When silent are the chambers of the mind
To rippling laughter and to whispering love,
When Hope hath whirred away, a mourning dove,
And bats dart in and out, and moans the wind,
Then Melancholy comes, to night consigned,
And haunts the moonlit windows. Perhaps above,
Not on this earth, can shadowy thoughts that rove
Like troubled ghosts a sweet oblivion find.
O like some cindered orb that shineth not,
Yet holdeth still its planets as a sun,
Is one burnt out by sorrow and o'erfraught
With that mute anguish of a life undone--
That sinking of the heart, that deadly thought
That all is lost and would be worthless won.
[Handing paper to her.] I would that it were better.
Bertha. 'Tis so sad.
Chatterton. I wrote it on the midnight of the day
I fell into a new-made grave.
Bertha. O, sir,
Yield not to gloom; for you are rich in mind.
Of all the boons the Fates propitious grant
I'd choose the golden branch of poesy.
Chatterton. Each man doth pay a price for what he has.
The very qualities of mind and heart
That make a poet make a sufferer.
The keenness of perception, which unfolds
A realm of beauty hid to other eyes,
Unmasks the world: shows him indifference
Behind the flimsy guise of courtesy,
The shallowness of friendship, the alloy
Of self, debasing charity to trade.
The vividness of his imagination,
Which, in a garret, gives him trees and flowers,
The cool salt sea and heaven's blue expanse,
Enlarges troubles, and creates such fears
He trembles at the possible in life.
The sensibility, which treasures up
Each word or look of kindness as a gem,
Makes bitterer the haughtiness of birth,
The vulgar swelling of a pompous purse,
The slur, the slight, the mockery of fools.
Beyond he sees a spiritual sphere,
Where, by unselfishness, the terrible
Becomes a valued teacher--where the power
To wound through self is lost; yet cannot reach it.
He is a medium through which all things speak:
The human passions wrack his nervous frame;
Each thing in nature makes his heart its pulse.
Who would aspire to wear the laurel crown?--
It is a crown of thorns! [Sinks back upon chair.]
Bertha. O you are faint from hunger!
Chatterton. 'Tis not so:
A giddiness--be not afraid--'t will pass-- [Faints.]
Bertha. [Going to him and raising his head.]
O Chatterton, look up! He's dead! He's dead!
O world, behold your deed! His eyelids move!
Chatterton. [Recovering.]
'Tis gone. O I would die to wake like this.
Bertha. I'll get a glass of water.
[Goes to washstand and brings water back.]
Here, drink this.
Chatterton. [After drinking.]
I have these spells--they are not serious.
Bertha. You are not well, you are not well.
[An increasing noise outside is heard.]
Enter Mrs. Angell in great excitement.
Mrs. Angell. Fly, Chatterton, fly! fly!
Chatterton. Have you gone mad?
Mrs. Angell. Fly! Mr. Burgum swears he'll murder you--
He is enraged.
Chatterton. I would fly only one
Who had the power to extend my lease of life:
I am aweary of the premises.
Mrs. Angell. He's foaming at the mouth.
Chatterton. Then let him foam.
Each petty wave upon the mighty sea
Foams at its pleasure--why not he? I say
Then let him foam.
Enter Burgum in a fury.
Burgum. [Waving his cane.] I'll murder him!
Bertha. [Interposing.] You shall not harm him, father.
Mrs. Angell. [To Chatterton.] Come away!
Chatterton. Nay; he is harmless as a bottled bee:
He can but buzz.
Bertha. [To Burgum.] What is the matter, sir?
Burgum. That knave! that knave!--the pedigree is false!
What can you say, you villain?
Bertha. He is ill.
Burgum. I care not for his illness, let him speak!--
You swindler, speak!
Bertha. You gave him but a crown.
Burgum. Peace, peace; or I shall drive you from the room.
[To Chatterton.] Now answer me!
