Poe. Gone! I ’ll not permit it! My aunt must bring her back! (Hurries into house)
Zu. Wha’ make him ac’ so now? An’ wha’ make Miss Babylam’ cry hussef sick when she ’s gwine away ter be a fine lady? Mars Nelson he mighty good to gib her eddication, but true fo’ sho he might jes’ well gib it to my Tatermally fer all de thanks he ’s gittin’. Ol’ Zurie reckon it a sin to cry ober de goodness ob God!
(Mrs. Clemm and Poe come out of cottage, both disturbed)
Poe. But, aunt, how are we going to live without her?
Mrs. C. My dear Edgar, we must not let our affections root so deep in mortal things.
Poe. Mortal? Virginia mortal! She is a sister to Psyche, immortal as the breath that blew her into beauteous bloom!
Mrs. C. While I am glad, my son, to see you so devoted to your sister—
Poe. Sister! Thank Heaven she is not my sister! Aunt, Virginia must be my wife!
Mrs. C. (Bewildered) Are you mad, Edgar?
Poe. No. Sane at last. I have been mad until now. I have drunk loneliness and death. Here I breathe, grateful, glad as a flower! My breast swells and falls as a bird’s throat with happy song! O, aunt, help me to accept this fair new life—the only real life! Do not drive me back to gloom and the devils! Give me your Virginia!