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The Works of Edgar Allan Poe Raven Edition Volume 4
THE COLLOQUY OF MONOS AND UNA
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9,88@ _ Sophocles - Antig _:
"These; things are in the future."
_ Una._ "Born again?"
_ Monos._ Yes, fairest and best beloved Una, "born again." These were the words upon whose mystical meaning I had so long pondered, rejecting the explanations of the priesthood, until Death himself resolved for me the secret.
_Una._ Death!
_Monos._ How strangely, sweet Una, you echo my words! I observe, too, a vacillation in your step - a joyous inquietude in your eyes. You are confused and oppressed by the majestic novelty of the Life Eternal. Yes, it was of Death I spoke. And here how singularly sounds that word which of old was wont to bring terror to all hearts - throwing a mildew upon all pleasures!
_ Una._ Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often, Monos, did we lose ourselves in speculations upon its nature! How mysteriously did it act as a check to human bliss - saying unto it "thus far, and no farther!" That earnest mutual love, my own Monos, which burned within our bosoms how vainly did we flatter ourselves, feeling happy in its first up-springing, that our happiness would strengthen with its strength! Alas! as it grew, so grew in our hearts the dread of that evil hour which was hurrying to separate us forever! Thus, in time, it became painful to love. Hate would have been mercy then.
_ Monos._ Speak not here of these griefs, dear Una - mine, mine, forever now!
_ Una._ But the memory of past sorrow - is it not present joy? I have much to say yet of the things which have been. Above all, I burn to know the incidents of your own passage through the dark Valley and Shadow.
_ Monos._ And when did the radiant Una ask anything of her Monos in vain? I will be minute in relating all - but at what point shall the weird narrative begin?
_Una._ At what point?
_Monos._ You have said.
_Una._ Monos, I comprehend you. In Death we have both learned the propensity of man to define the indefinable. I will not say, then, commence with the moment of life's cessation - but commence with that sad, sad instant when, the fever having abandoned you, you sank into a breathless and motionless torpor, and I pressed down your pallid eyelids with the passionate fingers of love.
_ Monos._ One word first, my Una, in regard to man's general condition at this epoch. You will remember that one or two of the wise among our forefathers - wise in fact, although not in the world's esteem - had ventured to doubt the propriety of the term "improvement," as applied to the progress of our civilization. There were periods in each of the five or six centuries immediately preceding our dissolution, when arose some vigorous intellect, boldly contending for those principles whose truth appears now, to our disenfranchised reason, so utterly obvious - principles which should have taught our race to submit to the guidance of the natural laws, rather than attempt their control. At long intervals some masterminds appeared, looking upon each advance in practical science as a retro-gradation in the true utility. Occasionally the poetic intellect - that intellect which we now feel to have been the most exalted of all - since those truths which to us were of the most enduring importance could only be reached by that analogywhich speaks in proof tones to the imagination alone and to the unaided reason bears no weight - occasionally did this poetic intellect proceed a step farther in the evolving of the vague idea of the philosophic, and find in the mystic parable that tells of the tree of knowledge, and of its forbidden fruit, death-producing, a distinct intimation that knowledge was not meet for man in the infant condition of his soul. And these men - the poets - living and perishing amid the scorn of the "utilitarians" - of rough pedants, who arrogated to themselves a title which could have been properly applied only to the scorned - these men, the poets, pondered piningly, yet not unwisely, upon the ancient days when our wants were not more simple than our enjoyments were keen - days when mirth was a word unknown, so solemnly deep-toned was happiness - holy, august and blissful days, when blue rivers ran undammed, between hills unhewn, into far forest solitudes, primæval, odorous, and unexplored.