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. 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.]
Chatterton. No: take it--'tis too brilliant. [Lights candle and hands lamp to her.]
Mrs. Angell. You will feel Much better in the morning.
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.]