We commence, then, with this intention.
The initial consideration was that of extent. If any literary work is too long to be read at one sitting, we must be content to dispense with the immensely important effect derivable from unity of impression--for, if two sittings be required, the affairs of the world interfere, and everything like totality is at once destroyed. But since, _caeteris paribus_, no poet can afford to dispense with _anything_ that may advance his design, it but remains to be seen whether there is, in extent, any advantage to counterbalance the loss of unity which attends it. Here I say no, at once. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely a succession of brief ones--that is to say, of brief poetical effects.
It is needless to demonstrate that a poem is such, only inasmuch as it intensely excites, by elevating, the soul; and all intense excitements are, through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, at least one half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially prose--a succession of poetical excitements interspersed, _inevitably_, with corresponding depressions--the whole being deprived, through the extremeness of its length, of the vastly important artistic element, totality, or unity, of effect.
It appears evident, then, that there is a distinct limit, as regards length, to all works of literary art--the limit of a single sitting--and that, although in certain cla.s.ses of prose composition, such as "Robinson Crusoe" (demanding no unity), this limit may be advantageously overpa.s.sed, it can never properly be overpa.s.sed in a poem. Within this limit, the extent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical relation to its merit--in other words, to the excitement or elevation--again, in other words, to the degree of the true poetical effect which it is capable of inducing; for it is clear that the brevity must be in direct ratio of the intensity of the intended effect:--this, with one proviso--that a certain degree of duration is absolutely requisite for the production of any effect at all.
Holding in view these considerations, as well as that degree of excitement which I deemed not above the popular, while not below the critical, taste, I reached at once what I conceived the proper _length_ for my intended poem--a length of about one hundred lines. It is, in fact, a hundred and eight.
My next thought concerned the choice of an impression, or effect, to be conveyed; and here I may as well observe that, throughout the construction I kept steadily in view the design of rendering the work _universally_ appreciable. I should be carried too far out of my immediate topic were I to demonstrate a point upon which I have repeatedly insisted, and which, with the poetical, stands not in the slightest need of demonstration--the point, I mean, that Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem. A few words, however, in elucidation of my real meaning, which some of my friends have evinced a disposition to misrepresent. That pleasure which is at once the most intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, is, I believe, found in the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect--they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of _soul_--_not_ of intellect, or of heart--upon which I have commented, and which is experienced in consequence of contemplating "the beautiful." Now I designate Beauty as the province of the poem, merely because it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring from direct causes--that objects should be attained through means best adapted for their attainment--no one as yet having been weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation alluded to, is _most readily_ attained in the poem. Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and the object Pa.s.sion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable, to a certain extent, in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose. Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Pa.s.sion a _homeliness_ (the truly pa.s.sionate will comprehend me) which are absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty which, I maintain, is the excitement, or pleasurable elevation, of the soul. It by no means follows from anything here said, that pa.s.sion, or even truth, may not be introduced, and even profitably introduced, into a poem--for they may serve in elucidation, or aid the general effect, as do discords in music, by contrast--but the true artist will always contrive, first, to tone them into proper subservience to the predominant aim; and, secondly, to enveil them, as far as possible, in that Beauty which is the atmosphere and the essence of the poem.
Regarding, then, Beauty as my province, my next question referred to the _tone_ of its highest manifestation--and all experience has shown that this tone is one of _sadness_. Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.
The length, the province, and the tone, being thus determined, I betook myself to ordinary induction, with the view of obtaining some artistic piquancy which might serve me as a key-note in the construction of the poem--some pivot upon which the whole structure might turn. In carefully thinking over all the usual artistic effects--or more properly _points_, in the theatrical sense--I did not fail to perceive immediately that no one had been so universally employed as that of the _refrain_. The universality of its employment sufficed to a.s.sure me of its intrinsic value, and spared me the necessity of submitting it to a.n.a.lysis. I considered it, however, with regard to its susceptibility of improvement, and soon saw it to be in a primitive condition. As commonly used, the _refrain_, or burden, not only is limited to lyric verse, but depends for its impression upon the force of monotone--both in sound and thought. The pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of ident.i.ty--of repet.i.tion. I resolved to diversify, and so heighten, the effect, by adhering, in general, to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied that of thought: that is to say, I determined to produce continuously novel effects, by the variation _of the application_ of the _refrain_--the _refrain_ itself remaining, for the most part, unvaried.