Chatterton. [Rising.] Were it not for your age
And for your daughter whom I do respect,
I'd answer not in words.
Bertha. O Chatterton!
Mrs. Angell. O gentlemen, I beg you both forbear.
Chatterton. [To Bertha.]
Have no fear, lady; did he bear a knife
To stab me here, I would not parry it,
If by such action I should frighten you.
Stand not between.
Burgum. In King's Bench you shall lodge!
Chatterton. Then I shall fatten at the town's expense.
Now, look you, Burgum, I'll no more of this,
Unless the lady bid me, so take heed.
This room doth show my poverty and needs,
Yet 'tis my castle, sir!
Burgum. I am undone;
And Bristol will clap hands upon her sides
And roar with mirth. Why did you dupe me so?--
'Twas not for money, for 'twas but a crown.
Chatterton. 'Twas not for money, or you should have paid
A thousand crowns. You will remember, sir,
That when a pupil at the Bluecoat School,
Poor, lonely, friendless, with a thirst for lore,
I came to ask of you the loan of books,
You mocked my poverty, jeered at my verse,
And sneering bade me learn the cobbler's trade.
I knew your passion was for gold and birth;
And gold you had. In bitter sport
I wrote your pedigree, scarce thinking it
Would be received with credence; yet it was.
I should have told you then, but you did swell
And treat me with disdain. I tell you now
That, since you are the father of this girl,
I'd give my life to undo what is done;
Yet, were you not her father, I do swear
I'd give my life to do it o'er again.
I made a fool of gold, for it had made
A fool of me so long.
Burgum. The whole is false:
My ancestor was not of Norman blood,
And John de Bergham never lived at all.
Chatterton. He habited a world within a world--
This globe of fancy, where strange creatures live,
And all the business of existence moves
Unrecked of, as though on some distant orb.--
Thank heaven! that, being a poet, he dwelt not here.
Burgum. [Despairingly.] What shall I do?
Bertha. [To Chatterton.] Can nothing be contrived
By which my father may derision 'scape?
Chatterton. [To Burgum, after a thoughtful pause.]
You are not known in London; what is done
Will ne'er to Bristol come: you can give out,
Anent the pedigree, 'twas all your joke.
Play your cards slowly, and with that same tact
With which you bargain for your tin and lead;
And, sir, the game is yours.
Burgum. [Chuckling.] To turn the laugh
Upon the laughers--good--that is the trick.
Come, daughter, come.
Mrs. Angell. 'Tis dark: I'll go before.
[Exit Mrs. Angell followed by Burgum.]
Bertha. Good-by.
Chatterton. O lady, when I said good-by
To my dear mother on the cloudy night
I took the coach for London, I did feel
As though that word were fully charged with grief;
But 'twas not so.
Bertha. O, sir, do not despair;
And should we never meet again, believe
My thoughts will ever wander back to you.
Chatterton. We shall not meet again.
Burgum. [Calling from without.] Come, Bertha.
Bertha. [To Burgum.] Yes!
[To Chatterton.] Why so?
Chatterton. If Barrett recommend me strong,
I sail for Africa as surgeon's mate.
Bertha. Indeed!--but then you will return.
Chatterton. Perhaps.
Bertha. I will not say good-by--good-night.
Chatterton. [Kissing her hand.] Farewell.
[Chatterton sinks upon chair, his elbows resting on table, his face upon
his hands. Bertha pauses at doorway, looks back pityingly, and then
goes out.]
Chatterton. [Raising his head.]
Alone, again alone, yet more alone
Than e'er I was before. [After a pause.] The hope is vain.
O there is consolation in the thought
That though a puppet in the hands of fate
A man is born and lives--made now a king,
And now, the sport for mocking enemies,
He has the power when evils hedge him round,
And joy and love and hope have fled for aye,
To laugh! ring down the drop, and end the play.
Enter Mrs. Angell.
Mrs. Angell. Here is a letter, sir, that came to-day.
