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 wasn'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 isn'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 isn'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 'twas love he wanted ... and I brought him that ... love that shakes but with the globe itself. But it does not help ... 'twas 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, 'twas nothing, dear. 'Tis 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 AEolus! 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, isn'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, 'tis 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 'tis 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? 'Tis 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. 'Tis a relief to get rid of old books when we've lost our love for them, isn'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 wouldn'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, 'tis ... 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) '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)



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 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)

Scene II: An hour later. A bar-room. Door in center, rear. Four men at table, left, rear, playing cards.

Haines. Was afraid you wouldn't show up to-night, Juggy.

Juggers. Nothing like a stormy night for a good game. Never miss one. Rain brings me luck.

Black. Then, by Jacks, you'll have it all your way to-night. It's pouring hogsheads. Your deal, Sharp. (They play in silence. Poe enters, rear, walks uncertainly across the room and takes a seat, right, front. There seems to be life only in his eyes, their burning light revealing a soul struggling free from a corpse. He sits unnoticed for a short time)

Sharp. (To barkeeper) Say, Thomas, I thought this was a gentleman's house. What's that in the corner? Looks like a coffin might 'a' spilt it on the way to the graveyard.

Bark. (In lower tone) He's one o' these writin' fellers in hard luck. I've let him hang around here a good deal, for he's always quiet and gives me no show for kickin' him out. But say the word and he goes.

Haines. Looks more like a sick man than a bum.

Sharp. Bah! He can drink till he wets his boots. I know that sort of a face.

Bark. Never drinks anything 'round here.

Sharp. Good reason. You don't wear a charity medal.

Jug. Let him stay for luck.

Sharp. Whose luck? You're doing all the winning to-night, Juggers. He's a Jonah for the rest of us. I want his eye off me, I say.

Black. O, let him alone. I'd ask a burglar to have a seat in my house a night like this—'pon honor, I would. Play up. (They play on)

Poe. What a noble palace is here! How the gleaming vault reaches to heaven and mocks the stars! What resplendent lights! As though the master had taken burning planets for his candles! How far they throw their beams—around the world and into the nether sea!

Jug. (To Haines, who is looking at Poe) Mind your play there, Haines.

Poe. I know this place. It is the poet's house of dream that all my life I've sought to reach. I am dying now, and they let me in, because I have been true to them. The master will read it in my face. I have not eaten of the flesh-pots! I have beggared my body, but I have not beggared my soul!

Sharp. Curse it, Juggers! It's yours again!

Haines. Take your medicine, Sharp. A man must know how to lose as well as win.

Poe. Yonder is the master, arrayed all in white and gold and sapphire. Those angels that attend him are poets wrapped in fires of love. They talk about me now, and ask if I am worthy to come in. O, I have loved ye well, immortal dead! Through noons that burnt the world I've tracked your dewy shadows! No day died in my eyes but ye were whispering priests! And midnight stars have learned your names of me!

Sharp. (Throwing down cards) It's that hoodoo in the corner!

Poe. How wonderful their voices! They speak a strange language, but I can interpret it.

Sharp. I'll not play another card until he goes!

Poe. He says that by the trembling of the planet-lights an earth-soul come this way. He sees me!

Black. Well, by Jacks, I've got a dollar for his supper and bed.

Poe. He says that 'tis a strange creature carrying a burning brand in his bosom.

Sharp. You can afford to be a fool. You've helped Juggers rake in.

Poe. Not a brand, he says, but an immortal star.

Sharp. Thomas, set that oil painting outside, will you?

Poe. They ask the master if they may come to meet me. (Barkeeper approaches Poe) Ah, the master comes himself, for I am one of the chosen.

Barkeeper. Get out o' this!

Poe. (Rising slowly) Thou mighty one, thy servant hears thee!

Bark. Eh?

Poe. I'll be the humblest round thy throne.

Bark. Look here, I was a little soft about you, but now you just shove along!

Poe. I beg your pardon,—may I ask the name of this planet?

Bark. Eh?

Poe. Is it—the earth?

Bark. (Shaking him) None o' your squibs!

Poe. (Recognizing and throwing him off with momentary strength) Do not touch me, George Thomas. I will go.

Black. (Flinging him a piece of silver, which falls to the floor) There's a bed for you.

Poe. I dare not touch it, sir, lest I be infected, for the angels who look upon us know that I shall be in health when fever shall sit on your bones and agues make their bed in your marrow!

Jug. A gentleman can't stand that jaw. Kick him out, Thomas, or I will.

Poe. Do not touch me! You walking clay! who button your coats about three meals a day and think you have belted in the universe! Go listen to the sea lapping rock and bone to her oblivious mill, and know your hearts shall sleep as sand within her shells! By the dead worlds that drift in yonder void, and long have sung the swan-song of their deities, this too shall pass, and ere it passes flesh shall learn its impotence! Grey stalkers from the past shall clutch the throat of days! All wrongs shall rise and gather their revenge! And man—

Sharp. Here you crazy Tom! That's just enough!

(Tries to take hold of Poe)

Poe. Off! See what I see! The Conqueror Worm! Fold on fold the red-fanged monster creeps! Look! your doom, ye swine with sodden eyes fast shut against sublimities! Ye—

Jug. (Taking Poe by the throat) I'll stop your croaking!

(Haines and Black pull Juggers from Poe, who falls to seat utterly exhausted)

Haines. Can't you keep your hands off a sick man?

Jug. Sick! He's the devil!

Haines. Then you might as well make his acquaintance.

Poe. 'Tis here ... death ... and all is yet to say. O, I have chattered as a babe! Now, I could speak, and dust is in my mouth!... Helen, you told me to be content with the letters.... I have tried to read ... to steal God's book. He has punished ... but death pays my bond. Soon I shall read with His eyes and be at peace. Peace! (Gives a dying shudder) Nevermore!... (Rises, staggers to door and opens it wide) O, Night, with thy minstrel winds, blow gently on me dead ... for I have been thy lover! (Looks back at the men who are gazing at him intently, and speaks lowly, erect and godlike) In His own image created He man!... (Turns and steps into the darkness.)

(CURTAIN)

THE END