These points being settled, I next bethought me of the _nature_ of my _refrain_. Since its application was to be repeatedly varied, it was clear that the _refrain_ itself must be brief, for there would have been an insurmountable difficulty in frequent variations of application in any sentence of length. In proportion to the brevity of the sentence, would, of course, be the facility of the variation. This led me at once to a single word as the best _refrain_.
The question now arose as to the _character_ of the word. Having made up my mind to a _refrain_, the division of the poem into stanzas was, of course, a corollary: the _refrain_ forming the close to each stanza.
That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous and susceptible of protracted emphasis, admitted no doubt: and these considerations inevitably led me to the long _o_ as the most sonorous vowel, in connection with _r_ as the most producible consonant.
The sound of the _refrain_ being thus determined, it became necessary to select a word embodying this sound, and at the same time in the fullest possible keeping with that melancholy which I had pre-determined as the tone of the poem. In such a search it would have been absolutely impossible to overlook the word "Nevermore." In fact, it was the very first which presented itself.
The next _desideratum_ was a pretext for the continuous use of the one word "nevermore." In observing the difficulty which I at once found in inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repet.i.tion, I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the pre-a.s.sumption that the word was to be so continuously or monotonously spoken by _a human_ being--I did not fail to perceive, in short, that the difficulty lay in the reconciliation of this monotony with the exercise of reason on the part of the creature repeating the word. Here, then, immediately arose the idea of a _non_-reasoning creature capable of speech; and, very naturally, a parrot, in the first instance, suggested itself, but was superseded forthwith by a Raven, as equally capable of speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the intended _tone_.
I had now gone so far as the conception of a Raven--the bird of ill omen--monotonously repeating the one word, "Nevermore," at the conclusion of each stanza, in a poem of melancholy tone, and in length about one hundred lines. Now, never losing sight of the object _supremeness_, or perfection, at all points, I asked myself--"Of all melancholy topics, what, according to the _universal_ understanding of mankind, is the _most_ melancholy?" Death--was the obvious reply. "And when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From what I have already explained at some length, the answer, here also, is obvious--"When it most closely allies itself to _Beauty_: the death, then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world--and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover."
I had now to combine the two ideas, of a lover lamenting his deceased mistress and a Raven continuously repeating the word "Nevermore."--I had to combine these, bearing in mind my design of varying, at every turn, the _application_ of the word repeated; but the only intelligible mode of such combination is that of imagining the Raven employing the word in answer to the queries of the lover. And here it was that I saw at once the opportunity afforded for the effect on which I had been depending--that is to say, the effect of the _variation of application_. I saw that I could make the first query propounded by the lover--the first query to which the Raven should reply "Nevermore"--that I could make this first query a commonplace one--the second less so--the third still less, and so on--until at length the lover, startled from his original _nonchalance_ by the melancholy character of the word itself--by its frequent repet.i.tion--and by a consideration of the ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it--is at length excited to superst.i.tion, and wildly propounds queries of a far different character--queries whose solution he has pa.s.sionately at heart--propounds them half in superst.i.tion and half in that species of despair which delights in self-torture--propounds them not altogether because he believes in the prophetic or demoniac character of the bird (which, reason a.s.sures him, is merely repeating a lesson learned by rote), but because he experiences a frenzied pleasure in so modelling his question as to receive from the _expected_ "Nevermore" the most delicious because the most intolerable of sorrow. Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me--or, more strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress of the construction--I first established in mind the climax, or concluding query--that query to which "Nevermore" should be in the last place an answer--that query in reply to which this word "Nevermore" should involve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and despair.
