Kitabı oku: «The Home Life of Poe», sayfa 9
CHAPTER XXVI
MRS. WHITMAN
Poe was still in Richmond, presumably courting the widow Shelton, though in so quiet a manner that it attracted little or no attention, when he unexpectedly received from Mrs. Whitman, who seems to have repented of her silence, a letter or poem of so encouraging a nature that he immediately left Richmond and proceeded to New York. Here he obtained a letter of introduction to Mrs. Whitman, which he on the following day presented to that lady at her home in Providence. The next evening he spent in her company, and on the succeeding day asked her to marry him!
Receiving no definite answer, he, on his return to New York, sent her a letter in which, alluding to his previous intention of addressing Mrs. Shelton, he says:
"Your letter reached me on the very day on which I was about to enter upon a course which would have borne me far away from you, sweet, sweet Helen, and the divine dream of your love."
A few weeks later, when he had obtained from her a conditional promise of marriage, he again wrote—a letter in which he clearly alludes to his still cherished design of establishing the Stylus, from which he anticipates such brilliant results. Thus he artfully and apparently for the first time seeks to interest her in the scheme.
"Am I right, dearest Helen, in the impression that you are ambitious? If so, and if you will have faith in me, I can and will satisfy your wildest desires. It would be a glorious triumph for us, darling—for you and me … to establish in America the sole unquestionable aristocracy—that of the intellect; to secure its supremacy, to lead and control it. All this I can do, Helen, and will—if you bid me and aid me."
Aware of her belief in occult and spiritual influences, he tells her that once, on hearing a lady repeat certain utterances of hers which appeared but the secret reflex of his own spirit, his soul seemed suddenly to become one with hers. "From that hour I loved you. I have never seen or heard your name without a shiver, half of delight, half of anxiety. The impression left upon my mind was that you were still a wife." (No such scruple had disturbed him in the case of Mrs. Osgood and others.) He goes on thus artfully to explain the incident of his declining Mrs. Osgood's offer of an introduction to Mrs. Whitman while in Providence. "For this reason I shunned your presence. You may remember that once, when I passed through Providence with Mrs. Osgood, I positively refused to accompany her to your house. I dared neither go, or say why I could not. I dared not speak of you, much less see you. For years your name never passed my lips, while my soul drank in with a delirious thirst all that was uttered in my presence respecting you."
It will be observed that he is here speaking of a time when his wife, whom he "loved as man never before loved," was yet living; and also when he was giving himself up to his unreasoning passion for Mrs. Osgood, whom he had followed to Providence.
After this, who shall undertake to defend Poe from the charge of insincerity and dissimulation?
Mrs. Osgood calls Poe's letters "divinely beautiful." We cannot tell how Mrs. Whitman was affected by them, but certainly her whole course exhibits her in a constant struggle between her own inclination and the influence of friends who desired to save her from the match with Poe. As early as January 21, 1848, it was known to the public that an engagement existed between the two, and I have the authority of Mrs. Kellogg for the statement that during the summer of that year Mrs. Whitman three times renewed this engagement and was as often compelled to break it, owing to his unfortunate habits. The last engagement was made on his solemnly vowing reformation; on which a day was fixed for the marriage and the services of a clergyman bespoken by Poe himself, who thereupon wrote to Mrs. Clemm desiring her to be ready to receive himself and his bride—at Fordham!
One may imagine the dismay of poor Mrs. Clemm when she read this letter and looked around the humble home with its low-ceiled upstairs room, which had been Virginia's; the pine kitchen table and her dozen pieces of crockery. For once her strong mind and resourceful talent must have failed her. How was she to accommodate the fastidious bride of her most inconsiderate son-in-law? How even provide a wedding repast against their arrival? But happily she was spared the horror of such an experience, for on the appointed day Poe arrived at Fordham alone, though in a state of nervous excitement, which necessitated days and even weeks of careful nursing on the part of his patient and long-suffering mother-in-law.
