The Portable Edgar Allan Poe (74 page)

Read these items
after
the Report. As to the Lecture, I am very quiet about it—but, if you have ever dealt with such topics, you will recognize the novelty &
moment
of my views. What I have propounded will (in good time) revolutionize the world of Physical & Metaphysical Science. I say this calmly—but I say it.

I shall not go till I hear from you.

Truly Yours,
E A POE

 

By the bye, lest you infer that my views, in detail, are the same with those advanced in the
Nebular Hypothesis
,
I
venture to offer a few addenda, the substance of which was penned, though never printed, several years ago, under the head of—A Prediction. . . .

How will
that
do for a postscript?

 

I have pressed your letter again and again to my lips, sweetest Helen—bathing it in tears of joy, or of a “divine despair”. But I—who so lately, in your presence, vaunted the “power of words”—of what avail are mere words to me now?
Could I
believe in the efficiency of prayers to the God of Heaven, I would indeed kneel—humbly kneel—at this the most earnest epoch of my life—kneel in entreaty for words—
but
for words that should disclose to you—that might enable me to lay bare to you my whole heart. All thoughts—all passions seem now merged in that one consuming desire—the mere wish to make you comprehend—to make you see
that
for which there is no human voice—the unutterable fervor of my love for you:—for so well do I know your poet-nature, oh Helen, Helen! that I feel sure if you could but look down
now
into the depths of my soul with your pure spiritual eyes you
could
not refuse to speak to me what, alas! you still resolutely have unspoken—you would
love
me if only for the greatness of my love. Is it not something in this cold, dreary world,
to be loved?—
Oh, if I could but burn into your spirit the deep—the
true
meaning which I attach to those three syllables underlined!—but, alas: the effort is all in vain and “I live and die unheard”.

When I spoke to you of what I felt, saying that I loved now for the
first
time, I did not hope you would believe or even understand me; nor can I hope to convince you now—but if, throughout some long, dark summer night, I could but have held you close, close to my heart and whispered to you the strange secrets of its passionate history, then indeed you would have seen that I have been far from attempting to deceive you in this respect. I could have shown you that it was not and could never have been in the power of any other than yourself to move me as I am now moved—to oppress me with this ineffable emotion—to surround and bathe me in this electric light, illumining and enkindling my whole nature—filling my soul with glory, with wonder, and with awe. During our walk in the cemetery I said to you, while the bitter, bitter tears sprang into my eyes—“Helen, I love now—now—for the first and only time.” I said this, I repeat, in no hope that you could believe me, but because I could not help feeling how unequal were the heart-riches we might offer each to each. . . .

And now, in the most simple words at my command, let me paint to you the impression made upon me by your personal presence.—As you entered the room, pale, timid, hesitating, and evidently oppressed at heart; as your eyes rested appealingly, for one brief moment, upon mine, I felt, for the first time in my life, and tremblingly acknowledged, the existence of spiritual influences altogether out of the reach of the reason. I saw that you were
Helen—my
Helen—the Helen of a thousand dreams—she whose visionary lips had so often lingered upon my own in the divine trance of passion—she whom the great Giver of all Good had preordained to be mine—mine only—if not now, alas! then at least hereafter and
forever
, in the Heavens.—You spoke falteringly and seemed scarcely conscious of what you said. I heard no words—only the soft voice, more familiar to me than my own, and more melodious than the songs of the angels. Your hand rested within mine, and my whole soul shook with a tremulous ecstasy. And then but for very shame—but for the fear of grieving or oppressing you—I would have fallen at your feet in as pure—in as real a
worship
as was ever offered to Idol or to God. And when, afterwards, on those two successive evenings of all-Heavenly delight, you passed to and fro about the room—now sitting by my side, now far away, now standing with your hand resting on the back of my chair, while the praeternatural thrill of your touch vibrated even through the senseless wood into my heart—while you moved thus restlessly about the room—as if a deep Sorrow or a more profound Joy haunted your bosom—my brain reeled beneath the intoxicating spell of your presence, and it was with no merely human senses that I either saw or heard you. It was my soul only that distinguished you there. I grew faint with the luxury of your voice and blind with the voluptuous lustre of your eyes.