Here then the poem may be said to have its beginning--at the end, where all works of art should begin--for it was here, at this point of my pre-considerations, that I first put pen to paper in the composition of the stanza:
""Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that heaven that bends above us--by that G.o.d we both adore, Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.""
I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by establishing the climax, I might the better vary and graduate, as regards seriousness and importance, the preceding queries of the lover--and, secondly, that I might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the length and general arrangement of the stanza--as well as graduate the stanzas which were to precede, so that none of them might surpa.s.s this in rhythmical effect. Had I been able, in the subsequent composition, to construct more vigorous stanzas, I should, without scruple, have purposely enfeebled them, so as not to interfere with the climacteric effect.
And here I may as well say a few words of the versification. My first object (as usual) was originality. The extent to which this has been neglected, in versification, is one of the most unaccountable things in the world. Admitting that there is little possibility of variety in mere _rhythm_, it is still clear that the possible varieties of metre and stanza are absolutely infinite--and yet, _for centuries, no man, in verse, has ever done, or ever seemed to think of doing, an original thing_. The fact is, that originality (unless in minds of very unusual force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of impulse or intuition. In general, to be found, it must be elaborately sought, and although a positive merit of the highest cla.s.s, demands in its attainment less of invention than negation.
Of course, I pretend to no originality in either the rhythm or metre of the "Raven." The former is trochaic--the latter is octameter acatalectic, alternating with heptameter catalectic repeated in the _refrain_ of the fifth verse, and terminating with tetrameter catalectic. Less pedantically--the feet employed throughout (trochees) consist of a long syllable followed by a short: the first line of the stanza consists of eight of these feet--the second of seven and a half (in effect two-thirds)--the third of eight--the fourth of seven and a half--the fifth the same--the sixth three and a half. Now, each of these lines, taken individually, has been employed before, and what originality the "Raven" has, is in their _combination into stanza_; nothing even remotely approaching this combination has ever been attempted. The effect of this originality of combination is aided by other unusual, and some altogether novel effects, arising from an extension of the application of the principles of rhyme and alliteration.
The next point to be considered was the mode of bringing together the lover and the Raven--and the first branch of this consideration was the _locale_. For this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a forest, or the fields--but it has always appeared to me that a close _circ.u.mscription of s.p.a.ce_ is absolutely necessary to the effect of insulated incident:--it has the force of a frame to a picture. It has an indisputable moral power in keeping concentrated the attention, and, of course, must not be confounded with mere unity of place.
I determined, then, to place the lover in his chamber--in a chamber rendered sacred to him by memories of her who had frequented it. The room is represented as richly furnished--this in mere pursuance of the ideas I have already explained on the subject of Beauty, as the sole true poetical thesis.
The _locale_ being thus determined, I had now to introduce the bird--and the thought of introducing him through the window, was inevitable. The idea of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that the flapping of the wings of the bird against the shutter, is a "tapping" at the door, originated in a wish to increase, by prolonging, the reader"s curiosity, and in a desire to admit the incidental effect arising from the lover"s throwing open the door, finding all dark, and thence adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit of his mistress that knocked.
I made the night tempestuous, first, to account for the Raven"s seeking admission, and secondly, for the effect of contrast with the (physical) serenity within the chamber.
I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also for the effect of contrast between the marble and the plumage--it being understood that the bust was absolutely _suggested_ by the bird--the bust of _Pallas_ being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the scholarship of the lover, and, secondly, for the sonorousness of the word, Pallas, itself.
About the middle of the poem, also, I have availed myself of the force of contrast, with a view of deepening the ultimate impression. For example, an air of the fantastic--approaching as nearly to the ludicrous as was admissible--is given to the Raven"s entrance. He comes in "with many a flirt and flutter."
"Not the _least obeisance made he_--not a moment stopped or stayed he, _But, with mien of lord or lady_, perched above my chamber door."
