The Man Who Called Himself Poe
Page 10
But Poe sipped his coffee, and betrayed no symptoms of
disturbance.
“I am not conscious of concealing any deficiency,״ he
said. “In my view, I have advanced in wisdom and phi-
losophy, rather than retrograded. Nevertheless, I do not
care to dispute your hypothesis. The result, in any case, is
the same.״
“So be it!״ returned I, with a sigh, uncorking my wine.
“But, before we part, permit me to pour you out a glass of
this vintage.״
“You will excuse me, I am sure,״ he replied, courteously.
“I have an unconquerable aversion to all forms of liquor.
Were I to drink a glass, it would simply make me ill; and
that could be a gratification to neither of us. If you will
allow me, I will respond to your compliment in this coffee.״
We bowed, and drank. Immediately after, Poe arose, and,
with a graceful inclination, went out.
Two weeks later, I chanced to see in the newspaper a no
66
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
tice of the death by the grippe of Edgar Allan Arnold. As
I was slightly acquainted with his employer, Mr. Dressel,
I presented myself at the funeral, which was from the bank-
er’s house. I looked at the quiet face in the coffin: it was
Poe’s.
“He was a capital hand with a pen, and a quiet, sensible
fellow; rather dull, except for the practical things of life;
but I am very sorry to lose him,” Mr. Dressel remarked.
I suppose the truth may be that Poe was really a very old
man when he died the second time, though, physically, he
still retained the appearance of youth. But his mind was
aged; his heart was dried up; the glory and the beliefs of
youth were gone; he was like other old men, whom Provi-
dence is preparing for the final farewell to this world by
removing from them all appreciation of what makes the
world seem beautiful. But, then, why did Providence bring
him back? W hat is the moral of his story?
IN WHICH A N AUTHOR AND HIS CHARACTER ARE W ELL M E T
Charles Vincent Emerson Starrett is today best known as one of tl
nation’s leading book reviewers, appearing regularly in the Chicaj
Tribune. In the past he has had published over a hundred book
novels, short stories, reviews, criticism, bibliography, biography, ar
very recently autobiography, Born in a Bookshop, Chapters from tl
Chicago Renascence.
Perhaps his best-known book is The Private Life of Sherlock Holm!
( 1 9 3 3 ) , which was an early attempt to collate the elements of tl
career of that great figure. Starrett was also instrumental in the form
tion of the Baker Street Irregulars, that straight-faced, tongue-in-che(
fraternity dedicated to the furtherance of the legend of the worlc
greatest detective.
It is obviously impossible for a man to be an admirer of Sherloc
Holmes without having also a profound respect for Edgar Allan Po
who created the prototype of the “ Profile by Gaslight” in Augus
Dupin. As an admirer of Poe, Starrett was also involved with one !
the most unusual and widespread searches for a copy of Tamerlan
the little pamphlet which constituted Edgar Allan Poe’s first “book
As an aspiring young writer in the 1920s, Starrett finally succeeded :
“ cracking” The Saturday Evening Post with an article titled: “ Ha^
You a ‘Tamerlane’ in Your Attic?” It assessed the value of this boc
at ten thousand dollars and asked people nationwide to search the
attics and other repositories of old books to see if this little rarity r
posed there. Letters poured in by the hundreds from people wl
thought they had the scarce title. None proved to possess the re
thing. Finally, one weekend Starrett had to leave town. W hen 1
returned, there was a letter from a Mrs. A da Dodd in Worceste
Massachusetts, who unquestionably had located the “ M cC oy.” Sta
rett dashed her oft a letter, but it was too late. She had been put
contact with the famed rare book dealer Charles Goodspeed in Bosto
who, true to his name, wasted no time selling the book for her at a su
substantially greater than ten thousand dollars.
All this is by w ay of validating Vincent Starrett’s impeccab
credentials for writing a story in which Edgar Allan Poe is the chi
character. It appeared initially in Seaports in the Moon, a collectic
of stories by Starrett involving famed historical and literary figure
68
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
published in 19 28 . The book has been a collector’s item among de-
votees of fantasy ever since.
The story deals with Edgar Allan Poe’s last days and presents an
extremely well-written presentation of the nature of the man and his
attempted seduction by the lady in black.
In Which an Author and His Character
Are Well Met
By Vincent Starrett
Ill-fated and mysterious man!—bewildered in the bril-
liancy of thine own imagination, and fallen in the flames
of thine own youth! Again in fancy I behold thee!
— E . A . PO E.
Three quarters of a century after the momentous events
just narrated, the steam packet from Richmond set down
upon the docks at Baltimore a small, dark man of shabby-
genteel appearance, who glanced quickly about him, as if
expecting recognition, then strode briskly into the city.
