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_ ACT IV SCENE II
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)
'Tis 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! 'Tis 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, 'tis 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?
(Silence. Poe listens with intense expectation
and fear. The raven flies out)
It spoke!
(Hoarsely)
It spoke! I heard it!
(Whispers)
Nevermore!
(He falls in a swoon. Candle flickers in
the wind and goes out. Darkness)
(CURTAIN) _
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