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The Man Who Called Himself Poe

Page 11

by Sam Moskowitz


  “Yes, I shall do it tonight, and send it off to Graham, to-

  morrow.”

  He reached for the wine bottle and found it empty. “An-

  other bottle, Jeff,” he called, “To celebrate Mr. Poe’s return.”

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  THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  Legrand appeared to be worried. “Well, one more, Poe,״

  he agreed, “but that's all.״

  “Mystery,״ continued the poet, unheeding. “And yet, it is

  all about us. It is at the heart of everything. It is life and it is

  death. And what do any of us know? To dream—that has

  been the business of my life; and I have framed for myself

  a bower of dreams. In them, you have had your part. Come,״

  he cried abruptly, “let us drink! It is early—but let us drink!

  It is late—but what matters it? Let us drink! Let us pour out

  an offering . . .״

  His words trailed into nothingness, and again silence lay

  heavily between them.

  “My dear fellow,״ said Legrand, at length, “can I help

  you in any way while you are in the city? I owe a great

  deal to you, you know. My very existence, in fact.״

  “Mystery,״ continued the dreamer, resuming the tone of

  his desultory conversation. “Mystery and despair! M ans

  career is a pendulum that swings ceaselessly between hope

  and fear. Life is a struggle between them. Between a de-

  sire to believe that life is important and a conviction that

  it is not. It is not truth that man needs, but if it were, who

  should give it to him? W hat he requires is a beautiful legend,

  to soothe and comfort him. It is all that he shall ever discover.

  Death! W hat is death? Not death, but that Time can offer

  him only age, may be man s tragedy.״ He laughed harshly.

  “Wherefore, let us drink!״

  “Poe,״ said his friend, leaning swiftly across the table,

  “are you in need of money?״

  The poet set down his glass and ran his fingers upward

  through his curling hair. The directness of the question ap-

  parently had broken his moody train of thought.

  “Why, yes,״ he replied, after a moment. “I am always in

  need of money. But I have enough for the moment. It is

  sufficient until tomorrow. And tomorrow, there will be

  plenty, Legrand, as you shall hear.״

  “You would not mind if I offered to lend you some?״

  THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  7 5

  “Ah, I should mind it greatly. Believe me, my embarrass-

  ment is only temporary.״

  Legrand was silent. After a time, he asked: “W hat are

  your plans for the evening?״

  “To drink,״ said the poet. “To drink, Legrand, and when

  I have finished, to drink again. And then, when I have

  finished drinking, once more—to drinkl״

  “By God, you shall do nothing of the sort! Look here, Poe.

  I have a set of rooms. Suppose you spend the night with me,

  and in the morning, with fresh minds, we shall attack the

  problem—״

  “It is your accusing conscience talking, Legrand,״ said the

  poet. “You have made me drunk, it whispers, and so you

  must look after me.״ He snapped his fingers. “Fiddlesticks!

  I am no more drunk than yourself. I am alive! I see clearly!

  Listen, Legrand! Last night, I had a dream. Do you believe

  in presentiments?״

  His companion moved uneasily. His expression seemed

  to indicate dismay and a measure of suspicion.

  “No matter,״ continued the other, growing more cheerful

  as he talked. “They are, I believe, often subconscious con-

  elusions, and so may have a definite value. Well, I have a

  presentiment that, by this time tomorrow, I shall be rolling

  in riches!״

  “My dear fellow!” exclaimed Legrand. “Are you sure

  that you feel quite well?״

  “You should be the last to ask it. I am not drunk, nor have

  I taken leave of my senses. Last night—lis ten !—I dreamed

  that I stood within an ancient house; a house falling into

  ruin and decay; peopled by lonely, imprisoned echoes in

  the wall, and shadowy memories, tearless and waiting. I

  progressed from room to room, and the lonely echoes woke

  and whispered around me; gaunt memories sprang forth to

  welcome and reproach me. At length, in a bare chamber, high

  under dripping eaves, I found an ancient chest, and inside

  a treasure—jewels and gold and tarnished silver vessels, and

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  THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  on the top of all a parchment sheet that told the tragic

  story.״

  “Oh, you’re drunk as an owl!״ cried Legrand. “Come

  out of it, Poe. L ets go home.״

  “A parchment sheet of writing,״ continued the poet re-

  lentlessly, “whereby it was made known that all this wealth

  was mine, and had been awaiting me these many, many

  years. Can you guess, Legrand, what house that old house

  was?״

  “Tell me, if you care to.״

  “It was my grandfather’s house!״

  For an instant, Legrand stared stupidly. Then, “The

  devil!״ he exclaimed.

  “No, my grandfather: General David Poe. He was a

  quartermaster general, Legrand, during the Revolution, and

  an intimate of Lafayette. How well I used to know the story!