Afternoon was waning, and over the sky was spreading a
dark threat of storm. In the shops, the proprietors were be-
ginning to light their lamps. Presently, a thin rain began
to fall, and the traveler hastened his steps toward shelter.
Despite the bleakness of the occasion, a high humor perched
jauntily upon him; and unwonted humor that he wore at
the rakish angle of a new hat. His stick tapped the boards
with arrogant challenge; his restless eyes gleamed with a
sardonic mirth. So arresting was the hauteur of his cameo-
like features that a passing woman stopped to look back
and admire. Sensing her admiration, he paused before the
window of a small shop and ostentatiously adjusted his stock
before resuming his march.
At the intersection of two thoroughfares, under the canopy
of a cheap hotel, he halted and stared around him at the
bustling life in the streets; at the homing throngs that passed
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
69
him in either direction. For a moment his heart sank.
Face on face in the city—would never the faces end? There
was at least a poem in the situation. Face on face in the
city—and never the face of a friend! A wave of self-pity
overwhelmed him and passed slowly. After a time, he
smiled. This was the city of his youth. How he had loathed
and loved it! For twenty years, it had been whispered, no
friend had seen this man smile; but upon this gray day he
smiled again, and, smiling, jingled in his pocket the few
silver pieces that remained to him. This was an occa-
sion of holiday. The follies of youth were long behind him.
He peered into the future, and suddenly life seemed almost
bewilderingly bright. W hat of the paltry dollars in his
pocket? At a single blow, perhaps, he would recoup his
fallen fortunes and live forever at his ease. Only one episode
must be allowed to intervene—dinner! The boat journey had
been long and chilling. Dinner—and a bottle of wine!
He looked dubiously at the garish entrance to the hostelry,
and mentally calculated the sum of money in his pocket.
Then, with firm step and smiling eye, he entered the place.
At the cashier’s rostrum, in the dining room, sat an aging
spinster, watching the diners with listless gaze. She was al-
most offensively plain. Her straight teeth projected from her
mouth as if driven forth by the violence of her shrill tongue.
She was lank, dry, and yellow. Ten years dropped from her
shoulders as he bowed, and twenty as, with his air of com-
manding diffidence, he wished her good evening. Her eyes
followed him with a wild hope as he sought a comer table
and melted into the deepening shadows.
An ancient darky shambled forward and cried out in sur-
prise. “Lord-a-marcy, Massa Poe! Am dat you?”
The somber poet, thus revealed, smiled wryly. “You are a
clever rascal, Jeff,” he replied. “In the entire city, you are
the first to recognize and welcome me. I shall admit the
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THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
indictment on one condition only: that you bring me in-
stantly a bottle and a glass. Need I say more?״
Widely grinning, the black servitor departed upon his
errand. The poet, waiting for his wine, drummed restlessly
upon the table. A wax taper gleamed before him, and upon
this he fixed his melancholy gaze. After a moment, while the
spinster gasped at her desk, he leaned forward and, remov-
ing it from its holder, pinched out the flame. Then, quietly,
he transferred the candle to his pocket and again leaned
back in his chair.
״Another taper, Jeff,״ he said, when the bottle had been
placed before him; and when it had been brought, he filled
his glass and held it to the light. For an instant, he hesitated,
then raised the glass to his lips and drained it at a draught.
״ T o ’ God, Massa Poe,״ observed the astonished Negro,
״yo* cert’nly swallered dat licker powerful quick!״
״It is to celebrate my swearing-off,״ said the poet solemnly,
and he filled his glass again. ״Tomorrow, I shall be done
with it forever.״ Again he tilted the liquid to his lips, and
shuddered when he set down the glass.
On the other side of the dining room, a man arose and
came forward. He was a tall man, in immaculate linen gar-
ments, which gave him somewhat the appearance of a Sin-
ghalese planter. A great diamond blazed on one of his fin-
gers. Under a glossy black moustache, his white teeth
gleamed like the denture of a piano keyboard. Immediately,
there was an outcry.
״Poe!״ exclaimed the tall man delightedly.
״Legrand!״ cried the poet, springing to his feet.
They shook hands heartily, while the diners stared and
raised their brows.
״This is a surprise,״ said the man called Legrand. ״I
thought you were in Richmond.״
״I am in Aberystwyth, as you perceive,״ retorted the sar-
donic poet. ״But how fortuitous a meeting! You are the very
man I have been wishing to see. Have you dined?״
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
71
“I was about to order when I saw you. You will join me,
I hope?״
“I was about to extend the same invitation. Do sit down.
