass)
Mrs. Tru. (Feebly) Thank you, dear, but I ’m better now. (Rising) I ’ll try to rest. (Goes to door)
Hel. I would see you to your room, mamma, but I ’m sure you would rather have Catherine. (Mrs. Delormis makes no move to go)
Mrs. Tru. O, I am quite well—I mean—I need no one—no one at all! Goodnight, my dears! (Exit)
Hel. (Politely) And is there anything which you must have out to-night, cousin Catherine?
Mrs. Del. Sit down, Helen. (Helen takes a chair) You have never loved me, but I have always had a warm heart for you, little girl. And you will take a warning from me in good part, won’t you?
Hel. A good warning, yes.
Mrs. Del. I told you about meeting Mr. Poe last summer in Normandy. But—I did not tell you how often I met him. (Helen rises, then Mrs. Delormis rises) Helen, I prove my love for you by saying what it is so hard to utter to your pure self. My life has not been—all you would wish it to be—and Mr. Poe knows more about it than any other man.
Hel. You lie! I have seen his soul!
(She goes to door and opens it for Mrs. Delormis to pass out. Mrs. Delormis sweeps through with an attempt at majesty)
Hel. (Motionless with clenched hands) Wicked, wicked woman!... (Goes to window, rear, opens it, draws long breaths as if stifling, and turns back into room) Edgar! My love! I was a thing of clay. One look from your eyes has made me a being of fire and air.... (Lies down on couch and takes up her book) ... I can not read ... or sleep ... or pray. There ’s too much whirling in my heart for prayer.... (Starts) What moan is that?... (Rises, takes light from table, goes to window, leans out, casting the rays down) Nothing.... I ’m fanciful.... The moon is rising. (Goes back, putting light on table) O, Edgar! God help me to be what love must be to thee. Love that can look on miracles and be sane. What a face when he said goodnight! Like an angel’s whose immortality is his wound.... Poor Roger!... What will my father say?... (Moonlight floods the window) Welcome, soft nurse of dreams! (Extinguishes lamp) A little rest.... Ah, I know he does not sleep.... (She lies on couch in the moonlight, her eyes closed. Poe enters by window, gazes at her, and throws up his arms in gesture of prayer)
Hel. (Looking up, and springing to her feet) Edgar! My God, you must not come here!
Poe. Is this love’s welcome?
Hel. Go! go!
Poe. I was dying out there.
Hel. Leave me!
Poe. Life was passing from my veins. Only your eyes could draw back the ebbing flood.
Hel. I will light the lamp! (Turns hastily)
Poe. And put out Heaven’s! (She drops her hand)
Hel. Go, O go at once!
Poe. Again I am alone! The twin angel who put her hand in mine is flown!
Hel. Edgar, be calm!
Poe. Calm! With such a look from you burning me as if I were a devil to be branded? Such words from you hissing like snakes through my brain?
Hel. O, I beg you—
Poe. I would but touch the hand that soothes my blood—look in the eyes that wrap my soul in balm—and you cry out as though some barbarous infidel had trampled you at prayers!
Hel. My father—Roger—they will not understand.
Poe. O, you would bring the world in to say how and when we shall love! Take note of the hour, and kiss by the clock! Great love is like death, Helen. It knows no time of day. If a man were dying at your gates would you keep from him because ’t was midnight and not noon, and you were robed for sleep? It was your soul I sought. Must you array that to receive me? O, these women! On Resurrection day they ’ll not get up unless their clothes are called with them from the dust! ‘Excuse me, God, and send a dressmaker!’ Ha! ha! ha! (Walks the floor in maniac humor)
Hel. Edgar, for love’s sake hear me!
Poe. Speak loud if you would drown the winds!
Hel. Listen!
Poe. (Turning upon her) If my body bled at your feet you would stoop to me, but when my spirit lies in flames you cry ‘Don’t writhe! Don’t be a spectacle!’
Hel. (Putting her hands on his shoulders and speaking steadily) The spirit does not murmur. Only the body cries.
Poe. (Calming) Forgive me, Helen!
Hel. Yes, love. (Draws him to couch and sits by him soothingly) ... O, your forehead is on fire.
Poe. No wonder, when I have just come out of hell.... Keep your cool hand over my eyes.... O, this is peace!... (Takes her hand from his forehead and holds it) I made you a song out there, in the darkness. I was fainting for one gleam of light when you opened the window and stood as beautiful as Psyche leaning to the god of love. Listen ... and believe that my heart was as pure as the lines. (Sings softly)
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore
That gently o’er a perfumed sea
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
An agate lamp within thy hand,—
Ah! Psyche, from the regions which
Are holy-land!
(Drops his head to her hand and kisses it gently)
Hel. Edgar, my life shall be my song to thee. (They are silent for a second. His hand touches her book)
Poe. A book! Who could write for such an hour? (Holds book in moonlight) Shelley! Lark of the world! You would know!... You will give me this book, Helen?
Hel. It is precious. You will love it?
Poe. Always! (Kisses book, and puts it inside his coat. Taking her hand) O, all our life shall be a happy wonder! Wilt lie with me on summer hills where pipings of dim Arcady fall like Apollo’s mantle on the soul? Dost know that silence full of thoughts?—and then the swelling earth—the throbbing heaven? Canst be a pulse in Nature’s very body? (Leaping up) Take forests in thy arms, and feel the little leaf-veins beat thy blood?
Hel. (Rising) Yes—yes—I know. Come to the window, love. The soft Spring air begins to stir.
(They move to window)
Poe. O, what a night! ’T is like a poem flowing to the sea. Here I shake death from my garments. Oh, had my soul a tongue to trumpet thought, men from yon planets now would stare and lean to earth with listening ears!... Hark! ’T is music!
Hel. (Looking down) A serenade.
Poe. Canst call it that? I hear nothing that comes not from the stars. ’T is Israfel! The angel whose lute is his own heart!
If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than his might swell
From my lyre within the sky!
Some day we shall live there, Helen, and then I will sing to thee!
Hel. But now—my love—you must rest—you must sleep.
Poe. Sleep! Nothing sleeps but mortality!
Hel. And you are mortal, Edgar.
Poe. I! Nay, thy love has given me kinship with the deities! Sleep? Ay, when Nature naps, and God looks for a bed! When yonder moon forgets her starry whirl and nodding falls from heaven! When Ocean’s giant pulse is weary and grows still! When Earth heaves up no seasons with their buds! No, no, we will not sleep! But see—there gleams the river—and yonder rise the hills touched new with Spring! Wilt go there with me, Helen? Now!
Hel. Now?
Poe. To-night!
Hel. To-night?
Poe. Why not? You say it as though night and day were not the same to the soul—except that night is more beautiful! Why not go?
Hel. I will tell you, love. (Drawing him back to the large chair) Come, listen. (She sits in chair, and he kneels by her, the moonlight covering them) Because I love you more than you love beauty, God or night, and you must live for me. And to live means—rest—sleep—
Poe. Do you love me so much? O, ’t is like cool waters falling about me to hear you say it.
Hel. I will help you, Edgar. Already I feel my strength. Where I may serve you I ’ll not meekly go, but go exultant. The thorns and stones so harsh to human feet, I ’ll press as they were buds, and leave my blood for kisses.
Poe. Oh, go on.
Hel. Yes, I ’ve more to tell you. It is—that you must help me, too. To-day—before you looked at me the first time—I was dying. Ah, more,—I was about to set the seal of death on my soul. My mother, who died at sea when I was born, gave me a heritance with winds and waves and stars. But I was nursed by hands through whose clay ran no immortal streams. Cradled in convention, fed on sophistries, I wove a shroud about my soul, and within that hardening chrysalis it was dying away when you called it forth in time to live—dear God, in time to live! Now you see how much you are to me, Edgar. I must not lose you. But you must be careful and patient with me, for my newly-bared soul shrinks from the wonders so familiar to you, and I may fly back to my chrysalis to escape the pain.
Poe. I am not afraid. Would a mother leave her babe? And I am a child now, Helen. This strange, new rest you give me is like a gentle birth. I have been old all my life. Now the longing comes for a little of the childhood that was never mine. The years fall from me, and I have no wish but to lie on a mother’s bosom and hear her voice prattling above me.
Hel. (Archly, leaning over him as he sits at her feet) Does my little boy want a story?
Poe. (Smiling) About the fairies, mama?
Hel. About the fairies—and a big giant—and a little girl lost in a wood—
Poe. And a little boy too?
Hel. Yes, a little boy, too! And the little girl was crying—
Poe. And the little boy found her?
Hel. Yes, and he told her not to cry, that he could kill the big giant, and he hid the little girl in a cave—
Poe. Was it a dark cave, mama?
Hel. No-o-o! It was a cave—with—windows in it! And by and by he heard the giant coming—
Poe. Oh! (Hides his face on her breast. She holds him to her, her hands on his hair) And when the little boy heard the leaves rustling closer and closer he climbed a great tree—
Poe. (Lifting his head) But he was n’t afraid, mama?
Hel. O, no-o!
Poe. Because that little boy was me!
Hel. Yes. And when you got to the top of the tree—
Poe. O, what did I do then?
Hel. Why, you see this was the biggest giant that e-v-e-r lived—and his head was just as high as the top of the tree—so when he came by—
Poe. I know! I know! I just out with my sword, and off went his head!
Hel. So it did! And then you climbed down from the tree—
Poe. And the little girl came out of the cave—
Hel. And you went off together happy ever after!
Poe. What was that little girl’s name, mama?
Hel. Why, I don’t think you ever told me that, did you?
Poe. I was just thinking—
Hel. What, darling?
Poe. That I wish you were n’t my mama, so you could be that little girl!
Hel. O, I can, dear. For there were the fairies. We forgot the fairies. They gave me this pretty ring, so that when I put it on I can be whoever I please, and I please to be just whoever my little boy likes best.
Poe. (Rises, and speaks in his own manner) Madonna, Oh, Madonna! You will save me. (Kisses her forehead) Good-night. To-morrow I will tell you about my work—our work. There are miracles yet to be. And Poesy shall speak them.
Hel. But do not try to write out all your soul, Edgar. That cannot be. Poetry is but one gate. The soul goes out by a thousand ways.
Poe. True. And we will find those ways together, Helen. We will gather truth in every path,—truth that flowers out of the struggle and carnage of life like the bloom of song on the crimson of war.
Hel. But we may not know all. Man’s greatest knowledge is but the alphabet of the eternal book. We must be content with the letters, and not unhappily strive to read.
Poe. I will remember. But what mortal can attain shall be mine. Already thoughts that fled my agony come to me as gently as the alighting of birds. Truths open about me like the unfolding of roses yet warm with God’s secret. Good-night. (Takes her hand) I am not the greatest genius, Helen, for I can not stand alone. (Drops her hand and goes to window. Hesitates and turns back) One kiss. (Kisses her) O, look at me! I lose divinity when you close your eyes! Look at me, and I can not fall for Heaven bears me up!
Hel. (In sudden alarm) I hear a step!
Poe. (Looking at her reproachfully) Listen better, you will hear God’s footfall.
Hel. Some one is up.
Poe. And do you care? Would you put a stain upon this hour? This flower of love blown perfect from the skies?
Hel. Ah, it is gone.
Poe. (Wildly) O, you will leave me, Helen! You can not stay! For I will play the madman to thy sense when I am sanest, and like a shivering Atlas shake thy world when most thou wouldst be still. This body wraps more lives then one, my girl. When I was born no pitying angel dipped my spirit-fire in Lethe. I weep with all the dead as they my brothers were, and haunt the track of time to shudder with his ghosts. Wilt fare with me, brave Helen? Wilt tread the nadir gloom and golden paths of suns? Canst gaze with me into the fearful, grey infinitude—
Hel. That grey infinitude is yet the circle of your being. The mind can not leave itself. You are always in your own country. Why should you fear?
