Edgar Allan Poe and the Jewel of Peru
Page 32
When he perceived that his pernicious words were lodged like daggers in my heart, George Reynolds turned his back to me and walked away, jauntily whistling the lament “The Little Turtledove”.
49
Brennan Farm, New York
3 June 1844
My dear Dupin,
This morning at the river I spied a green heron picking its way elegantly through the shallows in search of its breakfast. It half-froze for a moment, then quickly grabbed a fish in its bill, a fish that was large enough to be unwieldy. The heron carried it to the riverbank, trying to maneuver it into a position that would make it easier to swallow, but the fish wriggled, determined to escape back into the water. Moments later, two crows swooped down from the trees and pranced up to the heron on either side, like two cutpurses intent on robbing an innocent. Back and forth they went until the poor heron gave up trying to swallow the fish and scurried back into the water while the crows feasted on his catch. Later in the afternoon, Sissy was enchanted by a ruby-throated hummingbird in our garden, which darted from blossom to blossom like a radiant jewel of an insect and seemed to hover directly in front of her as if to say hello. And of course we both wondered what Miss Loddiges would make of our visitations and thought of you both with affection and no small amount of guilt, as I have taken far too long to put pen to paper.
Much has happened since my last letter and indeed it seemed for a time as if Hell itself had ascended to Earth as the city of Philadelphia burned after the mob took to the streets, rioting, killing and setting the city alight. The skirmishes we experienced when you were with us in Philadelphia escalated terribly on the third of May after those who call themselves “native Americans” held a meeting in Nanny Goat Market in Kensington, claiming it was their right to publicly express their views as guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States. You will remember that the area is heavily populated by recently arrived Irish Catholics, and a crowd soon gathered that vehemently expressed disapproval of the speeches being made. What began as a verbal exchange quickly became physical, with much pushing and shoving followed by volleys of stones and bricks. Then musket shots rang out from both sides, which had the effect of dispersing the crowd, but a number of combatants were wounded. A youth who was but eighteen years old was hit in the chest, and despite the best efforts to save him, he expired, the first but not the last death in the affray.
Worse still, rabble-rousers fanned the violence. A torn American flag was put on display at Second and Franklin streets, with a printed notice: “This is the flag which was trampled upon by the Irish papists.” Over the following days, incendiaries set bonfires and burnt the dwellings of innocent families, who ran from the inferno carrying what they could in small bundles, looking for refuge in vain. The only houses in the area that escaped deliberate destruction were those who put a sign, “Native American” in the window. Rumors that weapons were held in the Catholic churches convinced the mob that all such “strongholds” had to be destroyed. St. Michael’s was set alight after darkness fell on the eighth of May and, despite efforts to protect it, St. Augustine’s followed soon after, when a young boy sneaked into the guarded church and lit a fire in the vestibule. The entire building was quickly ablaze, masses of smoke curling from its windows, the flames creeping up to the very belfry until the entire steeple was shimmering, the elegant cupola with its clock and gilt cross consumed by fire. The steeple burned to its very bones and crashed to the ground, raining down a trail of gold like a meteor’s tail. St. Augustine’s was home to the Sister Bell, that twin of the famed Liberty Bell, but the conflagration broke it into fragments, a terrible omen for the city. Perhaps worst of all, the entire glorious library of St. Augustine’s, all its priceless treasure books and singular tomes, were embraced by the insatiable flames and transformed one by one into silvery ash. By sunrise on the ninth of May, all that remained of St. Augustine’s was the wall behind the altar, where charred gilt letters warned: “The Lord Seeth.” One might only hope that it was a pledge from God himself.
Father Moriarty relayed the terrible news to me himself, bemoaning the fact that Father Nolan’s theft of the treasure books had been revealed only for the entire library to be destroyed by fire a few weeks later. I share his sorrow in the loss of such a precious collection and wonder if we might have done more to prevent the destruction of St. Augustine’s. I suspect you will tell me that reason would have done little to change what happened—the mob is a beast unto itself, rabid, illogical and purely malevolent.
You will have fathomed by now that we are no longer resident in the city of brotherly love. I acted on the warning from Miss Loddiges and left Philadelphia in early April. We now reside in a bucolic spot in New York, where Sissy, Muddy and your friend Catterina are more than happy. The dwelling is two-storied, double-framed and on a farm of over two hundred acres. It is owned by Patrick Brennan and, happily, his wife agreed to take us in as boarders. While I miss my swims in the Schuylkill, the Hudson is quite a wonderful alternative. The Brennans themselves are amiable people, very fond of Sissy, and their children are well-mannered and pleasant company when I go walking. One of the girls has developed a keen interest in watching me at work, determined to catch sight of the Muse when she bestows her inspiration. So far the girl has been disappointed in her quest and wonders if my work is any good, if that mysterious phantom has avoided my company. On occasion I admittedly have the same concerns. Sissy assures the child that writing requires hard labor more than oft-fleeting inspiration, hence the long and, as the child puts it, dull hours I spend at my desk. Thinking back to our debate in London, I continue to hold fast to my belief that my wife and our future children will be my more constant Muse, inspiring rather than reducing my literary oeuvre.
But I am certain you have guessed that it was more than Miss Loddiges’s premonition that persuaded me to make such a sudden move to an entirely new city, and the answer is very simple: the return of my nemesis. With immense guile, George Reynolds, criminal turned playwright, weaseled his way into my home when I was out and persuaded my wife to sing, which caused a blood vessel to burst in her throat. The monster then gloated. Reynolds may have promised his dead wife that he would not seek revenge against me, yet it is more than clear he will not hesitate to destroy those I hold dearest.
But I must not bring my letter to a close on such a tenebrous note, as I feel New York will bring many improvements for us. Enclosed for your amusement is an article inspired by the French aeronaut we met in London, which was published in the thirteenth of April edition of the New York Sun. The newspaper’s offices were besieged by those who wished to read about the traversing of the Atlantic by balloon, and I was fortunate to procure a copy myself. The effect of my little hoax has been most gratifying. I am working on several poems, one of which Miss Loddiges is certain to appreciate as there is a touch of ornitho-mancy about it. I suspect it will remind you of that afternoon in Mr. Dickens’s library, although the tone is not in the least comical.
Please do send your news, my dear Dupin, and accept fond good wishes from Sissy, cautious regards from my mother-in-law and undying affection from Catterina, who quite pines for you.
With greatest respect from your sincere friend,
Edgar A. Poe
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Heartfelt thanks, as always, to my superb agent Oli Munson and the fantastic team at A.M. Heath. I am very lucky.
I’m grateful to my editor, the wonderful Jenny Parrott, and all at Oneworld Publications—you are brilliant and such a joy to work with.
Appreciative thanks to Claiborne Hancock and the excellent team at my U.S. publisher Pegasus Books; it’s been a true pleasure.
I am also thankful for the forensic mind of Helen Szirtes, copy-editor extraordinaire, and for the invaluable feedback from my writer/ reader friends: Alice Bowen, Shauna Gilligan, Sally Griffiths. Technical advice was much appreciated from Dmitry Starkov and from Santiago Herrero, gone too soon and deeply missed. The endless support from far
away friends and family was gratefully received through the ether and thanks, especially, to Darren Hill and Ziggy, as always.
ALSO BY KAREN LEE STREET
Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster
EDGAR ALLAN POE AND THE JEWEL OF PERU
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