Let me quote to you a passage from your letter:—“You will, perhaps, attempt to convince me that my person is agreeable to you—that my countenance interests you:—but in this respect I am so variable that I should inevitably disappoint you if you hoped to find in me to-morrow the same aspect which won you to-day. And, again, although my reverence for your intellect and my admiration of your genius make me feel like a
child
in your presence, you are not, perhaps, aware that I am many years older than yourself. I
fear
you do not know it, and that if you
had
known it you would not have felt for me as you do.”—To all this what shall I—what
can I
say—except that the heavenly candor with which you speak oppresses my heart with so rich a burden of love that my eyes overflow with sweet tears. You are mistaken, Helen, very far mistaken about this matter of age. I am older than you; and if illness and sorrow have made you seem older than you are—is not all this the best of reason for my loving you the more? Cannot my patient cares—my watchful, earnest attention—cannot the magic which lies in such devotion as I feel for you, win back for you much—oh, very much of the freshness of your youth? But grant that what you urge were even true. Do you not feel in your inmost heart of hearts that the “soul-love” of which the world speaks so often and so idly is, in this instance at least, but the veriest, the most absolute of realities? Do you not—I ask it of your reason,
darling
, not less than of your heart—do you not perceive that it is my diviner nature—my spiritual being—which burns and pants to commingle with your own? Has the soul
age,
Helen? Can Immortality regard Time? Can that which began
never
and shall never end, consider a few wretched years of its incarnate life? Ah, I could weep—I could
almost
be angry with you for the unwarranted wrong you offer to the purity—to the sacred reality of my affection.—And how
am
I to answer what you say of your personal appearance? Have I not
seen
you, Helen, have I not heard the more than melody of your voice? Has not my heart ceased to throb beneath the magic of your smile? Have I not held your hand in mine and looked steadily into your soul through the crystal Heaven of your eyes? Have I not done all these things?—or do I dream?—or am I mad? Were you
indeed
all that your fancy, enfeebled and perverted by illness, tempts you to suppose that you are, still, life of my life! I would but love you—but worship you the more:—it would be so glorious a happiness to be able to
prove
to you what I feel! But as it is, what can I—what
am
I to say?
Who
ever spoke of you without emotion—without praise? Who
ever
saw you and did not love?

But now a deadly terror oppresses me; for I too clearly see that these objections—so groundless—so futile when urged to one whose nature must be so well known to you as mine is—can scarcely be meant earnestly; and I tremble lest they but serve to mask others, more real, and which you hesitate—perhaps in pity—to confide to me. Alas! I too distinctly perceive, also, that in no instance you have ever permitted yourself to say that you
love me.
You are aware, sweet Helen, that on my part there are insuperable reasons forbidding me to
urge
upon you my love. Were I not poor—had not my late errors and reckless excesses justly lowered me in the esteem of the good—were I wealthy, or could I offer you worldly honors—ah then—then—how proud would I be to persevere—to sue—to plead—to kneel—to pray—to beseech you for your love—in the deepest humility—at your feet—at your feet, Helen, and with floods of passionate tears.

And now let me copy here one other passage from your letter:—“I find that I cannot now tell you all that I promised. I can only say to you that had I youth and health and beauty, I would live for you and die with you.
Now
, were I to allow myself to love you, I could only enjoy a bright, brief hour of rapture and die—perhaps [illegible].”—The last five words have been [illegible] Ah, beloved, beloved Helen the darling of my heart—my first and my real love!—may God forever shield you from the agony which these your words occasion
me
! How
selfish
—how despicably selfish seems now all—
all
that I have written! Have I not, indeed, been demanding at your hands a love which might endanger your life? You will never,
never
know—you can
never
picture to yourself the hopeless, rayless despair with which I now trace these words. Alas Helen! my soul!—what is it that I have been saying to you?—to what madness have I been urging you?—I who am
nothing
to you—
you
who have a dear mother and sister to be blessed by your life and love. But ah, darling! if I
seem
selfish, yet believe that I truly,
truly
love you, and that it is the most spiritual of love that I speak, even if I speak it from the depths of the most passionate of hearts. Think—oh, think for
me,
Helen, and for yourself!
Is
there
no
hope?—is there
none
? May not this terrible disease be conquered? Frequently it
has
been overcome. And more frequently are we deceived in respect to its actual existence. Long-continued nervous disorder—especially when exasperated by ether or [omitted] —will give rise to
all
the symptoms of heart-disease and so deceive the most skillful physicians—as even in my own case they were deceived. But admit that this fearful evil
has
indeed assailed you. Do you not all the more really need the devotionate care which only one who loves you as I do, could or would bestow? On my bosom could I not still the throbbings of your own? Do not mistake me, Helen! Look, with your searching—your seraphic eyes, into the soul of my soul, and see if you can discover there one taint of an ignoble nature! At your feet—if you so willed it—I would cast from me, forever, all merely human desire, and clothe myself in the glory of a pure, calm, and
unexacting
affection. I would comfort you—soothe you—tranquillize you. My love—my faith—should instil into your bosom a praeternatural calm. You would rest from care—from all worldly agitation. You would get better, and finally well. And if
not
, Helen,—if not—if you
died
—then at least would I clasp your dear hand in death, and willingly—
oh, joyfully—joyfully—joyfully
—go down
with you
into the night of the Grave.

Write soon—soon—oh,
soon!
—but not
much.
Do not weary or agitate yourself for
my
sake. Say to me those coveted words which would turn Earth into Heaven. If Hope is forbidden, I will
not
murmur if you comfort me with Love.—The papers of which you speak I will procure and forward immediately. They will cost me nothing,
dear
Helen, and I therefore re-enclose you what you so thoughtfully sent. Think that, in doing so, my lips are pressed fervently and lingeringly upon your own. And now, in closing this long, long letter, let me speak last of that which lies nearest my heart—of that precious gift which I would not exchange for the surest hope of Paradise. It seems to me too sacred that I should even whisper
to you
, the dear giver, what it is. My soul, this night, shall come to you in dreams and speak to you those fervid thanks which my pen is all powerless to utter.

EDGAR

 

P. S. Tuesday Morning.—I beg you to believe, dear Helen, that I replied to your letter
immediately
upon its receipt; but a most unusual storm, up to this moment, precludes all access to the City.