Poe. The mind that can not leave itself knows nothing. Not the ‘I am’ but ‘Thou art’ is God. O, there is a realm of which imagination is but a shadow—where the mind is burnt away in His vision’s fire, and thought becomes celestial angel of itself! And you turn back with the first step—already I am alone—
Hel. No! I, too, have hung upon the boundaries of the world to catch God’s flying dreams! O, trust me! Thou shalt fling no lance but I will cast it on to gleam in a farther sun! Bring me roses from Jupiter, I ’ll bring thee lilies from Uranus! O,—
Poe. Mine, by Heaven! (Catches her to him) Here we ’ll begin the immortal pilgrimage! We need not wait for death! From world to world—
Hel. (Springing from him) It is a step!
Go, Edgar! Go!
Poe. No! By the god in my bosom, you are mine from this moment!
Hel. My father! my father! He will tear me from you—You do not know him!
Poe. I know he ’s mortal. Heaven could not part us. I will not move!
(He is standing in the window. She hastily draws the curtain before him)
Hel. Then keep your word!
(A knock at the door. Helen is silent)
Voice. Helen?
Hel. It is you, Roger? Come in.
(Roger enters, carrying a lamp. Looks about and sees Helen.)
Rog. I heard voices.... Who was with you, Helen?... I could not be mistaken.... (puts lamp on a table, and comes nearer Helen.) Look at me, Helen.... I am your brother. Who was here?... I know that Love has laid his mighty hand upon you, but yet you are an angel. I thought—it was—his voice.... Tell me what this means.... He was not here! O, I shall die when I learn that you are but a woman!
Poe. (Leaping out) I am here, sir, to defend that lady’s honor!
Rog. (Staggers back, regains composure, and bows ironically) I rejoice to hear it, sir, for you alone can do it. It is wholly in your keeping. (Turns to go)
Hel. Roger!
Rog. Madam.
Hel. You forsake me?
Rog. You have forsaken yourself.
Hel. Oh! (Swoons. Poe bends over her wildly affectionate. Roger stands apart, proud and despairing)
Poe. Helen! Speak! Speak to me!
Hel. Leave me! Leave me!
Poe. It is I, Helen! Your lover! Edgar!
Hel. You, you, I mean! (Rising) Thou wing of hell across my life! Away from me!
(Poe stands back speechless with bewilderment. Roger goes to Helen, takes her hand, and leads her from the room)
Poe. Lost! lost! lost! (Looks about the room) This place!... O, I was mad to come here!... She will never forgive me! (Falls on the couch and lies motionless. After a moment enter Mrs. Delormis.)
Mrs. Del. Where is the wild man?... Oh, he has fainted! The wine! (Goes to the table and pours wine)
Poe. Oh!
(Mrs. Delormis turns to him. He rises ceremoniously, with effort) Well?
Mrs. Del. Well, indeed! Here I am to your rescue, and you reward me with a ‘well’ (mimicking) up to ceiling.
Poe. What are they saying to her? I must go to her! I must!
Mrs. Del. Must not! Listen! (Grasps his arm to detain him)
Poe. (Releasing his arm and bowing stiffly) Mrs. Delormis.
Mrs. D. (Copying his manner) Mr. Poe!... Mr. Truelord has not yet been roused. No one will wake him unless you choose to do it yourself by increasing the hubbub. Roger defends you to Mrs. Truelord—says you are ill—out of your senses—and other complimentary things. Both of them are soothing and mothering Helen, and—(dropping into tenderness) I wanted you to have a little mothering, too—
Poe. Do you really want to help me?
Mrs. Del. O, if you would only let me be your friend!
Poe. You may! Stay here with me till she comes! I know she will come. She can not let me go without one word. It would be too terrible. She can not! Stay till she comes. Talk to me. Do not let me think!
Mrs. Del. I ’ll make myself comfortable then, and we ’ll have a good chat. You know I ’ve been told that I talk my best between two and three in the morning.
(Takes pillow from couch to make herself cosy in chair)
Poe. Do not touch that pillow!
Mrs. Del. (Dropping into chair) Well!
Poe. Do not sit in that chair!
Mrs. Del. (Rising) May I stand on the carpet, or shall I take off my slippers before the burning bush of your love?
Poe. Forgive me! Don’t you see that I have lost her?
Mrs. Del. Well, you were out of your senses to come here and think Helen would understand it.
Poe. I was not! She did understand! The vision that led me to her feet was as clear as an archangel’s! It is now that I am mad, and see everything gross and darkened with earth and flesh! (Overcome, sinks on couch. She hastily brings wine)
Mrs. Del. Drink it. You must.
Poe. No! You offer me hell! And you know it. Put it down. If you want to help me, go to her and bring me one word.
Mrs. Del. Drink this for me, and I will.
Poe. (Taking glass) You will?... No! (Puts glass down)
Mrs. Del. My dear boy, you are too weak to stand! It ’s that old habit of not eating. I don’t believe you have tasted food for days.
Poe. True ... but.... (Faints. Mrs. Delormis gives him wine. He rouses)
Mrs. Del. Now will you kill me?
Poe. (Brightening) No. You were right. ’T was what I needed. ’T will keep life in me till she comes. Go to her now. Tell her I will leave her—I will go away for a year—a thousand years—if she will only say I may come back some day. I will live in a desert and pray myself to the bone! Bring me one word from her—a curse—anything!
Mrs. Del. (Pouring wine) A little more of this then, so I shall be sure to find you alive when I return.
Poe. (Drinks eagerly) ’T is life! Life! I ’ve drunk of Cretan wines against whose fragrant tide the Venus-rose poured all her flood in vain, but never thrilled my lips till now with drop so ravishing! And you brought it to me! Helen left me to die ... cruel ... cruel ... cruel.... (Sits on couch, taking his head in his hands. Looks up) Florimel!
Mrs. Del. My Calidore!
Poe. You are a very beautiful devil.
Mrs. Del. (Pouring wine) Thanks. I ’m glad you like my style. (Sips wine) It is good, is n’t it?
Poe. ’T is an enchantment to pilot grief to new and festal worlds! Another cup! (Drinks) O, ’t is a drink to rouse the drooping soul for warrier quest till on the conquered shores of dream man strides a god!... (Pours another glass) Again? No ... no more!... (Sinks down) O, my bird of Heaven, come quickly, or I am lost!... Florimel!
Mrs. Del. My knight of Normandy!
Poe. Since we are going to hell let us be merry about it.
Mrs. Del. At last you are sensible.
Poe. Wine! wine!
Mrs. Del. (Holding glass) I mean to have my price for this.
Poe. Take my soul!
Mrs. Del. Something better—a kiss!
Poe. ’T is yours! (Kisses her) Why not? For but a kiss did Jove forsake the skies, and jeopard his high realm!
Mrs. Del. For but a kiss did Dian leave her throne and waste her goddess dower on shepherd lips! (Sits by him) Now you are going to tell me something. Why did you fly from Normandy, and not a word, not a word to me? Come, my Calidore! Why did you fly from me?
Poe. (Momentarily sober) Because—a woman shall never become less holy than God made her through me. (Rises and walks away) Helen ... my amaranth, I may not pluck thee!... (Staggers) One cup more ... one.... (Pours wine, and holds up glass apostrophizing as Roger and Helen enter unnoticed) O, little ruby ocean that can drown all mortal sighs! Call buried hope to put life’s garland on, and limping woes to trip like Nereids on a moonlit shore! For thee, frail sickness casts her pallid chrysalis and blooms a rosy angel! For thee, Death breaks his scythe and owns Life conqueror! (Drinks) Were this Antonius’ cup.... Ha! Are you there, my devil? Another kiss, sweetheart! (Throws his arm about Mrs. Delormis. Helen cries out. Poe turns and faces her)
Hel. (To Poe, speaking slowly and mechanically) I came, sir, to ask you to forgive me. (Turns to Roger) It is to you, Roger, that I make my plea.
(Poe looks at her helplessly, then understands, and with a terrible face, turns and leaps through the open window. Helen, with a sob, droops, and Roger takes her in his arms)
(CURTAIN)
ACT II.
Scene: Lawn in front of Clemm cottage, near Richmond. Bony and Tat on a side porch shelling peas.
Tat. Sho’ Mars Edgah come in good time! Pea-vines jes a hangin’ low, an’ sweet as honey!
Bony. Mars Edgah hab peas ebry day wha’ he came f’om! Big city hab ebryting!
Tat. Dey can’t hab ebryting when it don’ grow!
Bony. Sho’, dey hab it when it don’ grow same lak when he do grow!
Tat. You nebah did hab no sense!
Bony. I ain’t got no sense? Take dat, Tatermally Clemm! (Strikes at her. They scuffle and bring Zurie to side door)
Zu. Dem chillun’ jes kill me! Why de Lawd make ol’ Zurie bring dem two twins to dis heah worl’ she nebah could tell! Dey haint shell ’nuf fo’ a hummin’ bird’s stomach, an’ de pot bilin’ mad fo’ ’m dis minute! Wha’ yo’ do, yo’ black niggahs? Come in heah! I make yo’ sit still an’ do nuffin’ an’ yo’ ol’ mammy wu’kin’ hussef to def! (Picks up basket and drives children into the kitchen. Calls after them beamingly) Wha’ yo’ reckon yo’ ol’ mammy cookin’ in dat ubbin fo’ two little no ’count niggahs?
Children. (Within, scampering with delight) Cherry cobblah! Cherry cobblah!
Zu. (Shutting the door) Don’ want dat wind blowin’ on my poun’ cake! It ’ll fall sho’!
(Virginia comes out at the front door of cottage, and walks across the lawn to the shade of a bay tree where Poe lies in a hammock as if asleep. A book on the ground. She goes up softly and sits on a garden chair near him. He opens his eyes)
Vir. O, I have waked you!
Poe. No, little houri. I was not asleep. I would not give one breath of this sweet world to cold, unconscious sleep.
Vir. You are happy, cousin Edgar?
Poe. No, Virginia. This is all too delicious to be called happiness. Too calm, like the stilling of a condor’s wings above sea-guarding peaks. He flies when he is happy. When more than happy, it is enough to pause in the blue and breathe wonders.
Vir. Is it wonderful here, Edgar? It has always seemed so to me, but I have been afraid to tell anyone. It seems like a great fairy house with God in it. Is it wonderful, cousin?
Poe. You are wonderful.
Vir. O, no, no, no! I want to tell you too, Edgar, I have never felt that I quite belong here. It is all too good for me—so beautiful, and I am not beautiful.
Poe. (Rising) Why, my little aspiring Venus, let me tell you something. I have wandered somewhat in life—at home and over sea—and I have never looked upon a woman fairer than yourself.
Vir. (Springing up in delight) O, I am so happy! You would not flatter me! You are the soul of truth!
Poe. It is no flattery, little maid, as the world will soon teach you.
Vir. I have nothing to do with that world, Edgar. My world is the circuit of our mocking-bird’s wing. O, where is he? (Calls) Freddy! Freddy! He is not near or he would come. But he never goes farther than the orchard. Freddy!... He has not sung to me this morning. You have n’t heard his finest song yet. O, ’t is sweeter than—
Poe. (Picking up book) Than Spenser?
Vir. Yes—than Spenser. Though he makes music too, and we were just coming to the siren’s song. Shall I read?
Poe. Do! I knew not how to love him till he warbled from your tongue.
Vir. ’T is where the mermaid calls the knight.
(Reads)
O, thou fair son of gentle faery,
That art in mighty arms most magnifyde
Above all knights that ever battle tried,
O, turn thy rudder hetherward awhile!
Here may the storm-bett vessel safely ride;
This is the port of ease from troublous toil,
The world’s sweet inn from pain and wearisome turmoyle!