This final separation between the two—for they never again met—was caused by Poe's intemperance at his hotel in Providence on the day previous to that appointed for his marriage. He had delivered a lecture which was enthusiastically applauded, and on his return to the hotel he found himself surrounded by an admiring crowd, whose hospitalities he at first resolutely declined, but with his usual weakness of will, finally yielded to. Of the stormy scene when, on the following day, Mrs. Whitman finally and decisively refused to marry him, she has herself given an account, representing Poe as alternately pleading and "raving" in his unwillingness to accept her decision. But there can be no question but that he was at this time either in some degree mentally unbalanced or in such a state physically as that the least excess would serve to excite his mind beyond its normal condition and render him partly irresponsible. Of this we have proof in the fact of his intention of taking his proposed bride to Fordham.
That Mrs. Whitman was really interested in her gifted and eccentric suitor is evident, and in her heart she was loyal to him, as is shown by her defence of him after his death, and also by the lines which she addressed to him some months after their separation, entitled, "The Isle of Dreams." Most of her poems written after this time had some reference to him; and it is worthy of note that no woman whom Poe professed to love ever lost her interest in him. The fascination which he exerted over them must have been something extraordinary.
As regards Poe's feelings toward Mrs. Whitman, it is evident from the beginning that there was no real love on his part. He expressed no regret at the ending of his "divine dream of love," but seems rather to have experienced toward her a degree of resentment which thus found expression in a letter to a friend:
"From this day forth I shun the pestilential society of literary women. They are a heartless, unnatural, venomous, dishonorable set, with no guiding principle but inordinate self-esteem. Mrs. Osgood is the only exception I know of."
This tirade was doubtless excited partly by a scandal just now started by one of the literary set in question concerning Poe and a young married lady of Lowell. While delivering a lecture in that city he had been hospitably entertained at her home, where he spent several days, with the usual result of contracting a sentimental friendship with the charming hostess, whom he calls "Annie." During the latter part of his engagement to Mrs. Whitman his visits and attentions to this lady did not escape the notice of the "literary set," and a scandal was at once started by one of them, who drew the attention of "Annie's" husband to the matter. He accepted Poe's explanation and his proposal rather to give up the society of these friends than to be the cause of trouble to them, saying:
"I cannot and will not have it upon my conscience that I have interfered with the domestic happiness of the only being on earth whom I have loved at the same time with purity and with truth."
Certainly an extraordinary avowal to be made to the lady's husband; and we ask ourselves to how many women had he made a similar declaration?
We have seen that when Poe for the last time left Mrs. Whitman's he went direct to Fordham, where, said Mrs. Clemm, he raved about "Annie," and even sent to her, reminding her of the "holy promise which he had exacted from her in their hour of parting, that she would come to him on his bed of death," and now claiming the fulfilment of that promise. Whether or not she complied does not appear; but it is more than likely that the lines, "For Annie," were suggested by his fever-dreams of her presence, first written while still half-delirious, and subsequently slightly altered to their present form. This piece, with the lines, "To My Mother," after being declined by all the more prominent magazines, finally appeared in the cheap "Boston Weekly," and must have been a surprise to "Annie" and her husband.
But there was one woman of the "literary set" who showed that she at least was not deserving of the sweeping condemnation wherewith the irate poet had visited them. This was Mrs. Anna Estelle Lewis, a young poetess who, with her husband, was on friendly terms with Poe, and whose poems he had favorably noticed. Poe was still, mentally and physically, in a state which rendered him incapable of writing, and the condition at Fordham was deplorable. Suspecting this state of things, Mrs. Lewis and her husband invited Poe to visit them at their home in Brooklyn, and Mr. Lewis says that thenceforth they frequently had both himself and Mrs. Clemm to stay with them. It was this kindly couple that R. H. Stoddard so sharply satirizes in his "Reminiscences" of Poe, while accepting an evening's hospitality at their home after the poet's death. On this occasion he met with Mrs. Clemm, of whom he has given a pen picture of which we instinctively recognize the life-likeness. We can see the good lady seated serenely among the company in her "black bombazine and conventional widow's cap," lightly fingering her eye-glasses, as was her company habit, and with her strongly marked features wearing that "benevolent" smile which was characteristic of her most amiable moods. "She assured me," says Stoddard, "that she had often heard her Eddie speak of me—which I doubted—and that she believed she had also heard him speak of the stripling by my side—which was an impossibility.... She regretted that she had no more autographs to dispose of, but hinted that she could manufacture them, since she could exactly imitate her Eddie's handwriting; and this she told as though it had been to her credit."
