The Portable Edgar Allan Poe - Edgar Allan Poe [260]
How will that do for a postscript?
This letter reveals Poe’s utter preoccupation with the cosmological theories eventually published as Eureka. Poe labors to refute more accusations of insobriety but curiously refuses to disagree with the editors of the Weekly Universe, who have described his habits as “shockingly irregular.” The lengthy post-script, condensed here, appears in Mabbott’s edition of Tales (volume 3, pages 1320-22) as “A Prediction,” and elaborates a theory of the origins of the solar system.
EDGAR ALLAN POE TO SARAH HELEN WHITMAN
[Fordham] Sunday Night—Oct. 1—48.
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