Poe. No more—no more!
Vir. Why, cousin?
Poe. I shall have the water about my ears presently. I thought I was drowning on a mermaid’s bosom. Read no more, Virginia. One nibble at a time is enough of Spenser. He ought to be made into a thousand little poems. Then we should have a multitude of gems instead of a great granite mountain that nobody can circuit without weariness.
Vir. You know so much, Edgar. Will you teach me while you are here, if I try very hard to learn?
Poe. (Plucking a flower) My little girl, what lore would you teach this bud? God makes some people so. Be happy that you are a beautiful certainty and not a struggling possibility.
Vir. But the rose has no soul, Edgar—no heart, as I have. It does not sigh to see you look so pale, and read these lines of suffering here, (touching his brow) but I—it kills me, cousin! (He hides his face) Forgive me! O, I am so unkind!
(Mrs. Clemm comes out of cottage and crosses to them. She gently takes Poe’s hand from his face and kisses him)
Mrs. C. My dear boy!
Poe. (Seizing her hand and holding it) Don’t—don’t be so kind to me, aunt! It tells too much of what has never been mine. Curious interest—passing friendship—love born in a flash and dead in an hour—these I have had, while my heart was crying from its depths for the firmly founded love that shakes but with the globe itself.
Mrs. C. (Taking his head on her breast) My dear Edgar! You will be my son—Virginia’s brother!
Poe. (Lifting his face smiling) I will be happy! No more of that solitude lighted only by the eyes of ghouls! Here I have come into the light. I have found the sun. I see what my work should be—what Art is. She is beauty and joy. Her light should fall on life like morning on the hills. The clouds of passion and agony should never darken her face. O, I can paint her now ready for the embrace of the soul!
Mrs. C. I can not see things with your rapturous eyes, Edgar, but I know that your work will be noble, and I love you.
Poe. O, aunt, you and this little wonder-witch have enchanted me back to happiness. I promise you never again shall you see a tear on my face or a frown on my brow. (Virginia, looking toward the road, bows as to some one passing)
Poe. Blushing, cousin? Who is worth such a rosy flag? (Stands up and looks down the road) Brackett! I do believe!
Mrs. C. You know him, Edgar? He is staying with my brother-in-law, Nelson Clemm, for a short time, and has asked to call on us—on Virginia, I mean, for of course I don’t count, now that my little girl is suddenly turned woman.
Poe. Don’t for Heaven’s sake!
Mrs. C. You don’t like him, Edgar?
Poe. Like him! We were at West Point together. He refused to accept a challenge after slandering me vilely, and I was obliged to thrash him. That’s all. (Turns suddenly to Virginia) And you were blushing for him!
Vir. It was not because I like him, Edgar.
Poe. (Looking into her eyes) You are a wise little piece.
Mrs. C. This is painful, Edgar. Of course he must not call.
Poe. Call! Let him but look toward the house again, and I ’ll give him a drubbing that will make him forget the first one! The coward! He would n’t meet me—after—
Vir. How about the frowns, Edgar?
Poe. (Smiling) Let him go!
Mrs. C. You should not make such bitter enemies at the beginning of life, my boy.
Poe. He can not touch me. He is not of my world.
Mrs. C. We are all of one world, Edgar, and never know when we may lap fortunes with our foes. Mr. Brackett is going into literature too.
Poe. Yes. The trade and barter part of it. I shall be in the holy temple while he keeps a changer’s table on the steps. (Shrugging) Brackett! Pah!... But goodbye for half an hour. I ’m going to the orchard to take counsel with the birds on my new philosophy. (Starts away) Come, (turning to Virginia) my mocking bird, there won’t be a quorum without you! (Virginia goes to him. Zurie puts her head out of a window and calls.)
Mum Zurie. Mars Nelson comin’ up de lane!
Mrs. C. Come back, Virginia, you must see your uncle. Edgar, won’t you wait and meet him?
Poe. Thank you aunt, but I don’t think it would give him any pleasure. (Exit)
Vir. (Coming back reluctantly) O mama, we will make him happy!
Mrs. C. We ’ll try, my dear. But you must get ready for the picnic. The girls will be here soon. Is Edgar going with you?
Vir. No, mother. He said he would go to a picnic only with nymphs and naiads.
Mrs. C. Here is uncle.
(Enter, from the road, Nelson Clemm)
Mr. C. How d’ do, Maria! Howdy, girl! Go get your hat.
Mrs. C. What now, Nelson?
Mr. C. Nothin’. Only I ’m tired o’ foolin’ and talkin’ about that girl’s education. I ’ve come to take her this time.
Vir. To send me to school?
Mr. C. High time, ain’t it? I could n’t make up my mind before whether ’t was to be the seminary at Bowville or Maryburg. But I had a letter this morning which settled it for Bowville. Suits me exactly—suits me exactly. So get your hat and come along. I drove across the ridge and left my trap at Judge Carroll’s.
Mrs. C. Her clothes, Nelson! There ’s nothing ready—
Mr. C. You mean to say! When we ’ve been talkin’ this thing a whole year? And you a thrifty woman tell me her clothes ain’t ready? Well, she ’ll come without ’em, that’s all. You can send ’em along afterwards. I ’ve got it all fixed up, I tell you. My brother’s child shall have her chance—she shall have her chance, so long as I ’ve got a dollar in my pocket and she walks exactly to please me—walks exactly to please me. It ’s for you to say, Maria, whether you ’ll stand in the way o’ your own flesh and blood or not.
Mrs. C. Of course, Nelson, I am very grateful, and do not dream of depriving Virginia of this opportunity, only—
Mr. C. That’s all there is to it then. No onlys about it. Go get your hat, girl. (Virginia goes slowly into the house. At the door she meets Zurie who turns back and goes in with her)
Mrs. C. Now, Nelson?
Mr. C. It ’s just this. My brother’s child shan’t stay another hour in the same house with Edgar Poe. That’s the plain tale of it, Maria.
Mrs. C. Nelson Clemm!
Mr. C. O, I ’ve been hearin’ things—I ’ve been hearin’! He did n’t cover all his tracks at West Point—or New York either!
Mrs. C. Lies! All lies! Every one of them! He is the soul of honor! Already Virginia loves him like a brother! I trust her instinct! I trust my own!
Mr. C. O, I ’m not arguin’, I ’m just doin’. You can’t turn him out, of course. Would n’t do it myself. Nobody ’ll ever say Nelse Clemm was an inhospitable dog! But I can look out for Virginia, and I will. She goes with me now, or I ’m done with you and yours—and you know that mortgage ain’t paid off yet.
Mrs. C. Yes, she shall go. She ought to be in school and again I thank you for helping us. But you are wronging my nephew,—one of the noblest of men. You don’t know him!
Mr. C. It ’s plain enough you don’t!
Mrs. C. Has Mr. Brackett—
Mr. C. Mr. Brackett is a guest in my house. Now, Maria, say what you please. (Virginia comes out of cottage carrying a small satchel) That’s a good girl! We ’ll fix up a fine trunk and send it after her, won’t we, mother?
Vir. (Putting her arms about her mother’s neck) He—was n’t in the orchard, mama. Won’t you say goodbye to him for me?
Mr. C. Come, come now! (Leads her away) Don’t worry, Maria. I ’ll drive you over to Bowville every Sunday Doctor Barlow does n’t preach. (Half turning) By the by, I saw him down the lane at the widow Simson’s. Reckon he ’ll be along here pretty soon. Seems to be on his widow’s route to-day. Good morning! (Exeunt)
Mrs. C. (Looking after them) I shall go to her myself to-morrow. My little daughter! A stately woman now, but always my little daughter! (Starts into the house, pausing on steps) Poor Edgar! How he is misjudged! (Goes in)
(Zurie, Tat following, comes out of the side door and sets to work digging up a shrub)
Zu. (Muttering) Wha’ Mis’ Clemm gwine ter say ter all dem young ladies comin’ heah fo’ de picnic? An’ who gwine ter eat dem pies Zurie been two days makin’? An’ sech a poun’ cake! It ought to be a weddin’ cake, deed it ought! (Bony comes out of kitchen with a knife in his hand) Heah, niggah, gimme up dat knife an’ don’ be so slow-back! Dis heah bush done grow an’ bloom till yo’ get heah!
(Enter Poe, left, singing)
Old winter is a lie
As every spring doth prove,
And care is born to die
If we but let in love—
Hey Mum Zurie, what are you doing?
Zu. I ’s diggin’, honey.
Poe. That rosebay is the most graceful shrub in the yard. You kill one leaf of it, if you dare!
Zu. Miss Virginia she say how her bru’r Edgah lub dis heah tree, an’ she want it under her window.
Poe. Oh! Can’t I help you, Zurie? Tenderly now!
Zu. Miss Babylam’ ax me to move it yistiddy but I don’t git no time, an’ I ain’ gwine to leab it now jes cause she ’s gone away.
Poe. Gone away?
Zu. O Lawd, I forgot you don’ know! Why, honey, Mars Nelson he come jes now an’ frisk her off to school. Zip! an’ Babylam’ gone! An’ law, ef you seen dat po’ chile cryin’!
Poe. She cried, Zurie?
Zu. Deed she did, and she ax me twenty hundred times to tell her bru’r Edgah goodbye.
Poe. Virginia gone?
Zu. I done tol’ yo, Mars Edgah! Sho’ yo’ don’t think ol’ Zurie know how ter tell lies, does yo’, honey?
Poe. No, Zurie, I know she is gone. The birds have all stopped singing.
Zu. Law, Mars Edgah, dey jes be a chipperin’! Heah dat now?
Poe. That is not a song, Zurie. It is a wail from Stygian boughs.
Zu. O, yo’ go way!
Poe. Gone! I ’ll not permit it! My aunt must bring her back! (Hurries into house)
Zu. Wha’ make him ac’ so now? An’ wha’ make Miss Babylam’ cry hussef sick when she ’s gwine away ter be a fine lady? Mars Nelson he mighty good to gib her eddication, but true fo’ sho he might jes’ well gib it to my Tatermally fer all de thanks he ’s gittin’. Ol’ Zurie reckon it a sin to cry ober de goodness ob God!
(Mrs. Clemm and Poe come out of cottage, both disturbed)
Poe. But, aunt, how are we going to live without her?
Mrs. C. My dear Edgar, we must not let our affections root so deep in mortal things.
Poe. Mortal? Virginia mortal! She is a sister to Psyche, immortal as the breath that blew her into beauteous bloom!
Mrs. C. While I am glad, my son, to see you so devoted to your sister—
Poe. Sister! Thank Heaven she is not my sister! Aunt, Virginia must be my wife!
Mrs. C. (Bewildered) Are you mad, Edgar?
Poe. No. Sane at last. I have been mad until now. I have drunk loneliness and death. Here I breathe, grateful, glad as a flower! My breast swells and falls as a bird’s throat with happy song! O, aunt, help me to accept this fair new life—the only real life! Do not drive me back to gloom and the devils! Give me your Virginia!
Mrs. C. A child, Edgar! A child!
Poe. To you—only to you. She has her full dower of beauty—womanhood’s portion.
Mrs. C. She has a right to her education. I can not wrong my child.
Poe. I will teach her—teach her more than she will ever learn at the great mess table of knowledge where the genius must take his treacle and the blacksmith his ambrosia! O, aunt, you will give her to me?
Mrs. C. Edgar, I love you dearly,—but—my little girl—my Virginia—
Poe. (Bitterly) There is a difference then. She is yours, I am not.
Mrs. C. Do not be cruel. I am a distracted mother!
Poe. My dear aunt!
(Virginia runs into yard and flings her arms about her mother)
Vir. O, mama, uncle had to stop at Judge Carroll’s and they got into an argument and Mrs. Carroll said they would be at it for hours—she knew by the way the judge was filling his pipe—and told me to run back if I wanted to—Mama! Edgar! What is the matter?