Deeply chagrined at the ending of his affair with Mrs. Whitman, and consequent disappointment in regard to the Stylus, Poe now, encouraged by his mother-in-law, again turned his thoughts to Mrs. Shelton.
It was in July that he and Mrs. Clemm left Fordham, he to proceed to Richmond, and she, having let their rooms until his return, to stay with the Lewises. Mr. Lewis says that it was at his front door that Poe took an affectionate leave of them all; Mrs. Clemm, ever watchful and careful against possible temptation or pitfalls by the way, accompanying him to the boat to see him off. In parting from her he spoke cheeringly and affectionately. "God bless you, my own darling Muddie. Do not fear for Eddie. See how good I will be while away; and I will come back to love and comfort you."8
And so, smiling and hopeful, the devoted mother stood upon the pier and watched to the last the receding form which she was never again to behold.
CHAPTER XXVII
AGAIN IN RICHMOND
When Poe came to Richmond on this visit, he went first to Duncan Lodge, but afterward, for sake of the convenience of being in the city, took board at the old Swan Tavern, on Broad street, once a fashionable hostelry, but at this time little more than a cheap, though respectable, boarding-house for business men. Broad street—so named from its unusual width—extended several miles in a straight line from Chimberazo Heights and Church Hill on the east, where Mrs. Shelton had her residence, to the western suburbs, where Duncan Lodge and our own home of "Talavera" were situated. This was the route which Poe traversed in his visits to Mrs. Shelton. There were no street cars in those days, hacks were expensive, and the walk from "the Swan" to Church Hill was long and fatiguing. Poe would break his journey by stopping to rest at the office of Dr. John Carter, a young physician who had recently hung out his sign, about half-way between those two points.
During the three months of his stay in Richmond we saw a good deal of Poe. He appeared at first to be in not very good health or spirits, but soon brightened up and was invariably cheerful, seeming to be enjoying himself. I do not know to what it was to be attributed, unless to his increased fame as a poet, but certainly his reception in Richmond at this time was very different from what it had been two years previously. He became the fashion; and was fêted in society and discussed in the papers. His friend, Mrs. Julia Mayo Cabell—a first cousin of Mrs. Allan—inaugurated the evening entertainments to which people were invited "to meet Mr. Poe." It was generally expected that at these gatherings he would recite The Raven, and this he was often obliging enough to do, though we knew that it was to him an unwelcome task. In our own home, no matter who were the visitors, we would never allow this request to be made of him after he had on one occasion gratified us by a recital. I remember on this occasion being disappointed in his manner of delivery. I had expected some little graceful and expressive action, but he sat motionless as a statue except that at the line,
"Prophet! cried I, thing of evil!"
he slightly erected his head; and again, in repeating:
"Get thee back into the tempest and the night's plutonian shore!"
he turned his face suddenly though slightly toward the outer darkness of the open window near which he sat, each time raising his voice. He explained his own idea to be that any action served to attract the attention of the audience from the poem to the speaker, thus detracting from the effect of the former. I was told how, at one of these entertainments, Poe was embarrassed by the persistent attentions of a moth or beetle, until a sympathetic old lady took a seat beside him and, with wild wavings of a huge fan, kept the troublesome insect at a distance. This mingling of the comic with the tragic element rather spoiled the effect of the latter, and though Poe preserved his dignity, he was perceptibly annoyed.
I never saw Mr. Poe in a large company, but was told that on such occasions he invariably assumed his mask of cold and proud reserve, not untouched by an expression of sadness, which was natural to his features when in repose. It was then that he "looked every inch a poet." In general companies he disliked any attempt to draw him out, never expressing himself freely, and at times manifesting a shyness amounting almost to an appearance of diffidence, which was very noticeable.
A marked peculiarity was that he never, while in Richmond, either in society or elsewhere, made any advance to acquaintance, or sought an introduction, even to a lady. Aware of the estimation in which his character was held by some persons, he stood aloof, in proud independence, though responding with ready courtesy to any advance from others. Ladies who desired Mr. Poe's acquaintance would be compelled to privately seek an introduction from some friend, since he himself never requested it, and it was observed that he preferred the society of mature women to that of the youthful belles, who were enthusiastic over the author of Lenore and The Raven.