  There was no denying the place. I had been there before; I

  knew it when I saw it. Now do you think me drunk? For

  years, I have wondered that my grandfather left nothing to

  his children. It was said that he had died quite poor. His

  widow also died in poverty. Legrand, something happened

  back in those early days, something curious and strange; and

  now, at last, the hiding place of the treasure has been re-

  vealed to me in a dream. You ask my plans for the evening.

  I will tell you them. I intend to collect the treasure of my

  ancestor.״

  All this he said in a fierce, low whisper, leaning forward

  toward his friend across the table, who now listened with

  sparkling eyes.

  “Damn it, Poe!״ exploded Legrand, “it is almost too

  amazing to be true.״

  “You will help me?״

  “I am at your service.״

  “Then we shall leave at once. But we shall need another

  candle.״

  A new taper had been placed within the holder, and

  ׳THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  7 7

  plucking it from its place the poet pinched out the flame and

  deposited it with the other in his pocket. ״And now,״ he

  cried, ״a final glass—to our successi”

  ״Successi” echoed Legrand, and raised his glass.

  They drank the toast solemnly and sank back into their

  chairs.

  ״Success,” m uttered the poet, and leaned forward to the

  table. He laid his head upon his hand and breathed heavily.

  Presently, his hand slipped down; his head drooped forward

  and was pillowed on his arm. His breathing became sterto-

  rous and harsh.

  After a time, a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and he

  was gently shaken. He looked up wildly into the face of the

 
; old Negro who had waited upon him. Legrand had vanished.

  ״Was yo'-all quite finished, Massa Poe?” asked the Negro

  respectfully. ״ ’Ca’se if you is, we is gwine to close up de

  dining room.”

  ״Where is the gentleman who was with me?” demanded

  the poet thickly. ״When did he go?”

  The old Negro turned his face aside for a moment to

  hide a smile. Then his features became grave as he replied:

  ״Dey wa’n’t no one else with yo’, Massa Poe. D at other

  genelman, he wasn’t here at all, sah.”

  ״Not here!” cried Poe. He dashed his hand across his eyes.

  ״Not here I Why, I’ve been talking with him for an hour I”

  ״Yassah,” said the darky, “yo’s done a powerful lot of

  talkin’, Massa Poe; but dere wa’n’t no one else with yo’.

  Yo’ was jes’ kin’ of talkin’ to yo’self, sah.”

  The poet sank back in his chair and seemed to shrivel.

  “Good God!” he m uttered in a low voice; and suddenly he

  staggered to his feet. ״Am I insane?”

  His eyes fell upon the row of empty bottles on the table,

  and for some moments he stood regarding them. At last,

  quietly, he asked: “How long have I been sleeping?”

  “About two hours, sah.”

  “Two hours! It must be ten o’clock.” He strode to the

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  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  window and pushed aside the curtains. The rain was still

  falling monotonously in the streets. He returned to the

  table. T m sorry if I have been a trouble, Jeff,” he said. “Bring

  me my bill and Til get out.” And after a moment he whis-

  pered again, “Good God!”

  In the street, he began to feel better. His head was clearer,

  his legs firmer. He welcomed the rain that beat against his

  face. The darkness was a bandage about his eyes. For a

  few minutes, he stood and let the water cool his raging

  blood. Then, with a stronger step, he moved away in the

  darkness toward the old home of his fathers.

  It was midnight when he crossed the deserted garden and

  climbed the knoll to the ruined dwelling. The door flew open

  to welcome him, and in the frame stood a woman, tall and

  beautiful, who extended a hand to him and drew him quickly

  within. In the darkness, they stood looking into each others

  eyes.

  “I have waited long for you to come,” she whispered.

  “Look well into my face, Edgar Poe, and tell me: do you

  know me?”

  He shook his head, embarrassed, like a child that is ques-

  tioned by an elder. “I seem to know you, lady,” he replied;

  “there is that about your eyes that is familiar; or perhaps it

  is your hair. I think that once I knew you very well.”

  Her laughter was like the chiming of old bells.

  “You have never known me,” she said, “and yet for

  years I have been near you, your neighbor in a dozen

  streets and cities, your destined bride through all your years

  of life.”

  “Of course,” he smiled. “How well I know you now! It

  was your eager voice that puzzled me, your radiant youth

  and loveliness. I had not thought that such a thing could

  be. I know you now. You are the Lady Death, my long-

  lost love!”

  She laughed, showing her faultless teeth, confident of her

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  7 9

  beauty and perpetual youth. Her eyes became coquettish,

  and she nestled against his shoulder.

  “I am so glad you find me not entirely a fright,״ she ad-

  mitted. “And now, after all these years, you will go with

  me?״

  He hesitated and drew back. He pressed her hand in his,

  and it was cold as ice. He attempted to articulate, and his

  tongue clucked against the top of his mouth.