Mrs. C. Edgar does not want you to leave home, dear.
Poe. Tell her all, aunt. (Mrs. Clemm is silent. Poe takes Virginia’s hand)
Poe. Virginia, you who have the face of a houri, the form of a sylph, and the heart of an angel, will you be my wife?
Mrs. C. Edgar!
Poe. My gentle one, can I not teach you to love me?
Vir. Teach me? Ah, I love you now, Edgar!
Mrs. C. Virginia!
Vir. I do! I do, mama! And oh, what happiness beyond my dream—to be—his wife!
(Poe embraces her gently and draws her toward the garden, right. They go out slowly. Mrs. Clemm turns toward the cottage, weeping. At the step she hesitates, looks toward the garden, and slowly goes after them, murmuring distractedly)
Zu. (Who has observed the scene with growing horror) Fo’ de Lawd, fo’ de Lawd, bless dem two babies! O, de signs am all wrong! Miss Babylam’ came back when she done start away! An’ Freddy bird hop right on my ol’ wool dis mawnin’, kase why, he want tell me sumpin gwine happen to Babylam’. An’, oh, dis po’ ol’ niggah is kilt, kase dis is de day Miss Babylam’s fadder done die! De missus she go ’bout cryin’ dis mawnin, an’ I allus ’member she do dat dis bery day! Wha’ make Mars Nelson come fo’ Babylam’? O, fo de Lawd, fo de Lawd! (Tat and Bony stare at their mother in terror as she proceeds) I see de black hawk what flies outen de dead swamp! Ooo! I see knives a drippin’ an’ guns a poppin’! Oooooooo! I see de coffin, de coffin—an’ it ’s all dark night, an’ de rain comin’ down de chimney—an’ de wind—de wind—it say “Ooooooooooo!” (Bends her knees and body, and stares moaning. Tat and Bony cling to her skirts. She turns on them with a scream, at which they tumble to the ground) Wha’ yo’ doin’ heah, yo’ black no ’count niggahs?
(Enter from the gate the old minister, Doctor Barlow)
Doctor B. Good morning, Mum Zurie. You seem to be agitated. Can I help you?
Zu. Lawd, no! beg yo’ pahdon, sah! I ’s jes so mighty tickled! Dese heah two niggahs so comicky like! Lawd, no, I was n’t alligated at all, beg yo’ pahdon, sah!
Doctor B. I ’m glad to hear it, Zurie. Is your mistress at home?
Zu. Yes, sah. Dey all be in de gahden.
Doctor B. I ’ll just take a walk in there then.
(Exit, right)
Zu. Wha’ make me le’m go in de gahden? My brain it jes all wool and no sense at all! Wha’ now he fin’ Mars Edgah kissin’ Miss Babylam’? Well, ain’t dey gwine ter be married? Married! O, lawd! (Throws her apron over her head and sits on the ground. Re-enter Mrs. Clemm and Doctor Barlow. He carries his hat in one hand and mops his brow with the other)
Doctor B. Well, well, well! Upon my word! Your nephew—pardon me—is possessed of a rather impetuous spirit—rather impetuous, pardon me!
Mrs. C. O, Doctor Barlow, what must I do? You heard him! He wants to be married now—this hour!
Doctor B. Trust me, Mrs. Clemm, I shall perform no ceremony without your full consent.
Mrs. C. O, I am sure of that! But must I consent? If I refuse him he may take her away from me. And Nelson will make trouble if we wait. Edgar will let no one oppose him.
Doctor B. I should not attempt it, Mrs. Clemm.
Mrs. C. If it is to be, it is better to let it be now. What makes me so helpless is the fact that Virginia is against me. She loves him.
Doctor B. Naturally, Mrs. Clemm, naturally.
(They enter the cottage)
Zu. Wha’ dat man talk so now? He better quit preachin’ ef he can’t hep folks no more ’n dat! Sho’, ol’ Zurie hussef know dat much!
(Enter from the road a swarm of girls. They wear graceful organdie gowns, and large ricestraw hats trimmed with bows and streamers. Some carry baskets, which they drop, and all troop about the yard)
Gertrude. Where ’s Virginia, Mum Zurie?
Zu. (Hesitating) She wa’ in de house ’bout so long ago.
Ger. I ’ll see!
Zu. Wait a minute! Mis’ Clemm she an’ de minister talkin’ on impo’tant business. Maybe it ’s dat mortgage, I dunno! (Grimaces)
Ger. We ’ll go into the garden then. (All start, right)
Zu. Law, you jes oughter see dat cherry tree hangin’ full by de back gate!
Girls. O! O! O! (They rush off, disappearing behind the cottage. Re-enter Poe and Virginia from the garden as Mrs. Clemm appears at the front door)
Vir. O, ’t is too sweet to be true! How have I won you, Edgar?
Poe. By beauty, that speaks loudest when most silent. (Mrs. Clemm meets them) God bless you, aunt. I see ‘yes’ in your eyes. You could not deny me.
Mrs. C. No.
Poe. Run, Virginia, and put on your fairy’s dress! I want you to look as if you were leaping out of a flower into my heart! (Virginia goes in) O this beautiful world! Just to live, my aunt! Is it not enough? Literature is disease! The sick-robe of the soul! Who can write that does not live—and who that lives would write! But I must do it—I must work for her. Not a wind shall blow upon my Virginia! I will find the fairy paths for her feet! Not a satyr shall leer from the wood! She will be ready soon. I shall wait for her in the orchard. I would not see her again until she is mine—all mine!
(Exit, left, singing)
‘Come, Apollo’s pipes are merry—’
(Mrs. Clemm goes in)
Zu. (Rising) I don’ reckon it make no difference ’bout dis heah bush now! (Goes to side door and sits on step disconsolately. The girls come running back)
Mabel. Here ’s the finest cherry on the tree for the prettiest mouth! Open, who gets it! (Girls open their mouths. Mabel eats cherry)
Gertrude. O, vanity!
Mab. No, I just took it for Virginia.
Annie. Let ’s play Ant’ny Over while we’re waiting! Where ’s a ball? Bony, get a ball!
Bony. Can’t do it, missis! Y’ all los’ it las’ time yo’s all here!
Dora. Marlow Bright then! Half with me and half with Mabel! (Girls divide, the two companies taking opposite bases some distance apart)
Dora. Marlow, marlow, marlow bright!
How many miles to the old turnpike?
Mab. Three score and ten!
Dora. Can we get there by candle light?
Mab. Yes, if your toes are tripping light!
Dora. Any robbers on the way?
Mab. Three blind witches, so they say,
And Robin Hood with all his men!
(With the last word the girls exchange bases, the travellers, with Dora, trying to reach the opposite base without being caught by the robbers with Mabel. Virginia comes to the door of cottage)
Annie. There ’s Virginia! (Girls stop playing as Virginia joins them)
Gert. How pretty you look!
Mab. You’re a real nymph!
Annie. Come, let ’s be off now! (Picks up a basket)
Vir. Girls—I—there is n’t going to be any picnic.
Girls. No picnic!
Vir. But a wedding.
Girls. A wedding! Where? Where?
Vir. Right here—under the bay tree.
Girls. Who? Who?
Vir. Why—cousin Edgar—and—
Girls. You! you! (All talk at once in excited babble. Virginia breaks from them and runs into the house. Girls keep tumultuous talk partly distinguishable)
Gert. He ’s so handsome!
Sallie. He ’s a prince!
Annie. Too young to be married!
Ethel. He ’s twenty!
Gladys. Older!
Mab. No!
Mamie. Virginia is a baby!
Alma. She ’s taller than any of us!
Annie. But younger!
Sallie. Yonder ’s Allie Kirby!
Mamie. Won’t she be surprised! I was n’t one bit!
Annie. Nor I!
Other Girls. Nor I! Nor I!
Ethel. I ’ll tell her!
Annie. No, let me!
Other Girls. I will! I will!
(As Allie enters all the girls rush to her and talk at once, trying to tell her the news. Mrs. Clemm and Virginia come out of the house and join them)
Mrs. C. My little yard never held so many flowers before.
Allie. Is it true, Mrs. Clemm?
Annie. Of course it is! But you’re not going to let him take her away from us!
Mrs. C. No, my dears. She will be one of you still.
Vir. Where is Edgar?
Bony. ’Deed, he wah in de orchard ’bout two drecklys ago.
Vir. He does n’t know I ’m ready. I ’ll go tell him!
Girls. Do! do!
Mrs. C. Daughter!
Girls. Do let her go, Mrs. Clemm!
Mab. We ’ll all go! What fun!
Gert. We ’ll play ‘hunt the bridegroom!’
(Girls run off, disappearing in various directions)
Mrs. C. What will Doctor Barlow think? (Goes in. Allie, the last of the girls, pauses as she passes to the side door where Zurie is sitting)
Allie. Why, Mum Zurie, you look as if Miss Virginia were going to be buried instead of married.
Zu. (Jumping at the word ‘buried’) Sho’ now, can’t Zurie hab de toothache wheneber she please, missus?
Allie. Toothache? O, I ’m sorry, Mum Zurie.
Zu. Mars Edgah he ’s a mighty fine young man! Yo’ won’t see no sech grow up roun’ heah!
Allie. But what a pity he is n’t rich!
Zu. Rich? Wha’ fo’ Mars Edgah want to be rich? All he got to do is jes scribble, scribble on a piece o’ papah, an’ de gol’ come rollin’ down de chimney! Rich! Yo’ better say yo’ prayers yo’ get a Mars Edgah too!
Allie. I ’ll get you to pray for me, Mum Zurie.
(Runs away laughing)
Zu. Wha’ fo’ now she say I look lak Miss Babylam’ gwine ter be buried? O, de good Lawd hep ol’ Zurie!
(Goes in. Enter Poe, left. He is moody and disturbed)
Poe. I feel it—a wind from out that solitude. It calls me back ... it calls me back....
Vir. (Without, calling) Edgar!
Poe. Sweet voice from the fields of the sun! (Prays) Jehovah, guide thou me! (Virginia peers around a shrub) Who could lock life’s door on such a face? It is God’s gift. I take it. (Virginia comes to him slowly. He takes her in his arms. Mrs. Clemm and the minister come out of the house and pause on the steps looking at them. The girls come rushing back laughing and shouting, and at sight of Poe and Virginia become suddenly silent)
(CURTAIN)
ACT III.
Scene I: Interior of Clemm cottage. A large room simply furnished. Low fire burning in fireplace. Poe at table writing. Suddenly drops pen and picks up two letters)
Poe. I must destroy these. She must not know.... My wife.... (drops letters absentmindedly) ... Married. Married? What spirit so subtly fine can mingle here?... Back, back, ye troops of devils damned or angels blest—I know not which to call ye—summoning me to those lone regions of the mind where none may follow! None?... Helen could tread those airy worlds with me!... Helen!... Far, far as zenith stars that ride the blue meridian thou art, and I, deep, deep, to nadir sink! (Drops his head to the table)
Virginia. (Without) Edgar! (He lifts his head smiling as she enters)
Vir. (Holding out a book) O, I know the alphabet! I can say it all! (Gives him the book) Watch now, and see if I make a mistake!
Edgar. (Smiling.) I ’ll hardly need the book, dear.
Vir. (Pouting.) O, I forget that you know everything!
Poe. Not everything. (Taking her face between his hands as she sits on his knee, the book falling at their feet) I do not know how to be happy when this beautiful face is gone. My wife is the fairest lady in all the world.
Vir. Then what does it matter about this old Greek, Edgar? (Touching book with her foot)
Poe. Just this. You can not always be young and beautiful, and when you are no longer the fairest I want you to be the wisest.
Vir. And if I am you will love me always?
Poe. Always.