Mr. Poe spent his mornings in town, but in the evenings would generally drive out to Duncan Lodge with some of the Mackenzies. He liked the half-country neighborhood, and would sometimes join us in our sunset rambles in the romantic old Hermitage grounds. Those were pleasant evenings at Duncan Lodge and Talavera, with no lack of company at either place.
CHAPTER XXVIII
A MORNING WITH POE AND "THE RAVEN."
(A Leaf from a Journal.)
One pleasant though slightly drizzly morning in the latter part of September I sat in our parlor at Talavera at a table on which were some new magazines and a vase of tea roses freshly gathered. Opposite me sat Mr. Poe. A basket of grapes—his favorite fruit—had been placed between us; and as we leisurely partook of them we chatted lightly.
He inquired at length what method I pursued in my writing. The idea was new to me, and on my replying that I wrote only on the impulse of a newly conceived idea, he proceeded to give me some needed advice. I must make a study of my poem, he said, line by line and word by word, and revise and correct it until it was as perfect as it could be made. It was in this way that he himself wrote. And then he spoke of The Raven.
He had before told me of the difficulties which he had experienced in writing this poem and of how it had lain for more than ten years in his desk unfinished, while he would at long intervals work on it, adding a few words or lines, altering, omitting and even changing the plan or idea of the poem in the endeavor to make of it something which would satisfy himself.
His first intention, he said, had been to write a short poem only, based upon the incident of an Owl—a night-bird, the bird of wisdom—with its ghostly presence and inscrutable gaze entering the window of a vault or chamber where he sat beside the bier of the lost Lenore. Then he had exchanged the Owl for the Raven, for sake of the latter's "Nevermore"; and the poem, despite himself, had grown beyond the length originally intended.
Does not this explain why the Raven—though not, like the Owl, a night-bird—should be represented as attracted by the lighted window, and, perching "upon the bust of Pallas," which would be more appropriate to the original Owl, Minerva's bird? Also, we recognize the latter in the lines:
Poe, in adopting the Raven, evidently did not obliterate all traces of the Owl.
Of these troubles with the poem he had before informed me, and now, in answer to a remark of mine, he said, in effect:
"The Raven was never completed. It was published before I had given the final touches. There were in it certain knotty points and tangles which I had never been able to overcome, and I let it go as it was."
He told how, toward the last, he had become heartily tired of and disgusted with the poem, of which he had so poor an opinion that he was many times on the point of destroying it. I believe that his having published it under the nom de plume of "Quarles" was owing to this lack of confidence in it, and that had it proven a failure he would never have acknowledged himself the author. He feared to risk his literary reputation on what appeared to him of such uncertain merit.
He now, in speaking of the poem, regretted that he had not fully completed before publishing it.
"If I had a copy of it here," he said, "I could show you those knotty points of which I spoke, and which I have found it impossible to do away with," adding: "Perhaps you will help me. I am sure that you can, if you will."
I did not feel particularly flattered by this proposal, knowing that since his coming to Richmond he had made a similar request of at least two other persons. However, I cleared the table of the fruit and the flowers and placed before him several sheets of generous foolscap, on which I had copied for a friend The Raven as it was first published. He requested me to read it aloud, and as I did so, slowly and carefully, he sat, pencil in hand, ready to mark the difficult passages of which he had spoken.
I paused at the third line. Had I not myself often noted the incongruity of representing the poet as pondering over many a volume instead of a single one? I glanced inquiringly at Mr. Poe and, noting his unconscious look, proceeded. When I reached the line,
"And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor;"
he gave a slight shiver or shrug of the shoulders—an expressive motion habitual to him—and the pencil came down with an emphatic stroke beneath the six last words.
This was one of the hardest knots, he said, nor could he find a way of getting over it. "Ember" was the only word rhyming with the two preceding lines, but in no way could he dispose of it except as he had done—thus producing the worst line in the poem.
We "pondered" over it for awhile and finally gave it up.
(But I may here mention that I have since, in studying the poem, made a discovery which, strangely enough, seems never to have occurred to the author. This was that in this particular stanza he had unconsciously reversed the order or arrangement of the lines, placing those of the triple rhymes first and the rhyming couplet last. Thus all his long years of worry over that unfortunate "ember" had been unnecessary, since the construction of the verse required not only the omission of the word as a rhyme, but of the whole line of
"And each separate dying ember;"
when the succeeding objectionable words,
"Wrought its ghost upon the floor,"
could have been easily altered; and the addition of a third line to the succeeding couplet would have made the stanza correct.)
