Semiramis and Other Plays Part 74

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. G.o.d 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 G.o.ds!... (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 mult.i.tudinous 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 G.o.d!... (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 pa.s.sed. (Sits gloomily. Suddenly remembers the raven, turns and stares at it) You bird of d.a.m.nation, 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 h.e.l.l ungorged thee for her messenger? What sentence have the devils pa.s.sed 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! (Hoa.r.s.ely) It spoke! I heard it! (Whispers) Nevermore! (He falls in a swoon.

Candle flickers in the wind and goes out. Darkness)

(CURTAIN)

ACT V.

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 l.u.s.ty 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 a.s.sure 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 G.o.d 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.