Vir. Give me the book! (Picks it up) O, I will eat Greek! I will breakfast with the heroes, dine with the bards, and sup with the gods! But what a pity one must begin with the alphabet to end with—what were those lovely lines I found in your book yesterday?
And Helen on the walls rose like a star,
And every Trojan said ‘she ’s worth our blood,’
And every Greek ploughed new his way to her—
Go on, Edgar! I ’m sure you know them!
(As she repeats the lines he presses her head to his shoulder and puts his hand over her eyes. His face is full of agony, but there is only sweetness in his voice.)
Poe. Not now, my little wife. Some other time.
Vir. Helen is such a beautiful name. I wish I had been named Helen.
Poe. Thank God you are not!
Vir. (Looking up hastily) Why—
Poe. I mean that I want you to be just as you are—my Virginia—nothing else!
Vir. (Seeing he is troubled) I am keeping you from your work. You should have sent me away. I ’ll be angry with you, Edgar, if you let me disturb you. Now I ’m going to find the last rose of summer for you.
Poe. But you have n’t said your lesson.
Vir. O! (begins) Alpha, beta,—now if I say them right you are to give me a kiss for reward!
Poe. And if you miss one, I ’ll give you a kiss for encouragement.
Vir. (Seeing letter) O, a letter from New York! You ’ve made me your secretary, you know, and of course I must read your letters! (Picks it up and glances at it) He says Mr. Willis will certainly give you a place on his paper. (Drops letter and looks at him quietly) It is your chance for fortune.
Poe. I am not going, love.
Vir. If you go now it means success, if you wait failure.
Poe. I shall not go, Virginia.
Vir. If you were not married you would go.
Poe. Then I am glad I can not go.
Vir. But you can go, Edgar.
Poe. My darling, I will never take you away from your mocking birds and roses. Don’t you think any more about it. Run away now and find me a flower. You will have to look sharp under the leaves, for the wind is whistling to-day. Our little sham winter has begun to bluster. (Exit Virginia) She shall not suffer. She shall not! Though my heart surges like a prisoned sea hers shall not move her bosom’s alabaster!... Why did n’t I burn that letter. (Throws it into the fire. Take up the other one) I must keep the lawyer’s. I shall need it. (Puts it in his pocket) Now work—work—work—(Resumes writing) ‘The Kingdom of the Sun is peopled with beings whose distinguishing attribute is color instead of form as with us. This color varies with each thought of the spirit that it invests, and also with the eye that beholds it. There is no need to pellet the ear with rude words, for the most refined meanings and emotions are conveyed by these subtle variations of color coming and going like breathing light. Were—’ (Enter Mrs. Clemm)
Mrs. C. Edgar, dear, your breakfast has been waiting two hours.
Poe. O, thank you, aunt. Don’t trouble about me this morning. I shall want nothing.
Mrs. C. But, Edgar, my son, I must speak. You do not sleep and eat as people should who wish to live long for those who love them.
Poe. Dear aunt, pray—we ’ll talk about it some other time. I must work now!
Mrs. C. I am sorry to disturb you, love, but there is one question I must ask you. Have you heard from the lawyer? (Poe is silent) A letter came. I thought you would tell me, and not force me to ask about what I must know. Is the place sold?
Poe. No.
Mrs. C. But it will be? We must lose our home?
Poe. No, darling mother! I am going to pay off everything! This very article I am writing will bring me fame if I finish it. So please help me by not worrying one bit, and don’t let our Virginia suspect anything.
Mrs. C. It would kill her! O, Edgar, I have been wanting to tell you how grateful I am to you for your gentleness to her. Though she looks so strong, she has been frail from her birth. I know that she must die early. I ought to have told you—that day—but I could think of nothing. You will forgive me, Edgar? She is such a child. I wonder at your patience. But you will never be impatient with her, Edgar?
Poe. If I am, may God that moment end my villain’s life! Go now, sweet mother, for I must work, and remember that you are to be troubled about nothing. (Exit Mrs. Clemm, right, rear) Goodbye, Art! Thou pure chrystalline dream! I must turn my brain into a mint and coin money! O, Poesy, thou only divine mistress given to man, some day I will return to thee! (Writes) ‘Were zephyrs made visible by means of ever changing hues—’ (Bony and Tat rush into the room. Poe glares at them with a face of fury. They turn to fly panic-stricken. Tat trips on a chair and lies moaning. Poe goes to her)
Poe. (Gently) Are you hurt, Tatsy?
Bony. (At door, turning back, suddenly impudent at sound of Poe’s softened voice) She jes sullin’, Mars Edgah. She play possum like dat wid me!
Poe. Get out, you little imp! (Bony vanishes) Where are you hurt, Tatsy? (She moans bitterly) Poor little girl! Her foot is twisted. A sprain perhaps. (Picks her up and carries her to sofa) Never mind! I ’ve got a fairy in a bottle will cure that in a jiffy. Just rub it on, and ho, Tatsy is well again!
(Enter Zurie, Bony clinging to her)
Zu. Wha’ my chile? Lawdy God, my chile sho’ ’nuf hurt! (Goes to Tatsy)
Poe. It ’s the foot, Zurie. Be careful!
Zu. Yas, I ’s seen dat foot befoh! (Gives foot a yank) Dat ’s her ol’ trick, Mars Edgah. She jes foolin’ yo’! Don’ yo’ be so soft hearted next time. Yo’ jes take her by de back ob de neck and wring her head off!
Poe. I certainly will!
(Exit Zurie, drawing Tat. Poe goes back to his work. Groans, and looks with desperation at his manuscript)
Poe. O, if this eludes me! I must not lose it now! (Writes) ‘In this Kingdom of the Sun there is a central creating light that plays upon these color-beings with its own transmuting—’
(Re-enter Mrs. Clemm, bearing a tray)
Mrs. C. My dear, I ’ve brought you some toast and an egg.
Poe. (Jumping up and staring at her) They don’t eat toast and eggs in the Kingdom of the Sun!
Mrs. C. Edgar!
Poe. Forgive me! It ’s just something I ’m writing here. But for God’s sake take the stuff away!
(Mrs. Clemm turns to go, the tray trembling in her hands. Poe runs to her and kisses her) You sweetest and best of mothers, don’t you see that if I eat this I ’ll spend the next two hours digesting toast and eggs, and if I don’t eat it I ’ll be making our fortune, putting a roof over our heads, and keeping our Virginia happy!
Mrs. C. I only meant to be kind, Edgar.
Poe. I know you did, and you’re my darling mother,—but don’t be kind any more.
(Exit Mrs. Clemm. Poe sits despairingly at table. Enter Ethel and Annie)
Eth. O, Edgar, where is Virginia? We want her to go nutting with us.
Annie. We shall have her now! You shan’t keep her all to yourself just because you ’ve married her!
Poe. Take her by all means!
Eth. You need n’t be vicious about it. Where is she?
Poe. I don’t know,—and pardon if I say that just at this moment I don’t care!
(Gathers up papers and goes toward stairway in corner of room)
Annie. You need n’t run from us. I ’m sure we’re glad to go. I ’ll find Virginia.
Eth. And I ’ll write that note to Gladys while you’re gone. (Seats herself in Poe’s chair. Exit Annie, left, rear) Come back, if you want to, Edgar. You won’t disturb me at all. (Writes. Poe pauses on stairway and looks at her. Ethel lifts her eyes) You need n’t look so far to see me. I ’m not the North Pole! What are you thinking of, Edgar?
Poe. Of what Anacreon said to a fly that lighted on his brow when he was composing an ode to Venus.
Ethel. O! What was it?
Poe.
Away, thou rude and slight impertinence,
That with thy puny and detested bill
Dost think to feed on immortality.
(Goes upstairs)
Ethel. Beast! (Writes) Virginia spoils him. If I had him now I ’d soon make a nice comfortable husband out of him!... An envelope?... Yes.... (Takes one) Stamp?... Yes.... (Takes one) I ’ll get Bony to mail this for me.
(Exit, right, rear. Poe comes down stairway)
Poe. Gone? Deliverance! It ’s too chilly for work upstairs. (Coughs) What shall I do here this winter with only one comfortable room in the house? Keep warm by the fire in my brain, I suppose. (Sits and writes. Virginia is heard without, humming a song. She enters, left, front, with a rose in her hand)
Vir. Darling, I found it deep under the leaves—Oh! (Starts out softly. Poe writes on without looking up. At the door she turns and throws the rose towards him. It falls onto the table and upsets ink over papers)
Poe. (Leaping up) By every fiend in hell!
(Mrs. Clemm rushes in, followed by Zurie, Tat and Bony)
Mrs. C. My son, what is the matter?
Poe. See what that child has done!
Mrs. C. (With dignity) Your wife, Edgar.
Poe. My wife! Great God! O, Helen! Helen! (Rushes from the room, left rear)
Bony. I tol’ yo’ he wah mad! I done tol’ yo’ Mars Edgah gone mad! He look at me jes so! (Mimics)
Tat. (Looking through window) Dah he go now troo de orchard jes a runnin’!
Bony. Obah de fence!
Tat. An’ no hat on!
Zu. Stop yo’ mouf an’ come out o’ heah, yo’ wussless niggahs! I make yo’ know wha’ yo’ b’longs!
(Takes them out)
Mrs. C. O, Virginia! What an hour for you!
Vir. What an hour for him, mamma!
Mrs. C. Strange child! Not to think of yourself!
Vir. How can I, when he is suffering so?
Mrs. C. My angel daughter!
Vir. (Kissing her) We will be brave, my mother. I hear the girls. Go to them one moment—do! (Exit Mrs. Clemm) ... Helen! Dear God above! (Drops on her knees by a chair. After a moment of agony, rises, goes to table and looks at papers) What is it I have ruined? (Reads silently) O, what beauty!... I think I can make this out and copy it for him. But now he may never finish it. The heavenly moment is gone ... and I robbed him of it.... I, who should guard him and keep the world away. That is my little part—too little, God knows! O, if I could really help him!
(Enter Ethel and Annie)
Eth. O, Virginia, now that we’re rid of that troublesome husband let ’s have one of our good old-fashioned times! We ’ll sit by the fire and tell tales. It ’s too cold anyway to go to the woods.
Vir. (Absently) Edgar is there.
Annie. And there let him stay! I ’m sure it ’s better for both of you. You hang about him too much, Virginia. He ’ll quit loving you, mamma says he will, if you’re not more sensible. Help me draw up this sofa, Ethel. (They pull sofa to the fire. Annie settles herself comfortably) I feel just like giving you a lecture, Virginia. You must make Edgar go out more. Anybody will get queer shut up here. The other day when mamma asked him to come to our party he was n’t more than half polite when he refused, and we were going to have Mr. Melrose Libbie to meet him too. Said his work would keep him at home! Now you know, Virginia, that poetry is n’t work. It ’s just dash off a line now and then, and there you are! Mr. Libbie said so. O, he had the sweetest thing on the woman’s page in last Sunday’s paper! Did you see it? You ’d better call Edgar’s attention to it. Mamma read it to all of us at the breakfast table, and—
Eth. O, stop your chatter, Annie, and let Virginia tell us one of her fairy stories just as she used to do. We ’ll forget all about Edgar and make believe she is n’t married at all.
Vir. (Painfully) Forgive me, dear girls, but I ’ve some work that I must do to-day.
Mabel. Must do! Who ever heard the like?
Vir. I was wrong. It is some work that I choose to do—that it will be my happiness to do.
Ethel. For Edgar?
Vir. Yes.
Annie. You are a little fool!
Vir. Yes ... I am a little fool.
Ethel. O, there ’s help for you if you know it!
Vir. If I were not a little fool I could be of more help to Edgar.
Ethel and Annie. Oh!
Annie. (Jumping up) Then we can’t stay to-day!
