________________________________________________
_ ACT V SCENE I
Scene I: Poe's lodging, Baltimore. Small room.
Cot, table, and one chair. Poe writing
Poe.
(Pressing his temples)
Throb--throb--but you shall finish this.
(Writes)
You, too, rebel, old pen? On, on like a
lusty cripple, and we'll scratch out of this hole.
(Lifting pen)
Why, old fellow, this will buy bread. O, bread, bread,
bread, for one sweet crumb of thee to feed an angel here!
(Touching his forehead)
Gordon will not
fail me. His letter will come to-day. And with his help
I'll get on good ground once more. And then!...
(Writes. Drops pen with a groan)
... Gordon's letter must come
to-day. O, I would live, would live, for seeds are
gendering in my mind that might their branches throw above
the clouds and shake immortal buds to this bare earth!...
(Looks at writing)
Words! Ye are but coffins for imagination! No more of you!
(Crushes paper)
Eternity's in labor with this hour!
(Leaps up)
I could make Time my page to carry memories from star
to star! O Heaven, wouldst thou vouchsafe thy visions
to these eyes, then fill them with cold clay? Pour
to these ears thine own philosophies, then send the
crawling worm to pluck their treasure out?
(Falls to chair. Enter Mrs. Schmidt)
Mrs. S.
(Holding out letter)
Here it is, sir.
Poe.
(Rousing)
What, Smidgkin?
Mrs. S.
The letter's come, sir.
Poe.
Thank you.
(Takes letter. Mrs. Schmidt waits expectantly)
If you will be so good, Smidgkin--I mean if you will be so
cruel as to bereave me of your presence while I break this
very personal seal--very personal, I assure you--
Mrs. S.
No, sir. I stay to see what's inside o' that!
Poe.
Since you desire it, madam.
(Starts to open letter and hesitates)
I--hope you are well, my good Smidgkin.
Mrs. S.
Always am. Hadn't you better see what's in it?
Poe.
To be sure.... I hope you have a good fire in your room
this chilly weather, Smidgkin.
Mrs. S.
Always do. I'll break it for you, Mr. Poe.
Poe.
O, no, no! I couldn't think of troubling you. The rain
beats very heavily. I hope your-er-roof will not be
injured.
Mrs. S.
Law me, I had every leaf tinkered up them sunny days
last week. I believe in preparin' for a rainy day, I do,
Mr. Poe.
Poe.
Indeed, yes,--if only we were all so wise, but, alas, my
dear Smidgkin, some of us build so high that the angels
have to come down and tinker our roofs ... and when they
won't, Smidgkin ... when they won't
(Lays letter on the table)
... I hope you have no errands to take you from
your cheerful fireside in weather like this, Mrs.
Smidgkin.
Mrs. S.
My name is Schmidt, Mr. Poe.
Poe.
Pardon me, madam.
Mrs. S.
Air you a goin' to open that letter or air you not?
Poe.
Why, good woman, to be sure I am. I did not know you were
particularly interested. Excuse me. Here goes--and God
mend the devil's work.
(Opens letter and reads)
'I have talked with Brackett--' Brackett!
(Drops letter and sits dumb)
Mrs. S.
He sent you the ten dollars, hey? Where is it, hey?
Seems to me that's white paper with mighty few marks on
it! Not much like a ten dollar bill! Where is it, I say?
Lost in the mailbags, I reckon! It will come by next post!
You're certain--quite certain, Smidgkin! I tell you, Mr.
Poe, this is once too often!
Poe.
A bare, unfurnished room like this--
Mrs. S.
Is worth just a dollar a week to me, which is exactly a
dollar more than you can pay!
Poe.
Mrs. Smidgkin, there is a legend in the world that pity
never wholly leaves the breast of woman.
Mrs. S.
Shame to your tongue, Mr. Poe, that says I haven't been
as kind to you as your own mother--sister! Haven't you had
this room nigh to a month since I've seen a cent for it?
Didn't I give you stale bread a whole week, an' coffee a
Sunday mornin'? An' you dare say I'm not a Christian,
merciful woman? You come out o' here, or I'll put hands on
you, I will!
