more in the interior of the tavern managed by the red‑bearded sailor, who
is still drinking his unending gin. Eddy
enters, agitated, and addresses the sailor, as if in a request for assistance.)
It is you! I was running away when suddenly I saw
Ulalume’s beautiful sepulchre, and I cried:
‘It was surely October
On this very night of last
That I journeyed- I
journeyed down here-
That I brought a dread
burden down here-
On this night of all
nights in the year,
Well I know, now, this dim
lake of Auber-
This misty mid region of
Well I know, now, this
dank tarn of Auber,
woodland of Weir.’
Where have you come from? Is someone following
Drink something with me like that same night last
Have I been in Baltimore a year?
I know neither that nor any other thing about the
passing of time. (He offers him a drink, which Eddy
accepts. They drink) ‘It was surely October, on this very
night of last year.’ It was you that said it.
I feel ill and am pursued by strange larvae. In a
garden of fantasy I have succeeded in decapitating the serpent, but in in so
doing I have liberated a world of larvae which have flowed out with its blood.
When I came in here, they suddenly disappeared.
Rest, then, a time. Drink in peace.
(With colourless enthusiasm)
Let us sail, good sir, the sea of gin!
(As though recalling a time past)
‘This foggy and comfortable night, under these ashen lights.’
(The same) ‘Your
glass of gin isn’t going anywhere.’
(The same) ‘You can
also reach your journey’s end sailing the sea of gin.’ (They drink) How
goes that sailing?
The seas are very dark and swampy. In their depths
lie, submerged since the beginning of time, the old velveted salons of the
House of Usher, and Berenice shows me her said and toothless jaw.
That sounded very good. But I have no idea what it
I am drowning, drowning in the depths of the
Do not let yourself go under, my good friend. Can
you not swim?
listen. Something is happening to me. Just now I suddenly have suddenly sensed
a light. I am in Baltimore. Here I have a friend. If something were to happen
to me, please call him. Do you understand? I am dying. My name is Edgar Allan
Poe. Please call my friend, Doctor Snodgrass, in Saint Luke’s Hospital. And I
try to but now no longer the serpent the larvae I am-going-to-make-a-great-literary-review
America is infernal and I do not know Only But no The darkness has increased
materially. It is only modified somewhat by the glittering of the water
reflected in the white veil which stretches out before us . . . Some
gigantic birds, ghostly‑white, are flying incessantly, coming out from
behind that veil, and their cry is the eternal ‘Tekeli‑li’ as they flee
from us . . . Nu‑Nu has just died at the bottom of the
canoe . . . and we plunge toward the great cataract, where an
abyss opens to receive us. But suddenly there rises above us, wrapped in a
white shroud, a very great human figure . . . greater than any other
earthly being . . . And the skin of this great figure has the
perfect whiteness of the snow . . . (Eddy’s
head slumps forward onto the table. Then the solitary Waitress
Is that the customer?
Yes. He has come twice.
And is he dead?
No, nothing of the sort. Here, take this note to
the Washington Hospital. Go on your bicycle.
What does it say here? Doctor Snodgrass?
More or less. (As the girl exits, it grows dark.)