Vir. I am so sorry—but—
Annie. O, we might as well give you up first as last! (Exeunt girls)
Vir. (Sits at table and stares at the papers) ... A little fool ... a little fool.
(CURTAIN)
Scene II: Same room as before. Night. Virginia sits motionless in the dim firelight. Mrs. Clemm comes softly down the stairs)
Mrs. C. Virginia?
Vir. Naughty mamma! You said you would sleep. What a story to tell your little girl!
Mrs. C. (Advancing) The rain—wakes me. (Comes to fire) Did Edgar take his cloak, dear?
Vir. No, mother.
Mrs. C. Are you not cold in that dress, darling?
Vir. O no—quite comfortable—and Edgar likes me in white, you know. (A window rattles. Both look anxiously toward the door)
Mrs. C. What a gust!... I wonder what winter is like at the north. (Virginia looks at her quickly, and both drop their eyes) ... To think of him out on a night like this! And he has not been well lately. Had he no purpose? Did he say nothing when he went out?
Vir. He said he was going to seek Truth.
Mrs. C. And what does he mean by truth, Virginia?
Vir. O, I don’t know. When he is talking I understand, but when he is gone it all fades and I know nothing about it.
Mrs. C. Nor does Edgar, mark me, dear. He is trying to know things that the wise God decreed should remain unknown to mortals. That is what makes him so unhappy.... Did he eat his breakfast this morning, Virginia?
Vir. No, mamma.
Mrs. C. Did he take any food yesterday?... Tell me, daughter. I can not help you if I do not know. (Virginia begins to sob) There! there, darling! A little patience and we ’ll get him over this.
Vir. O, mother!
Mrs. C. Come here, my little girl. (Takes Virginia in her arms) Now tell me! Don’t let the heart go heavy when mother ears are waiting.
Vir. He ... goes out at night ... and I follow him because it kills me to think of him wandering alone. We were on Burney hill last night.
Mrs. C. Five miles!... Then that is what these pale cheeks and dark eyes mean! And Edgar let you go!
Vir. No! I go! I am not a child, mother. Ah, I knew you would not understand!
Mrs. C. Yes, yes, I do, Virginia. I know he suffers, but you—
Vir. Don’t speak of me! You shame me! Were I to lie down on those coals my torture would be less than his. Remember that, mother. When you doubt, as you surely will, remember that I told you, and I know. His mind is a living thing, throbbing through his body and leaving him no shield of flesh. O, mamma, help him! Promise me! You will never forsake him?
Mrs. C. Never, my love.
Vir. I would not have told you, but my strength is gone, and somebody must know,—somebody who is strong. (A gust shakes the window) O, my darling! Out in that blackness alone! And if I were there I could say nothing. That is the pity of it, mamma. I have no words, and thought without tongue is nothing so long as we are mortal and wear these bodies. Some day it may be enough just to be a soul, but not now—not now!
Mrs. C. O, my daughter!
Vir. Promise me, mamma, that if I die you will find Helen. She could help him!
Mrs. C. (Rising) Virginia, if you say another word like that I shall think you are mad—or I am! (Bursts into weeping)
Vir. Darling, darling mother! Now I have given you all my burdens you will grow weak under them, and I want strength, strength by my side!
Mrs. C. (Calm) You must go to bed, dear. I will wait for Edgar.
Vir. No, no!
Mrs. C. I will coax him to eat something.
Vir. (Smiling sadly) Coax him, mamma?
Mrs. C. Yes, dear. Go now.
Vir. I can not.
Mrs. C. I command you, my daughter.
Vir. Please do not command me. You have never had to pardon disobedience in me.
Mrs. C. Nor shall I have cause now. Obey me, Virginia.
Vir. Would you send me into hell, mother?
Mrs. C. Daughter!
Vir. That is what a bed is to me when Edgar is out like this.
Mrs. C. You make too much of these wanderings. Night and day are alike to him.
Vir. Ah, it is not the night that I fear!... Go, mamma! It is you who must rest. O, how we need these strong arms—this clear head! I shall nod in my chair for the thought of you getting your needed rest will bring the winks to my own eyes. Come! (Draws her toward stairway) I promise you that I will sleep in the big chair as snug and tight as kitty herself. (Kisses her)
Mrs. C. (On the stairs) I can not leave my sick child to watch. You ask me to do an inhuman thing, Virginia. I will not go.
Vir. Mother!... Do not let me hurt you ... the dearest, the most unselfish of mothers ... but it is better for me to meet my husband alone.
(Mrs. Clemm turns and goes slowly upstairs. Virginia goes back to fire)
Vir. Watch and pray! I can but watch and pray!... He said ’t was love he wanted ... and I brought him that ... love that shakes but with the globe itself. But it does not help ... ’t was all wrong ... all wrong! (Weeps. Rises, and busies herself about an oven on the hearth) Three times I have prepared his supper that it might be fresh enough to tempt him. But now ... I am so tired. I must try to keep this warm. The sight of it may make him angry ... but I must try. (Arranges some clothes on a chair) He will be so wet with the rain. Ah, I can do nothing ... nothing. (Looks toward door) He is coming! Strength, strength. O my God!
(Poe throws door open. Turns and speaks as if to companions outside)
Poe. Goodnight, goodnight, brave Beauty’s fearless angels! (Comes in) Well, Dame Venus, what thoughts for your hobbling Vulcan?
Vir. (Brightly) My Hermes, you mean. I ’m sure you’re feather-footed, you go so far and fast.
Poe. Why, sweet-mouth, a kiss for that! (Kisses her)
Vir. O, my love, you are dripping with the rain.
Poe. Well, and so are the trees. Not a leaf out there but is shaking her pearls. Who flies from Nature but man? Let her be terrible, glorious, worthy of his eyes and his heart, and forthwith he takes to his hole.
Vir. I hate her to-night. She kept me from following you.
Poe. Virginia! (Seizes her hands, crushing them in his, and gazing at her with fierce earnestness) Never do that again! Never again! (Lets her hands fall, and turns toward door as if he must go out. Her eyes follow him eagerly, but she tries to speak carelessly)
Vir. Here are your dry things, dear, and I ’ve kept something hot for your supper.
Poe. (Turning) Yes ... this is a very valuable skin of mine. Make it comfortable. But what of me, Virginia? That something here burning with fires that would brighten Olympos’ head! Have you no welcome for me? (Virginia is silent) Why are you so pale? Light all the lamps! You should not sit in the dark. There are no stars in this den!
Vir. (Hurriedly lighting lamp) I ’m sorry, love, but last night you wanted the dark—don’t you remember?
Poe. No, I don’t remember. Memory is a hyena, always scratching up our dead selves! You must not remember, Virginia!
Vir. Yes, dear.
Poe. Forgive me, love. O, I am driving myself mad! Selling myself to the devil of prose that I may bring in that fool’s litter—money, money, money—and for what? That we may feed the flesh that devours our souls, and hang such rubbish as this on our backs! (Sweeps garments from chair) O, Virginia, if you were brave enough we would forget these rags of the body and go like spirits to meet our brothers of the night! They are all out there! Will you go with me, my bride?
Vir. O, Edgar!
Poe. Ha! You would rather ask them in to have something dry and something hot! But I must have the air! (Throws door open. Lightning flashes on falling rain. Virginia shrinks from the wind) Hear those winds! Gathering lost souls to the bosom of Night! Feel those drops! Every one of them the tear of a fallen god! O, is it nothing but rain? Ha! ha! ha! (Virginia coughs. Poe closes the door hastily. She coughs again)
Poe. Don’t, Virginia!
Vir. Yes, dear.
Poe. My angel! (Embraces her. She coughs) O, it is these wet clothes! (Throws off coat, picks up dressing gown from the door and puts it on hurriedly)
Vir. (Eagerly) Your slippers too, dear!
Poe. Yes, yes, my slippers! (Puts them on. Sits in big chair, taking her on his knee, and embracing her tenderly) What made you cough, Virginia?
Vir. O, ’t was nothing, dear. ’T is all right now. Everything is all right.
Poe. Is it, little wisdom? O, ye gods!
Vir. (Concealing anxiety) Darling?
Poe. What, my beautiful earth-bird?
Vir. You will take your supper now?
Poe. (Impatiently) No, no! Is there any wine in the house?
Vir. Yes, love, but—
Poe. I must have it! Quick! I shall faint.
Vir. (Rising) No, Edgar. It is food you need.
Poe. (Rising) Where is it?
Vir. O, my dearest!
Poe. Tell me, Virginia! (Goes toward a closet)
Vir. (Getting before him) If you were reaching for a cup of poison, Edgar, I would risk my life, ay, risk your love, to dash it from you. And wine is your poison. I can not let you drink death.
Poe. Death! It is all the life that is left to me, and you deny it!
Vir. Be quiet, love. You will wake our mother.
Poe. Down, gods, and let the lady sleep!
Vir. She is not well, Edgar.
Poe. But she will be well to-morrow, and I—I am immortally sick and you deny me a drop of wine.
Vir. O, my poor boy! I ’m so sorry for you!
Poe. And is that all, O Heaven? I ’m her poor boy, and she is so sorry for me! Why, here ’s a heart that loosens in its throbs the birth-song of new stars! Come, strike thy chime with mine, and though all bells upon the planet jingle, in us will still be music!
Vir. O, Edgar!
Poe. Well?
Vir. I can not speak.
Poe. Virginia, Virginia! I pour out my soul to you! I keep back no drop of its sea! From the infinite, shrouded sources of life I rush to you in a thousand singing rivers, only to waste, to burn, to die on the sands of silence! (She remains motionless, her head bowed) ... It is so still upon the eternal peaks. Will you not come up with me and be the bride of my dreams? You need not speak ... you need not say a word. Only put the light of poesy in your eyes and let me see that through the channel of their beauty course the mysteries that begin with God and end not with time! (She looks at him. He gazes into her eyes) ... Tears ... only tears. (Turns away) Can a soul’s eyes be dumb? (She sits, weeping silently) ... Come then ... talk of what you will. Only talk! You have read a little Byron to-day? The new magazine came? And you have made me a handkerchief? (She sobs. He looks at her remorsefully, crosses the room, gets her harp and brings it to the fireside) Come ... sing to me, Virginia. You can do that.
Vir. (Taking harp) What shall I sing, dear?
Poe. Something to charm the very heart of Æolus! That will turn a tempest into a violet’s breath!
Vir. Ah, my love!
Poe. O, sing—sing anything!
Vir. (Sings)
Great and calm, cool-bosomed blue,
Take me to the heart of you!
Not where thy blue mystery
Sweeps the surface of the sea,
Leaving in a dying gleam
Living trouble of a dream;
Not where loves of heaven lie
Rosy ’gainst the upper sky
Burning with an ardent touch
Where an angel kissed too much;
But where sight and sound come not,
All of life and love forgot,
All of Heaven forfeited
For thy deep Nirvana bed.
Wide and far enfolding blue,
Take me to the heart—
(Her voice breaks suddenly)
Poe. Virginia! (She coughs) Don’t! (Her cough increases. She puts her handkerchief to her lips. Poe takes it from her hand and looks at it.) Blood! (Throws handkerchief into the fire, and stands as if paralyzed, gazing at Virginia. Falls at her feet and begins kissing her skirt) My angel! my angel! I have killed my little bride!
Vir. (Urging him gently up) No, dear. I was marked for this from birth. My doom was written by Heaven, not you.
Poe. Not doom, my Virginia! (Rising) I will save you, my darling! You shall have everything! With the sickle of a wish you shall harvest the earth! We will sail southern seas! We will follow the Spring as she flies! I will knock at the orient gates and bring thee the health of morning! I ’ll make the world so bright for thee, Hyperion’s self shall wear new gold and shame remembered suns from chronicle! Spring from perfection’s heart shall pluck her buds, and set such gloss on Nature she may laud her old self in one violet’s requiem! O, I ’ll sing the world into a flower for thy bosom! My love, my love, my love! (She coughs restrainedly. He hides his face till she stops) Even the senseless oak velvets its rude sides to the tender vine! But I—a man—O, beast too vile for hell! too low to be damned!
