by Joel Rose
She continued. “Mr. Harper, no doubt, blames Edgar Poe for nothing less than just being Edgar Poe: handsome, talented, acerbic, brilliant, tainted. But I daresay there is a second, an economic aspect to Mr. Harper’s accusation as well. Only a few years ago, the Harper Brothers were on the verge of bankruptcy. Today they are quite healthy, far from the brink, the single largest employer in the city. Mr. Harper’s recent success, it can be argued, in no small part is due to the lack of laws governing international copyright, and the enormous profits enabled by depriving certain authors of what some might see as their fair share. Mr. Poe has continuously positioned himself an advocate and vociferous supporter of native literature and copyright legislation. Mr. Harper, on the other hand, is vociferous supporter of his own profits. Which by the way, Papa, I understand, as a businessman he should be, although his tactics clearly make it that much more difficult economically for writers emanating from our own native soil. Thus, Mr. Poe has enjoined Mr. Harper’s enmity, and, in turn, Mr. Harper Mr. Poe’s.
“Some years ago, Mr. Poe wrote a volume on conchology for the very well-respected firm of Haswell, Barrington & Haswell. This publisher came to Poe—despite what James Harper has frequently charged, Poe did not go to them—eager for a text on this very specific, if esoteric, subject, and the resultant work was exclusively at their behest, solely for Poe’s monetary advantage, and strictly for hire. But in the end, in a time of uncertainty and economic unrest, Poe’s book served to drive a previously lucrative, similar volume of the Harper Brothers out of print. I have heard many times over, Papa, that Mr. Harper has never forgiven Mr. Poe for such indiscretion.”
“And conchology is what, Olga? Pardon my ignorance.”
“The science of seashells and mollusks et al., Papa.”
Hays eyes widened. “And there is market for such a work?”
Olga shrugged. “There must be. Wouldn’t you agree? Because Mr. Harper certainly seems to remain vexed enough on the matter in regard to Mr. Poe. Eventually Poe’s hackwork, entitled The Conchologist’sFirst Book; or, A System of Testaceous Malacology, attracted some attention. The cover was a very lovely illustration, as I remember, with stamps of shells, weeds, and grasses. As it turned out in the end, a similar book had been published some years before in Scotland, and apparently Poe, having gotten hold of the manuscript, took this as his easy master, barely changing a word or sentiment of the basic text, introduction, or even elemental phraseology. When the transgression was inevitably uncovered, blatant charges of plagiarism were leveled against Poe. Harper seemingly has never forgiven him.”
“And is this the all of it, Olga? Is this why Poe is so disliked by Harper and his fellows?”
“I would not say he is disliked,” she answered. “You must understand, Papa, people are more afraid of him than they dislike him. And for good reason. He is a formidable presence. A wicked critic. It is the risk he takes with full knowledge. He attacks and attacks. He cannot perceive there will be no consequence. Worse, he charges others with transgressions of which he himself, it turns out, is guilty.”
“You refer back to his plagiarism with Harper’s mollusks?” Hays said.
“I do. After that bit of scandal, it was discovered that Poe’s much-discussed and grudgingly admired theory of poetry, cited over and over again in American magazine essays, articles, and monographs, was directly lifted—virtually word for word—from Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s own published theory on verse.”
“Is this serious?”
“My word, yes, Papa.”
“And how was this discovered?”
Olga shook her head. “Let it be enough said that Mr. Harper is the American publisher of Coleridge. He was not about to let Poe get away with it, not, as you say, after the mollusk book. He went after him, and since that day, as a trigger defense, Mr. Poe is quick to point his own finger at others, guilty or not, for the very same transgression of which he had been himself humiliated. Most recently he has gone after Longfellow, the New England poet. The two have feuded bitterly in the journals, although I must say it is decidedly more on the one side of Poe’s than on his counterpart.”
“And what is this about?”
“For the most part the charges began and involve themselves with a comparison of Longfellow’s poem ‘The Good George Campbell’ with a Scots ballad, ‘The Bonnie George Campbell.’ Frankly, it is all minor and ridiculous, Papa. More recently, Mr. Poe has charged Mr. Longfellow with lifting his poem ‘The Beleaguered City’ from Poe’s own ‘The Haunted Palace,’ vehemently labeling the sin first gross plagiarism, then nothing less than undetected palming off.”