Poe.
Mrs. Smidgkin, Mrs. Smidgkin, are you aware that the rain
pours outside like the tears of the Danaides on their
wedding night? And speaking of weddings, Smidgkin--
Mrs. S.
Schmidt! As you'll find on my good man's tombstone, an'
some day on my own, bless God!
Poe.
O, don't talk so, I beg you!
Mrs. S.
Why now, Mr. Poe! Law me, who'd a thought you could be
so softhearted--about a tombstone, too!
Poe.
As I said, my dear madam--speaking of weddings--pray take
this chair. 'Tis all I have to offer. Gladly will I stand
before you, though I am but slightly bolstered within for
the attitude. Speak to me, madam. Let one thought fly from
thy caging brow to me a beggar vile.
Mrs. S.
O, Mr. Poe!
Poe.
Thanks for the burden of those syllables.
Mrs. S.
My dear Mr. Poe!
Poe.
Again? You overwhelm me? Dare I speak? You have suspected?
You know why I linger in this dear room--dear as the
barrier that staves off guttery death? This kindness is
sincere? I may trust it and speak?
Mrs. S.
You may, Mr. Poe.
Poe.
Well then, sweet Smidgkin, will you open the broad gates
of genial widowhood to admit a fallen wretch to the warmth
of your bosom and hearthstone--particularly the latter?
Mrs. S.
(With dignity)
I presume, Mr. Poe, that I am addressed
by an offer of marriage. I have had offers before, Mr.
Poe,--one an undertaker who drove a good business, but he
looked for all the world like one of his own corpses an'
what is business says I to a woman in good circumstances
with a longin' heart? I don't mind sayin' it, Mr. Poe, a
nice lookin' man always did take my eye, an' you'll be a
pretty figure when you're plumped out a bit, indeed you
will, but your addresses of this offer is somewhat
unusual, an' if you'll give me time--
Poe.
The weather, madam, will admit of no delay. Since you are
so determined, I must give up hope and seek shelter under
Jove's great canopy.
Mrs. S.
O, don't go there, Mr. Poe--it's a bad place, that Canpy
house, an' I've heard Jove talked about for a vile
barkeep! I guess since you're so impetus I'll say yes to
these addresses of marriage, Mr. Poe.
Poe.
Ha! ha! ha!
Mrs. S.
What do you mean, Mr. Poe? My dear Eddie, I should say!
Poe.
I mean, madam, that death loves a joke.
Mrs. S.
O, my sweet Eddie, don't be talkin' about death. You're
so pale I don't wonder--and a'most starved out I'll
venture my word for it. But you won't know yourself in a
week. I've got the sweetest room downstairs--all in blue
an' white, with a bed three feet o' feathers, soft as a
goosebreast, I warrant, an' I'll tuck you in an' bring you
a toddy that'll warm you to your toes, it will, an'--
Poe.
Ha! ha! ha! Well, why not? I seize this wretched plank or
sink with all that in me is. Men have done it. But not
Edgar Poe! Sell my soul for a broth-dish--a saucepan--a
feather-bed--
Mrs. S.
O, he's out of his mind, sure he is! My sweet Eddie, he's
loved me distracted!
Poe.
Can this be woman?
Mrs. S.
Law me!
Poe.
The sex that knew a Virginia--that knows a Helen? No!
there are men, women ... and angels!
Mrs. S.
Look here, Mr. Poe, don't you mention no women 'round me!
O, Eddy, my Eddy!
(Offers to caress him)
Poe.
Away! You wench from Venus' kitchen!
(Going)
This weather ... once I could have braved it with
the wildest wing that ever flew. But now....
(coughs wretchedly)
Mrs. S.
No rent an' no husband either!
Poe.
Up, heart, we go! Henceforth I live by spirit-bread! Lead
me, ye unseen comrades, to immortal feasts!
(Exit)
(CURTAIN) _
Read next: Act 5 - Scene 2
Read previous: Act 4 - Scene 2
Table of content of Poet
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your review
Your review will be placed after the table of content of this book