I have a fascinating story for you. Quite in your line, you
know. Buried treasure, and all that sort of thing.״
“Good God!״ said Legrand. “Again?״
They seated themselves at the poet’s table. “Does it con-
cern the lady behind the cage?״ continued Legrand, with
a smile. “She is eying us with a somewhat proprietary air.״
The poet was not deeply flattered. He was aware of the
fatal effect he had upon women of whatever age and station.
Such things were always happening. Was it his fault that his
black hair lay in curls upon his high, white forehead? That
his eyes were of tragic brilliance above his well-turned nose
and neat black moustache? He shrugged and bent his head
over the penciled card of dinner dishes. For a moment, he
looked anxiously at the right-hand column for the enlight-
ening figures there displayed. Had he accepted Legrand’s
invitation, or had Legrand accepted his? At length, he
ordered, and lay back luxuriously in his chair.
It was a pleasant place, he reflected, this large dining room
with its little gleaming tapers and dark-shadowed corners.
Not at all the sort of place in which he ordinarily appeased
his hunger.
Legrand, when the order had been given, watched him
for a time in silence. Poe felt his companion’s gaze and knew
the thoughts that were passing in his mind. Neatly, even
nattily dressed, as he was, the poet realized that there must
be about him the unconcealable hints of poverty so long
associated with his name. He resented the silent sympathy.
“My dear fellow,” said Legrand, at last, “I can’t tell you
how glad I am to see you. We hear a great deal about you*
these days. You are becoming quite famous.”
The melancholy poet again drained his glass before re-
plying. “And infamous,” he added, shrugging. “It is all the
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THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
same, you know. Let them but shout loudly enough, and I
care not w hat they say.״
“But what a cynic!״ continued the other. “I should have
thought that by this time you would be quite—what is the
phrase?—‘o’erswoln with p rid e /״
“Not a stiver of it,״ asserted Poe. “Believe me, Legrand, I
have too few friends worthy of the name, to wish to forget
any of them. My pride is reserved for the mounting number
of my foes. In youth, you know, we hope to succeed to please
those whom we love; in age, to spite those whom we hate.״
He laughed lightly. “My ill luck in making enemies has
been little short of phenomenal. Fortunately, they have all
written books.״
His friend laughed also. “I suspect, however, that you have
just stated the reason why you enjoy such enmity,״ he ven-
tured.
“Ha!״ cried the poet. “So you, too, read my reviews! Well,
it is true. They like me not at all, these little essayists and
poetasters. And so, like sheep, they forgather and trample
y y
me.
“I trust it has not spoiled your appetite for grilled kidneys?״
“It has not,״ declared Poe, with decision; and he turned
eagerly to the steaming plate that the old Negro set before
him.
Legrand raised his brows inquiringly. “A bottle of
wine
to celebrate your return?״ he asked. “I note that you have
not sworn off.״
The black waiter paused uncertainly, and the poet made
an eloquent gesture. “A bottle of wine, Jeff,״ he ordered, “to
celebrate my return. And some cheroots, too.״
They attacked their kidneys with gusto, nodding brightly
at each other from time to time.
“By the way, Poe,״ said Legrand suddenly, “did you know
that the words abstemious and facetious contain all the
vowels in their consecutive order?״
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
7 3
The poet laughed. “It's true, isn’t it? W hat genius discov-
ered that, I wonder?״
“I saw it stated in a newspaper the other day, with other
useful and informing items. I am interested in the curiosities
of the alphabet, you may remember.״
“I remember it very well,״ said Poe seriously. “The fact
is, Legrand, I have been thinking about your talents in that
direction for some hours.״
At this point, the Negro returned with the bottle of wine,
and for a time conversation languished. Legrand, as he
watched an entire tumbler of the liquor disappearing down
his friend’s throat, appeared as astonished as the black waiter
had been.
“Hold on, Poe!״ he cried humorously. “That’s no way to
drink wine.”
The poet leaned back in his chair. He smiled gently and
half-closed his eyes. For some minutes, he puffed languidly
at his cheroot and watched the smoke rings float away into
the mysterious shadows. Save for the glimmering tapers, the
room was almost without light. The lamps burned but
feebly. Outside, the rain was falling more heavily. Poe’s
tragic eyes were fixed upon the taper before him. At length
he spoke in a dreamy undertone.
“Wax tapers, Legrand,” he said in his melodious voice.
“How usual, and yet how lovely! We think of them, when
we think of them at all, as commonplaces. Yet they are the
veritable flambeaux of faery. A white metamorphosis from
the flowers, crowned with the most intangible of all visible
mysteries.”
“Charming!” cried his companion. “Why, one might make
a poem of it, Poe.”
The poet gestured gracefully. “One shall,” he murmured.