Vir. Edgar!
Poe. Do not touch me! is not the mark here? (Touching his brow) O, where shall I hide it?
Vir. (Drawing him to her) On my bosom, Edgar. (Presses him to the large chair and sits on the arm of it, caressing him) This forehead is as pure as heaven-lit ivory of angels’ brows!
Poe. O, golden heart! (Kisses her over her heart) I will work so hard, Virginia! We shall be rich, and I will take you to some wonderful land where beauty can not die! Will you forgive me then when you are bright and strong in some happy isle of roses?
Vir. I will forgive you now, dearest, if you will do one thing for me.
Poe. O, what, my darling?
Vir. Eat the poor little supper I have cooked for you.
Poe. Yes—yes—I ’ll eat it though it be hell’s coals!
Vir. Now that’s a compliment to your cook, is n’t it? (Takes food from oven and puts it on table. Poe eats, at first reluctantly, then hungrily)
Poe. It is late—so late! O, my Lenore, you kept up for me! Your weary eyes would not close until they had found their lover! O, can you forgive me, and take me back to your heart? You will love me again?
Vir. Ah, Edgar, if love were enough we should always be happy.
Poe. Love me, love me, dear! I want no more! And this cough ... we shall stop all that, darling! O, how weary you must be, and you tried to have everything so beautiful for me! How pretty your dress is! You look like a Naiad smiling out of a lily. But it ’s too cold! Here, I will wrap you! (Puts shawl about her) Ah, little wife, little wife, what evil power locked your gentle heart with mine? Bear with me, love. It will all be different soon. I shall try so hard the gods for pity will not let me fail! See how I have eaten! You may give me more, love. You did not cook this, I know. You stole it from Jove’s kitchen.
Vir. (Getting food) Yes, I did, and Jove caught me, but he let me go when I told him it was for a poet.
Poe. Little witch! (Kisses her) How happy we shall be, Virginia, as soon as I have money. I shall go to New York for a year. It will take only a year. Then I shall come back bringing the lady Fame with me, and you must not be jealous of her.
Vir. (Slowly) You—would not—take me?
Poe. Why, the north-wind would blow the Spring from my little girl’s cheek! Just a year! That is the first step—a cruel one—but we shall be happy when it is over. Just a year, sweetheart! I must take no chances now! I must win!
Vir. You shall not leave me! A year will not hurt me, Edgar! But it would kill me to be left here ... and not know ... every minute....
Poe. Do you care so much, Lenore? Then we will both stay here. It will take longer, but I will work harder—
Vir. Enough for to-night. We are too happy for to-morrows, Edgar. Now you must have a long, long sleep—
Poe. No, no! No bed for me to-night! I must work!
Vir. No bed, indeed! I did not say bed, my lord! You are going to sit down here (Places him on footstool) and I shall sit here, (settles in chair) and your head in my lap—my hands on your head—and the crooningest of little songs will bring you the sweetest snatch of sleep that you ever, ever had!
Poe. O, ’t is heaven, Virginia! But you are too tired, my angel. You must sleep.
Vir. And so I shall when my lord shows me the way.
(Poe drops his head on her lap. She turns down light. He falls asleep as she sings softly)
Like a fallen star on the breast of the sea
My lover rests on the heart of me;
The lord of the tempest hies him down
From his billow-crest to his cavern-throne,
And ’t is peace as wide as the eye can see
When my lover rests on the heart of me.
(Silence. Virginia droops in sleep. No light but dull red coals.)
(CURTAIN)
ACT IV.
Scene I: An old bookstore, New York. Bookseller arranging books. Helen at one side looking over shelves. Poe enters. He wears a military cloak and jaunty cap. Throws book on table and whistles carelessly.
Bookseller. (Looking book over doubtfully) Forty cents.
Poe. (Loudly) Forty devils! (Helen turns and recognizes him. He does not see her) Look at that binding. You can’t get a Shelley put up like that for less than ten dollars.
Hel. (Aside) My book!
Bookseller. It ’s badly marked.
Poe. Marked! Of course it ’s marked. And every mark there worth its dollar. In ten years you ’ll wish the marks were as thick as the letters.
Bookseller. Say fifty, and strike off. Not a cent more.
Poe. Take it.
Hel. To sell my book! (Moves slowly to door) How pale he is! But he is neatly dressed. He can not need fifty cents. To sell my book! I ’ll speak to him and see if he is past shame. (Steps before Poe as he turns to go out)
Hel. Mr. Poe! Don’t you remember me? ’T is delightful to meet an old friend.
Poe. (Bowing low) Mrs....
Hel. Yes, I am Mrs. Bridgmore.
Poe. My dear Mrs. Bridgmore! The pleasure of years gathers in this happy moment. Are you making holiday purchases?
Hel. No ... just poking about. I love these old stores. I see you ’ve made a sale. ’T is a relief to get rid of old books when we ’ve lost our love for them, is n’t it? They take up good room on our shelves pretty much as people do in our lives long after we have ceased to care for their friendship. But what one is weary of another is ready to take up. (To bookseller) May I see the book the gentleman has just disposed of? (To Poe) Anything you have liked will be sure to please me.
Poe. O, you are mistaken! I am simply leaving the book to be duplicated if possible for a friend of mine who has taken a fancy to my copy. (Gesticulates to bookseller) One glance, Mrs. Bridgmore, will tell you that the book is not for sale.
Hel. Ah ... of course not. Pardon the mistake. It seems to be my fate to blunder where you are concerned. (Icily) Good morning, Mr. Poe.
(As she is going out she drops her purse. Poe hastens to pick it up and restores it to her with a bow. In doing so he forgets his shabby coat and throws back his cloak over his arm, exposing a badly worn sleeve. He becomes suddenly conscious of her observation, and straightens up in his most dignified fashion)
Hel. Thank you. (Goes out)
Poe. (Turning to bookseller) Here! Take your damned silver! Give me my book!
Bookseller. A bargain ’s a bargain, sir.
Poe. Bargain! bargain! Do you call that theft a bargain? You parasite! you bookgnat! You insect feeding on men’s brains! You worm in the corpse of genius! My book, I say, or by Hector I ’ll tear your goose-liver from your body, you pocket-itching Jacob!
Bookseller. Here! take it!
Poe. There ’s your Judas’ blood! (Throws down money and starts out with the book. Enter Brackett)
Brackett. (Stopping Poe) Mr. Poe, I believe.
Poe. Right, sir. And Brackett, I think your name was when I knew you.
Bra. Quite right, Mr. Poe. I saw you coming in here, and though you have changed somewhat with the help of years I was sure it was you.
Poe. And how, Mr. Brackett, may that knowledge be of interest to you?
Bra. Well, perhaps it does concern you more than myself.
Poe. Kindly tell me in what way that I may regret it.
Bra. Your pen has been supplying matter for The Comet, I believe.
Poe. If you have any doubt of it a perusal of that magazine’s issues for the past two years will satisfy you.
Bra. The returns therefrom have contributed somewhat to your comfort, I suppose.
Poe. Do you?
Bra. Ah, I am mistaken? Then I have less hesitation to tell you that the articles recently submitted are unavailable.
Poe. You tell me! What have you to do with it? Who are you?
Bra. I am the present editor of The Comet.
Poe. You!
Bra. I! You see I am in a position to speak with authority,—and it is only just to tell you that your articles will meet with no further recognition in that quarter.
Poe. Brackett ... I have been very ill. I wrote those things on what I believed to be my death bed. My wife....
Bra. I should say then that you are in great need of money.
Poe. God help me, I am! You know I am not one to beg!
Bra. But it ’s beg or starve with you, eh? (Poe looks at him silently) Well, I should advise you to make application without loss of time to some one who does not know you quite so well as the new editor of The Comet. Good morning.
Poe. (Calling to him as he stands in door) I say, Brackett! (Brackett turns) I should advise you to change the name of The Comet as well as its editor. Suppose you call it The Falling Star? Ha! ha! (Exit Brackett) Curse me for a whining dog—but Virginia—
(Goes out)
Bookseller. (Arranging books) Queer chap. We public men get to know all sorts. That book will be mine yet. It ’s a good seller at ten dollars, and blest if I would n’t like to help the wretch out with fifty cents. He ’ll be back.
(Enter Helen)
Hel. I wish to buy the book the gentleman has just left with you.
Bookseller. Why ma’am, he ’s gone and took it with him.
Hel. Took it with him?
Bookseller. Yes, ma’am, and thereby I ’ve lost time and trade. (Aside) She ’d give fifteen!
Hel. He needed money?
Bookseller. Well, I should guess so, ma’am. That’s the last book he had. He told me about it before. He ’s been bringin’ them all here. I think he ’ll be back, ma’am, and I ’ll keep the book for you.
Hel. Thank you. (Turns to go. Sees letter on the floor and picks it up) Why, ’t is ... he dropped it! I wonder if I may ... he is suffering ... that shabby coat ... and he is so proud. I think I ought to read it. I must know where to find him. (Looks at letter) Fordham! (Reads)
My Dear Son: One last prayer the mother of your Virginia makes to you. She is dying. Come and sit by her and she will carry a smile to her grave. Do not stay away because you can not bear to witness her suffering,—because you have nothing to give her. Come, and by your loving presence lessen her pain. God bless you! Your devoted mother,
Maria Clemm.
(Helen stands trembling and holding the letter) ... And I hurt him ... I hurt him....
(CURTAIN)
Scene II: Poe’s cottage, Fordham. A room almost bare. Virginia sleeping on bed. Poe’s cloak over her. Mrs. Clemm kneeling in prayer beside her. Poe enters, carrying a bundle of broken sticks which he lays down softly, one by one, on the hearth, looking anxiously toward the bed. Mrs. Clemm rises and comes to the fire)
Mrs. C. My child, you have been out in the snow without your cloak! (Brushes snow from his shoulders)
Poe. Could I take the least warmth from yon shivering angel?
Mrs. C. You forget that you, too, are ill. O, my boy, be careful, or I shall soon be childless in the world. One is already lost....
Poe. Not lost. See how she sleeps! She is better. I know she is better.
Mrs. C. Since you came. We will hope so, dear.
Poe. If she would only speak to us! O, why does she not speak? Not once to-day.
Mrs. C. She is very weak, my son.
Poe. I could bear it so long as she could tell us there was no pain ... but now she only looks at us.... Oh—
Mrs. C. You will control yourself for her sake.
Poe. Yes, yes, for her sake.
Mrs. C. It will take her last breath to see you disturbed.
Poe. I know! I know! Have no fear, mother. I am strong now.
Vir. Edgar! (He flies to the bed)
Poe. My darling!
Vir. I am better, dear. Mamma! (Mrs. Clemm goes to her) I feel so rested, mamma.
Poe. I told you! She is better! And you will sit up a little now, dear? I will carry you to the fire.
Mrs. C. My boy!
Poe. O, mother, don’t you see how well she is? Look at her cheeks—her eyes—how beautiful!
Vir. (Smiling) Hear him, mamma! How proud he is! He must always have it that his wife is beautiful.
Poe. But it is so true, my dearest!
Vir. Let me believe it, for it is sweet to think that I have been that, at least, to you.
Poe. O, my darling, you have been everything!
Vir. You think so now, dear, and I love to hear you say it.
Poe. And you will get well for me?
Vir. No, O no! That would bring all your troubles back. You will live a great life, Edgar, when you have left this little care-bundle of a wife behind you.
Poe. O, don’t, Virginia! I shall do nothing without you!