In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more obviously carried out:--
"Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling By the _grace and stern decorum of the countenance it wore_, "Though thy _crest be shorn and shaven_, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly sh.o.r.e-- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night"s Plutonian sh.o.r.e?"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled _this ungainly fowl_ to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being _Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door_, With such name as "Nevermore.""
The effect of the _denouement_ being thus provided for, I immediately drop the fantastic for a tone of the most profound seriousness:--this tone commencing in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, with the line,
"But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only,"
etc.
From this epoch the lover no longer jests--no longer sees any thing even of the fantastic in the Raven"s demeanour. He speaks of him as a "grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," and feels the "fiery eyes" burning into his "bosom"s core." This revolution of thought, or fancy, on the lover"s part, is intended to induce a similar one on the part of the reader--to bring the mind into a proper frame for the _denouement_--which is now brought about as rapidly and as _directly_ as possible.
With the _denouement_ proper--with the Raven"s reply, "Nevermore," to the lover"s final demand if he shall meet his mistress in another world--the poem, in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may be said to have its completion. So far, every thing is within the limits of the accountable--of the real. A raven, having learned by rote the single word "Nevermore," and having escaped from the custody of its owner, is driven at midnight, through the violence of a storm, to seek admission at a window from which a light still gleams--the chamber-window of a student, occupied half in poring over a volume, half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. The cas.e.m.e.nt being thrown open at the fluttering of the bird"s wings, the bird itself perches on the most convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity of the visitor"s demeanour, demands of it, in jest, and without looking for a reply, its name. The raven addressed, answers with its customary word, "Nevermore"--a word which finds immediate echo in the melancholy heart of the student, who, giving utterance aloud to certain thoughts suggested by the occasion, is again startled by the fowl"s repet.i.tion of "Nevermore." The student now guesses the state of the case, but is impelled, as I have before explained, by the human thirst for self-torture, and in part by superst.i.tion, to propound such queries to the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the luxury of sorrow, through the antic.i.p.ated answer "Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the extreme, of this self-torture, the narration, in what I have termed its first or obvious phase, has a natural termination, and so far there has been no overstepping of the limits of the real.
But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or with however vivid an array of incident, there is always a certain hardness or nakedness, which repels the artistical eye. Two things are invariably required--first, some amount of complexity, or more properly, adaptation; and, secondly, some amount of suggestiveness--some under-current, however indefinite, of meaning. It is this latter, in especial, which imparts to a work of art so much of that _richness_ (to borrow from colloquy a forcible term) which we are too fond of confounding with _the ideal_. It is the _excess_ of the suggested meaning--it is the rendering this the upper instead of the under current of the theme--which turns into prose (and that of the very flattest kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called transcendentalists.
Holding these opinions, I added the two concluding stanzas of the poem--their suggestiveness being thus made to pervade all the narrative which has preceded them. The under-current of meaning is rendered first apparent in the lines--
""Take thy beak from out _my heart_, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore!""
It will be observed that the words, "from out my heart," involve the first metaphorical expression in the poem. They, with the answer "Nevermore," dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been previously narrated. The reader begins now to regard the Raven as emblematical--but it is not until the very last line of the very last stanza, that the intention of making him emblematical of _Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance_ is permitted distinctly to be seen:--
"And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon"s that is dreaming, And the lamplight o"er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul _from out that shadow_ that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted--nevermore!"
FOOTNOTES:
[175:1] I do not hold myself responsible for Poe"s literary judgments: my purpose in reproducing this essay is to reveal Poe"s _methods_.
APPENDIX II
BOOKS WORTH READING
1. "The Art of Fiction." By Sir Walter Besant. Lecture delivered at the Royal Inst.i.tution, April 25th, 1884.
2. "Le Roman Naturaliste." By F. Brunetiere. Paris, 1883.
3. "The Novel: What it is." By F. Marion Crawford. New York, 1894.