by Edgar Allan Poe, 1846
(Bibliography
Record 2)
CHARLES
DICKENS, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an examination I once
made of the mechanism of "Barnaby Rudge," says- "By the way, are you aware
that Godwin wrote his 'Caleb Williams' backwards? He first involved his
hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second volume, and then, for
the first, cast about him for some mode of accounting for what had been
done."
I cannot think this the precise mode of procedure on the part of
Godwin- and indeed what he himself acknowledges, is not altogether in accordance
with Mr. Dickens' idea- but the author of "Caleb Williams" was too good
an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at least a somewhat
similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every plot, worth the
name, must be elaborated to its denouement
before anything be attempted with the pen. It is only with the denouement
constantly in view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of consequence,
or causation, by making the incidents, and especially the tone at all points,
tend to the development of the intention.
There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a
story. Either history affords a thesis- or one is suggested by an incident
of the day- or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the combination
of striking events to form merely the basis of his narrative-designing,
generally, to fill in with description, dialogue, or authorial comment,
whatever crevices of fact, or action, may, from page to page, render themselves
apparent.
I prefer commencing with the consideration of an effect. Keeping
originality always in view- for he is false to himself who ventures
to dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of interest-
I say to myself, in the first place, "Of the innumerable effects, or impressions,
of which the heart, the intellect, or (more generally) the soul is susceptible,
what one shall I, on the present occasion, select?" Having chosen a novel,
first, and secondly a vivid effect, I consider whether it can be best wrought
by incident or tone- whether by ordinary incidents and peculiar tone, or
the converse, or by peculiarity both of incident and tone- afterward looking
about me (or rather within) for such combinations of event, or tone, as
shall best aid me in the construction of the effect.
I have often thought how interesting a magazine paper might be written
by any author who would- that is to say, who could- detail, step by step,
the processes by which any one of his compositions attained its ultimate
point of completion. Why such a paper has never been given to the world,
I am much at a loss to say- but, perhaps, the authorial vanity has had
more to do with the omission than any one other cause. Most writers- poets
in especial- prefer having it understood that they compose by a species
of fine frenzy- an ecstatic intuition- and would positively shudder at
letting the public take a peep behind the scenes, at the elaborate and
vacillating crudities of thought- at the true purposes seized only at the
last moment- at the innumerable glimpses of idea that arrived not at the
maturity of full view- at the fully matured fancies discarded in despair
as unmanageable- at the cautious selections and rejections- at the painful
erasures and interpolations- in a word, at the wheels and pinions- the
tackle for scene-shifting- the step-ladders and demon-traps- the cock's
feather's, the red paint and the black patches, which, in ninety-nine cases
out of a hundred, constitute the properties of the literary histrio.
I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is by no means common, in
which an author is at all in condition to retrace the steps by which his
conclusions have been attained. In general, suggestions, having arisen
pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in a similar manner.
For my own part, I have neither sympathy with the repugnance alluded to,
nor, at any time the least difficulty in recalling to mind the progressive
steps of any of my compositions; and, since the interest of an analysis,
or reconstruction, such as I have considered a desideratum, is quite
independent of any real or fancied interest in the thing analyzed, it will
not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my part to show the modus
operandi by which some one of my own works was put together. I select
"The Raven," as most generally known. It is my design to render it manifest
that no one point in its composition is referrible either to accident or
intuition- that the work proceeded, step by step, to its completion with
the precision and rigid consequence of a mathematical problem.
Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, per se, the circumstance-
or say the necessity- which, in the first place, gave rise to the intention
of composing a poem that should suit at once the popular and the
critical taste.
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, ceteris paribus,
no poet can afford to dispense with any thing 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 classes of prose composition, such as "Robinson Crusoe,"
(demanding no unity,) this limit may be advantageously overpassed, it can
never properly be overpassed 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 Passion, 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 Passion, a homeliness (the truly
passionate 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 any thing here said, that passion,
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 assure me of its intrinsic value,
and spared me the necessity of submitting it to analysis. 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 identity- of repetition. 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 of 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 predetermined 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 had at once found
in inventing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous repetition,
I did not fail to perceive that this difficulty arose solely from the pre-assumption
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 repetition- and by a consideration
of the ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it- is at length excited
to superstition, and wildly propounds queries of a far different character-
queries whose solution he has passionately at heart- propounds them half
in superstition 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 assures him, is merely repeating a
lesson learned by rote) but because he experiences a phrenzied pleasure
in so modeling his questions 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 my mind the climax,
or concluding query- that query to which "Nevermore" should be in the last
place an answer- that 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 preconsiderations,
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 God 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 surpass 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 class,
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 circumscription
of space 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 minute 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 grave 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 shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore?"
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 anything even
of the fantastic in the Raven's demeanor. 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, everything 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 casement 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
demeanor, 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 repetition 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 superstition, to propound
such queries to the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the
luxury of sorrow, through the anticipated 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.
Back to Main Page |