Vir. You will do everything. I am the wise one now, Edgar. And, dear, while I can talk ... I must ask you ... must beg you ... I must hear you say that you forgive me.
Poe. Forgive you!
Vir. Yes, dear. I was so young ... I thought I could help you ... and so I let you marry me. I did not know. I thought because I loved you so much that I could make you happy. But women who can only love are not the women who help. They must be wise and strong too, and oh, so many other wonderful things. If they are not, then all the love only hurts and makes things go wrong.
Poe. O, little angel!
Vir. Yes ... little angel ... when I ought to have been a brave, great angel who could bear heaven on her wings. Long ago I knew it, Edgar. When the truth came I looked every way and there was no help. Then when I found I was to die, it seemed that God had pitied and helped me. For that was the only way.... O, these little women who can do nothing but love! I wish I could take them all with me. These tears are for them, not for myself, darling. O, I am happy, but they must wait ... they can not die. How you shiver! You must take your cloak. I am warm now. Indeed, I am quite comfortable.... Don’t—don’t weep. You must be happy because I am. Let us smile the rest of the time, darling,—it—is such a little while.
Poe. (Brokenly) Yes ... yes.... O little flower, little flower, dropping back to God’s bosom, how have I dared to touch thee!
Vir. (Rubbing her hand on his arm) ’T is damp! You have been out? O, my dear, you must, must take your cloak! I am quite, quite warm! See, feel my hands! (Smiling)
Poe. (Taking her hands) Little icicles!
Vir. You have been out! O, save yourself for the great things ... now I am going out of your way. Don’t let my death be as vain as my life. Let that count for something, Edgar. O, promise me you will live for your genius’ sake, you will be true to your heavenly gift! Kneel by me and promise!
Poe. I ... promise.
Vir. Dear husband ... I.... (faints)
Mrs. C. O, she is gone!
Poe. No! She faints! My beautiful idol! O, some wine! Heaven and earth for some wine!
Mrs. C. She looks at us! My daughter!
Poe. O, do not try to speak! Let your beautiful eyes do all the talking!
Mrs. C. She looks toward the fire. She would have you go, Edgar, and try to keep warm. Come, dear. (Poe kisses Virginia gently, and goes to fireside, looking back adoringly) Do not look at her, and she will sleep again.
Poe. Ah, God! It will take more than sleep to help her. And I can give her nothing—nothing!
Mrs. C. Don’t, Edgar! Remember your terrible illness—how you worked for her when fever was burning your brain—until your pen fell from your hand.
Poe. I brought her to this land of ice and snow!
Mrs. C. No. Destiny brought her. We lost our home. Your work was here—and she would not stay behind you.
Poe. A man would have saved her!
Mrs. C. O, my boy, do not take this burden on your soul! For once spare yourself!
Poe. I can not even give her food!
Mrs. C. (Restraining him) My son, she sleeps.
Poe. Yes ... sleep ... let me not rob her of that too! Be quiet ... just be quiet ... while she dies. (Seats himself with strange calmness) Come, mother, let us be cheerful. Take this chair. Let us be rational. Let us think. Death is strange only because we do not think enough. God must breathe. Life is the exhalation, death the inhalation of deity. He breathes out, and the Universe flames forth with all her wings—her suns and clusters of suns—down to her mote-like earth, the butterfly of space, trimmed with its gaudy seasons, and nourishing on its back the parasitical ephemeran, Man!
Mrs. C. My love—
Poe. Be calm, mother. Be calm. Then the great inbreathing begins. The creative warmth no longer goes out. The parasites vanish first, then the worlds on which they ride, and last the mighty suns,—all sink into the still, potential unity, and await the recurrent breath which may bear another universe, unlike our own, where the animate may control the inanimate, the organic triumph over the inorganic,—(rising) ay, man himself may dominate nature, control the relentless ecliptic, and say to the ages of ice and fire ‘Ye shall not tread on me!’
Mrs. C. Edgar!
Poe. I beg your pardon. We must be calm. (Resumes his seat) But God will not stop breathing (with bitter sarcasm) though your daughter—and my wife—is dying. (Mrs. Clemm weeps. He turns to the window) Do you know that elephants once nibbled boughs out there where the snow is falling? They ran a mighty race—and died—but no tears were shed. In the records of the cosmos, if man is written down at all, I think he will be designated as the ‘weeping animal.’
Mrs. C. Are you human?
Poe. I regret that I belong to that feeble and limited variety of creation, but with the next self-diffusion of the concentrated Infinite I may be the Sun himself!
Mrs. C. O, my mother-heart!
Poe. Think a little more and you will forget it. The heart makes the being there on the bed your daughter—my wife—but the mind makes her a part of the divine force which has chosen her shape for its visible flower. The heart is wrung by the falling of the bloom, for it is endeared to that only, but the mind rejoices in its reunited divinity. Come.... (Moves a step toward the bed) I can look on her now ... and be quiet. Sweet rose, I can watch your petals fall. But they fall early ... they fall early ... blasted in the May. Not by the divine breath drawing you home, but by my mortal, shattering hand! I promised you sun and dew.... I have given you frost and shadows. O God! O God! let me not think! Keep me a little, weeping child!
Mrs. C. Dear son, cast out this bitterness. Only your love and devotion have kept her alive so long.
Poe. No! I touched her like a wing of doom, and she fell blasted! (She tries to soothe him) No, no! Call devils from hell to curse me!
(A knock at the door. Mrs. Clemm opens it and a basket is delivered to her. Poe, deep in agony, does not notice. She takes things from the basket)
Mrs. C. O, Edgar! Wine, and soft blankets!
(He looks up, and rushes across to her)
Poe. Wine! wine! O, spirit that bendest from pitying clouds, a mortal thanks thee! Quick, mother, these drops of strength will give her back to us!
Mrs. C. She sleeps, my son, which is ease more precious than these drops can give.
Poe. (Taking bottle) Give it to me!
Mrs. C. Edgar, Edgar, do not wake her!
Poe. Lenore, Lenore, out of thy dream, though ’t were the fairest ever blown to mortal from Elysium! This will put thee to such smiles that dreams—
Mrs. C. Be quiet, for God’s sake!
Poe. Quiet! ’T is a word for clods and stones! You ’d hold me from her when my hand brings life? (Rushes to cupboard and gets a glass which he fills)
Mrs. C. Just a little, Edgar. Too much would—
Poe. She shall drink it all, by Heaven! I will save her!
(Mrs. Clemm sinks to a chair, helpless and sobbing. A knock at the door which neither hears. Enter Helen. As Poe turns to approach the bed he faces her, stares, and lets the glass drop shivering)
Poe. You!
Hel. I, Edgar. You see I can remember my friends—and I ’ve come to scold you for not—letting me know—
Poe. It was you who sent—
Hel. Some blankets soft as summer clouds for the most beautiful lady in the world? And wine delicate enough for a fairy’s throat? I knew you would not have it else. (Turns to Mrs. Clemm) You do not know me, but—
Mrs. C. (Taking her hand) I know you are a good woman reaching a hand to me in my sorrow.
Hel. (Embracing her) No ... my arms!
(Poe goes to bed and kneels by Virginia. Speaks softly to her, then rises and brings a little wine)
Poe. Just a drop, dear,—a butterfly’s portion.
(Virginia drinks)
Hel. (To Mrs. Clemm) How is she?
Mrs. C. She will have but one more word for us—goodbye.
Hel. Can I—may— O, you must let me do something for her—for you! Do not make me miserable by saying there is nothing I can do.
Mrs. C. There is ... something. I have never begged—
Hel. Do not use such a word. It is you who give—make me happy.
Mrs. C. But I will beg this. Some linen for her last robe.
Hel. God bless you for telling me!
Poe. (Rising from his knees by Virginia) Helen, Virginia would speak to you.
Hel. O, save the precious breath! (Approaches bed) Ah ... how lovely ... I understand....
Vir. (Lifting her head) Helen ... help my Edgar. (Sinks back. Poe lays his head on her pillow. Helen stands with her arm about Mrs. Clemm. Curtain falls, and rises on same room at night. Virginia’s body lies on the bed. Poe watches alone. A candle burns on table)
Poe. (Standing by bed) ... So low in sleep, little girl?... I took thee mid thy roses. O, broken gentleness, little saint-love, move but a hand, a finger, to tell me thou art still my pleading angel!... Not one breath’s life. Still ... quite still. O, might such rest be mine! (Turns away) I ’ll write. (Goes to table) I promised. Yes ... I ’ll write. Behind the glorious chancel of the mind still swings the incense to the deathless gods!... (Sits and writes) ... No. (Rising) No rhymes—for Poesy must mourn to-night. (Goes toward bed) Too much of her is dead. (Gazes at Virginia) Cold ... cold. What art thou death? Ye demons of a mind distraught, keep ye apace till I have fathomed this!... Ha! What scene is that? (Stares as at visions) A valley laid in the foundations of darkness! The unscalable cliffs jut to heaven, and on the amethystine peaks sit angels weeping into the abyss where creatures run to and fro without escape! Some eat, some laugh, some weep, some wonder. Now they make themselves candles whose little beams eclipse the warning stars ... and in the pallid light they dance and think it sun! But on the revel creeps a serpent, fanned and crimson, with multitudinous folds lapping the dancing creatures in one heaving carnage! The candles die.... The stars cannot pierce the writhing darkness.... Above on the immortal headlands sit the angels, looking down no more, for the dismal heap no longer throbs.... I must write this! Now! While I see it! That moaning flood ebbing to silence ... those rosy promontories lit with angel wings ... and over all as large and still as heaven, the cold, unweeping eyes of God!... (Writes.... A tapping at the door. He does not hear. Another tapping. He looks up) Who ’s there?... This is my vigil. Nor devil nor angel shall share it!... (Listens. Tapping. He goes to door and throws it open) ... Nothing ... nothing ... but darkness. (Stands peering, and whispers) Lenore!... (Closes door, bolts it, returns to table and writes silently. Utter stillness, then a rattling at the window. Poe leaps up) What ’s that? (The shutter is blown open. Poe stands watching. A raven flies in and perches above door) Out, you night-wing! (He looks at raven silently) You won’t? Why, sit there then! You’re but a feather! (Sits and writes. After a moment rises and reads)
Out—out are the lights—out all!
And over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm—
And the angels all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling affirm
That the play is the tragedy ‘Man!’
And its hero the Conqueror Worm!
Ah! the thought pales from these lines like light from dying cinders. Poetry is but ashes telling that a fire has passed. (Sits gloomily. Suddenly remembers the raven, turns and stares at it) You bird of damnation, leave me in peace with my dead!... O, dreaming fool, ’t is nothing.... My mind ’s a chaos that surges up this fancy. (Tries to write, stops, goes on, trembles, and looks up) ... Can I know fear? I, the very nursling of dreams? Who have lived in a world more tenanted with ghosts than men? I can not be afraid.... (Tries to write. Drops pen. Shudders, looking with furtive fear at the raven) ... I am ... I am afraid.... Virginia! (Creeps toward bed) Stay with me, little bride. My little rose-bride! (Fingers along coverlet, looking at raven) Do not leave me. Quick, little love! Give me life in a kiss! (Touches her hand, shrinks, and springs up) Dead!... (Leans against foot of bed, wildly facing the raven) Speak, fiend! From what dim region of unbodied souls hast come? What hell ungorged thee for her messenger? What sentence have the devils passed upon me? To what foul residence in some blasted star am I condemned? Speak! By every sigh that poisons happy breath!—by every misery that in me rocks and genders her swart young!—by yonder life that now in golden ruin lies!—I charge thee speak! How long shall I wander without rest? How long whirl in the breath of unforgiving winds? Or burn in the refining forges of the sun? When will the Universe gather me to her heart and give me of her still, unthrobbing peace? Speak! When—O when will this driven spirit be at home?