Our next pause was at the word "beast," through which he ran his pencil.
"Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above my chamber door."
"I must get rid of that word," he said; "for, of course, no beast could be expected to occupy such a position."
"Oh, yes; a mouse, for instance," I suggested, at which he gave me one of his rare humorous smiles.
Leaving this point for future consideration, we passed on to a more serious difficulty.
"This and more I sat divining,
With my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining, with the lamplight gloated o'er."
The knotty point here was in the word "lining"—a blunder obvious to every reader. Poe said that the only way he could see of getting over the difficulty was by omitting the whole stanza. But he was unwilling to give up that "violet velvet" chair, which, with the "purple silken curtain," he considered a picturesque adjunct to the scene, imparting to it a character of luxury which served as a relief to the more sombre surroundings. I had so often heard this impossible "lining" criticised that when he inquired, "Shall I omit or retain the stanza?" I ventured to suggest that it might be better to give up the stanza than have the poem marred by a defect so conspicuous. For a moment he held the pencil poised, as if in doubt, and I have since wondered what would have been his decision.
But just here we were interrupted by the tumultuous entrance of my little dog, Pink, in hot pursuit of the family cat. The latter took refuge beneath the table at which we were seated, and there ensued a brisk exchange of duelistic passes, until I called off Pink and Mr. Poe took up the cat and, placing her on his knee, stroked her soothingly, inquiring if she were my pet. Upon my disclaiming any partiality for felines, he said, "I like them," and continued his gentle caressing. (Was he thinking of Catalina, his wife's pet cat, which he had left at home at Fordham, and which after her death had sat upon his shoulder as he wrote far into the night? Recalling his grave and softened expression, I think that it must have been so. But at that time I had never heard of Catalina.)
But now came the final and most difficult "tangle" of all—the blunder apparent to the world—the defect which mars the whole poem, and yet is contained in but a single line:
"And the lamplight o'er him streaming casts his shadow on the floor."
Poe declared this to be hopeless, and that it was, in fact, the chief cause of his dissatisfaction with the poem. Indeed, it may well excite surprise that he, so careful and fastidious as to the completeness of his work, should have allowed The Raven to go from his hands marred by a defect so glaring, but this is proof that he did indeed regard it as hopeless.
When Mr. Poe left us on this September morning he took with him this manuscript copy of The Raven; which, however, he on the following day handed to me, begging that I would keep it until his return from New York. I found that he had marked several minor defects in the poem, one of which was his objection to the word "shutter," as being too commonplace and not agreeing with the word "lattice," previously used.
He remarked, before leaving for New York, that he intended having The Raven, after some further work upon it, published in an early number of the Stylus. I do not doubt but that, had he lived, he would have made it much more perfect than it now is.
After his death his friend, Mr. Robert Sully, the Richmond artist, was desirous of making a picture of the Raven, but explained to me why it could not be done—all on account of that impossible "shadow on the floor." Of course, said he, to produce such an effect the lamplight must come from above and behind the bust and the bird. No; it was impracticable."
This set me to thinking; and the result was that I, some time after, went to Mr. Sully's studio and said to him: "How would it do to have a glass transom above the door; one of those large fan-shaped transoms which we sometimes find in old colonial mansions, opening on a lofty galleried hall?"
It would do, he said. Indeed, with such an arrangement, and the lamp supposed to be suspended from the hall ceiling, as in those old mansions, there would be no difficulty with either the poem or the picture. And we were both delighted at our discovery, and thought how pleased Poe would have been with the idea—so effective in explaining that mysterious shadow on the floor.
Mr. Sully commenced upon his picture, but died before completing it.
This manuscript copy of The Raven, with all its pencil-marks, as made by Mr. Poe on that September morning, remained in my possession for many years. It is yet photographed upon my memory, with all the details here given from an odd leaf of a journal which I kept about that time—the quiet parlor, the outside drizzle, the books, the roses, and the face and figure of Mr. Poe as he gravely bent over that manuscript copy of his immortal poem of The Raven.
Had he no premonition that even then a darker shadow than that of the Raven was hovering over him? It was one of the last occasions on which I ever saw him.