  “You know how long and dearly I have loved you,״ he

  stammered, at length. “It is not that I am unfaithful. From

  the beginning, I have dreamed only of your arms about me,

  and your lips on mine, our mingled bodies and our long

  repose. And yet—”

  “And yet?״

  “Somehow, I have just begun to live. Tonight I came here

  with my heart aflame. It seemed that a vision led me.”

  “It was I.”

  But he shook his head and held her from him for a time,

  looking deeply into her eyes. “You are very beautiful,״ he

  sighed; “but I have never lived. It grieves me to seem un-

  gracious; yet I must beg your pardon and go upon my way.

  Some other day—or night—perhaps—״

  “W hat is it you would do?” she asked.

  “Dwell for a time within the lap of luxury. Lie for a time

  beside the hussy Life.”

  “Her body is less soft than mine.״

  “Still, with your permission, I should like to try her shame-

  ful ease.”

  “Stay with me,” she pleaded. “See, we have the house

  to ourselves. Upstairs there is a chamber with old hangings,

  and a bed wide as a field of lilies. There your father was born,

  and there your grandfather died. W hat could be more ap-

  propriate than that you and I—”

  He pushed her resolutely away. “Not tonight,” he said

  firmly. “Besides, I am not feeling very well. Some other

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  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  time, I promise you. I have your address, you know. I always

  keep it by me. You will come to me when I send for you?”

  She sighed and drifted from him. “I will come,” she whis-

  pered, “for I cannot do otherwise.”

  “That is well,” he answered, “and don't feel too badly

  about this, if you please, because, after all—”

  Then he noticed that she was gone. A cold breeze whistled

  through the half-open door, and he knew that his clothes

  were dripping wet. Somehow, he had lost his hat. He pushed

  his fingers upward through the wet mass of his hair and

  tightly closed his eyes. Thus he stood for a moment, silent;

  then, pushing forward across the wide reception hall, he

  stumbled over the first step of the ascending flight and began

  his upward climb. . . .

  In the morning, a ray of sunlight, piercing the grime of an

  attic window, fell upon the body of a man lying across an

  ancient chest. His hair was m atted and unkempt. His eyes

  were closed. After a time, they opened and stared in bewil-

  derment at the scene about him. Old rafters, thick with the

  dust of ages; cobwebs larger and more terrible than the

  meshes of a dream; and a chaos of old furniture and boxes,

  draped with the moldering, discarded garments of three

  generations. Like Rip van Winkle returning to the world,

  the derelict groaned and stretched his aching limbs. Memory

  swept over him like a roll of drums, and with difficulty he

  got upon his feet. A cracked and dusty mirror stood at an

  angle against the sloping roof, and he staggered forward

  and wiped a portion of its surface, recoiling in horror from

  the image that looked forth at him. He sank down again

  upon the chest, and buried his face in his hands, murmuring


  incoherently.

  Thus he sat for a time, then, rising, flung back the lid of the

  ancient coffer. A hideous smile distorted his features. In-

  stead of jewels and hoarded gold, he looked upon a musty

  tangle of old garments, out of which, like the shoulder of a

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  81

  man, thrust upward an epaulette of tarnished silver. It was

  the uniform of General David Poe. Unceremoniously, he

  hauled it forth and dropped it to the floor. Then, methodi-

  cally, he began to draw forth piece after piece and add it to

  the heap.

  At the bottom he came upon a velvet bag, no larger than

  a woman’s vanity case, drawn tight at the throat by a draw-

  string. Inside was something hard and metallic, and some-

  thing too that crackled like old paper. W ithout emotion, he

  untied the string and shook the contents of the bag out upon

  the boards.

  The slender vial that tumbled forth pleased him greatly,

  and for a few moments he turned it in his hands, as a child

  plays with a toy. Then he examined it with greater care,

  and in a moment came upon the legend engraved on the

  surface of the setting. And then, for a long time, he sat very

  still and stared with dazed and frightened eyes at the im-

  possible thing that he held within his hand.

  The waters of Bimini! The precious drops de León sought

  —and failed to find!

  Slowly, his wits came back. It was, of course, incredible;

  beyond belief. This was some trifle that once had graced the

  boudoir of his father’s mother, that slender Revolutionary

  maiden whose eyes looked forth, so full of mischief, from

  beneath long, sweeping lashes, in the dainty miniature

  that was all that was left to tell that she had lived. Were

  it a vial of that veritable water from the fountain, that

  slim hoyden would be living still, and breaking hearts on

  every hand. And yet . . .

  Again his mind departed for a time. Then he recalled

  that there had been a paper with the vial. He snatched it

  from the bag and carried it to the window. Brown, faded

  writing, and paper turning yellow. For a moment, the words

  danced before his eyes and ran together; then they settled

  into place, and he read what his grandfather had written.

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  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  T h is p retty phiall w ith the p retty nam e w as given

 

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