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Page 53
"I am dying, Egypt, dying;
Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast."
It was about noon the next day when Maitland called upon me. "See
here, Doc," he began at once, "do you believe in coincidences?" I
informed him that his question was not altogether easy to understand.
"Wait a moment," he said, "while I explain. For at least two years
prior to my recent return from California the name 'Cleopatra' has
not entered my mind. You were the first to mention it to me, and
from you I learned that Miss Darrow was to have charge of the 'Antony
and Cleopatra' night. That is all natural enough. But why should I,
on every morning since you first mentioned the subject to me, awake
with Antony's words upon my lips? Why should every book or paper I
pick up contain some reference to Cleopatra? Why, man, if I were
superstitious, it would seem positively spookish. I am getting to
believe that I shall be confronted either by Cleopatra's name, or
some allusion to her, every time I pick up a book. It's getting to
be decidedly interesting."
"I have had," I replied, "similar, though less remarkable,
experiences. It is quite a common occurrence to learn of a thing,
say, this morning for the first time in one's life, and then to
find, in the course of the day's reading, three or four independent
references to the same thing. Suppose we step into the library, and
pick out a few books haphazard, just to see if we chance upon any
reference to Cleopatra."
To this Maitland agreed, and, entering the library, I pushed the
Morning Herald across the table to him, saying: "One thing's as good
as another; try that." He started a little, but did not touch the
paper. "You will have to find something harder than that," he said,
pointing to the outspread paper.
I followed the direction of his finger, and read:
"Boston Theatre. Special engagement of Miss Fanny Davenport.
For one week. Beginning Monday, the 12th of December, Sardou's
'Cleopatra.'"
I was indeed surprised, but I said nothing. The next thing I handed
him was a copy of Godey's Magazine, several years old. He opened it
carelessly, and in a moment read the following line: "I am dying,
sweetheart, dying." "Doesn't that sound familiar? It reminds me at
once of the poetic alarm clock that wakens me every morning,--'I am
dying, Egypt, dying.' There is no doubt that Higginson's poem
suggested this one. Here is the whole of the thing as it is printed
here," he said, and read the following:
LOVE'S TWILIGHT
I am dreaming, loved one, dreaming
Of the sweet and beauteous past
When the world was as its seeming,
Ere the fatal shaft was cast.
I am sobbing, sad-eyed, sobbing,
At the darkly sullen west,
Of the smile of ignorance robbing
The pale face against the breast.
I am smiling, tear-stained, smiling,
As the sun glints on the crest
Of the troubled wave, beguiling
Shipwrecked Hope to its long rest.
I am parting, broken, parting,
From a soul that I hold dear,
And the music of whose beauty
Fades a dead strain on my ear.
I am dying, sweetheart, dying,
Drips life's gold through palsied hands,--
See; the dead'ning Sun is sighing
His last note in red'ning bands.
So I'm sighing, sinking, sighing,
Flows life's river to the sea.
Death my throbbing heart is tying
With the strings that ache for thee.
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