[Hands letter to Chatterton.]
Chatterton. [To himself.]
This is in Barrett's hand: it seals my doom.
[Opens letter and reads to himself.]
I cannot recommend you for the place
Of surgeon's mate--you know too little physic.
[Tears up letter and throws pieces on floor.]
Mrs. Angell. Bad news?
Chatterton. Good news--a warrant for my death.
Mrs. Angell. How pale you look! but I have that will bring
The color to your cheek. The lady begs
That you accept this as a loan. [Gives a purse to Chatterton.]
Chatterton. She's kind.
Heaven grant her happiness. [Throwing up purse.]
This yellow god
Distributes favors with a curious hand.
The kings of his creation are so low
Of forehead that their crowns sit on their eyebrows.
They have, for motley fools, wise men--so called
(Not wise enough to live within their age),
Who feed upon the bones their masters throw
Beneath the table. 'Tis the voice of fate,
Exclusion's cruel law, that he who carries
In the clouds his head shall stumble on the earth.
Here, take the trash--I am no pauper yet. [Gives purse to her.]
Mrs. Angell. [Aside.] The boy is surely crazed.
Chatterton. There, go at once.
I cannot, with these artificial words,
Show the brain busy, and keep out the thoughts
That knock to be admitted. No more--go!
Mrs. Angell. [With emotion.] I meant not to offend.
Chatterton. I am too rude.
I needs must take a tenderer farewell.
Mrs. Angell. Farewell? Why how you talk! You will not leave?
Chatterton. I may, perhaps.
Mrs. Angell. Where are you going, sir?
Chatterton. To sea; but vex me not at present, please;
And, should my mother come to you, tell her
How hard I worked; but 'twas of no use--no use.
Good-by, dear Mrs. Angell. [Kisses her.]
Mrs. Angell. I'll leave the lamp.
Chatterton. No: take it--'tis too brilliant.
[Lights candle and hands lamp to her.]
Mrs. Angell. You will feel
Much better in the morning.
Chatterton. Pray I may.
Mrs. Angell. [Aside.] I'll ask my husband what is best to do.
[Exit Mrs. Angell with lamp. Lights lowered.]
Chatterton. And should I reach ambition's goal at last--
My brain would not hold out. Why, even now
I feel rebellion 'gainst the reason strong
And frenzy coming on. No, not that fate--
Confined within a mad-house! there to sit,
Perchance for years--long years--with vacant stare
And slabber dripping from the fallen lip;
Or with a maniac's eye to see such things
As hell doth not contain; to hear loud shrieks
And clanking chains--O God, not that, not that!
[After a pause.] I'll do it, and to-night.
[Goes to door and locks it. The click of the lock is heard.]
There Hope, stay out:
Come not to me when life is past recall.
[Comes back to table.]
They shall not have the poems which they spurned,
But Rowley shall with Chatterton expire.
[Draws out box from under table, and takes out manuscripts.]
O how these papers plead with me for life!
All my young thoughts and all my early dreams--
I cannot do it! O I cannot do it!
[Weeping, he lets his head fall upon his arm.]
[After a pause.] Here fools may thrive; and I--why I lack bread.
[Firmly.] It must be thus.
[Tears up papers, and throws pieces fluttering into the air.]
O turn to white-winged gulls, and fly away:
This is no place for you. And now the end.
[Takes a vial from his pocket.]
I feel much calmer. [Looking at vial.] It is better thus:
A bullet tearing through my fevered brain
Seems so abhorrent to me. Yet 'tis sad
To send this ghostly messenger to bid
My troubled heart be still--and then these hands,
These faithful, willing hands that even now
Obey me to the death.
[Coarse laughter of a man and woman far off in the street is heard.]
What noise is that?
[The ribalds come nearer and nearer, singing the following song, with
occasional bursts of mirth. Chatterton goes to window, throws open
casement. The moonlight streams in.]