“Have people conviction for this sort of besmirching?”
“They do indeed,” Olga said seriously. “The Boston Atlas has responded to Mr. Poe’s histrionics against their native son by labeling Poe nothing less than a ‘dunderheaded critic.’ In addition, I cannot help but vividly recall him called as well a ‘dancing dog’ and a ‘somersaulting monkey.’ The New England press has enjoyed themselves immensely, mocking him as ‘Poo,’ which I have been graciously informed by my good friend Lynchie is a direct and not unsubtle reference to his father, a failed actor, who was booed off the Boston stage under denigrating circumstances with similar unkind calls.”
“And how has Mr. Poe reacted to this onslaught?”
“He has simply reiterated his countercharges. He is quick to blame James Harper, and any and all of his enemies. In retaliation, Harper has risen up and bitterly repeated his allegations that Poe had made up citations in much of his criticism, as well as reading texts in translation rather than in their original language. Poe then recharged Harper with passing up American authors in favor of foreign scribes to whom his firm would not be required to pay royalties because of the lack of an international copyright law.”
“Is that true?”
“The way Harper’s argument goes is that literature, like all imaginative creations, should not be ruled by law and commerce. His point is that the free availability of authors’ works to publishers is an absolute imperative to nations such as ours. He maintains that the citizens of this nation, being both undercapitalized and underculturized, without access to public libraries and collections, need inexpensive access to ideas and entertainment. These, it is obvious, our citizenry cannot generate for themselves. Therefore, providing the public with access to native authors’ works affords more to advance reputation and long-term earning potential than the restricted circulation created by the higher price of books on which a copyright royalty is paid could ever.”
Hays smiled tightly. “This is Harper’s thinking?”
“It is. So expressed. And he is not alone. Far from it, Papa. As I say, Mr. Poe is as strong and vociferous an advocate of an international copyright law as any of our native authors. Many more publishers than James Harper could do without him. Yet to think James Harper that perturbed, that vindictive, to accuse Edgar Poe of this heinous crime against this poor young woman and her unborn child, I find such action unfathomable.”
“We shall see,” Hays said. “After I speak with Mr. Poe, hopefully I will be better able to judge. All I can say for sure, Olga, if he is guilty, he will stand in front of the court.”
“Yet you have no idea where the man is?”
“A number of individuals, including our mayor, swear he is in the city. I was hoping that Mrs. Jenkins might afford me the exact location, but she did not.”
“Then how will you find him?”
“If you have no objection, you will find him for me, my dear. Do you think, Olga, you might do me the good service to go to the offices of the New York Sun and have a word with their editor in charge of Poe’s balloon hoax, and perhaps ascertain from him where the author in question thereof might be found. I would send one of my assistant constables, but, as you know, they have all been sacked ruthlessly by your old boss, my new boss, our honorable new mayor, Mr. Harper. You, of course, Olga, have not been sacked, have you?”
She gave him
a sidelong look, going for his constabulary staff as if to bash him, but eventually said, “I don’t mind, Papa. I shall go gladly.”
She took off almost immediately after lunch, leaving him to clear the table and wash the dishes, and returning some hours later that afternoon.
To Hays’ inquiry she replied the Sun offices crowded, but not unduly so. She swore there was no frenzy to gain hold of the Atlantic Crossing broadsheets, nor to read breathlessly fomented and contrived extra edition accounts of the alleged daring aviation feat. The prints were selling briskly, no doubt, she conceded, but nothing like what she remembered as a girl of the frenzy surrounding the Moon Hoax.
She informed her father (who remained sufficiently reclined in Colt’s leather patent chair) she had spoken with the chief editor, Moses Beach, directly. In accordance, she handed Hays an address on Greenwich Street, not far from the Barkley Street pier, two blocks off the river, one of the very last places where Mary Rogers had reportedly been seen alive with her dark-complexioned gentleman of military or naval carriage. The residence number proved to be that of a small, nondescript boardinghouse. It was a two-story brick building with dormer windows and a slant roof.
Not an hour later, with Balboa at the reins, the police barouche parked at the kerb, the landlady, dressed in a well-worn housecoat, opened the door, a fat woman with pop eyes that became even more pronounced with the recognition of High Constable Hays at her entrance, his hand still on the rapper.
She told him, upon his examination, that Mr. Poe was indeed in residency there, that he had initially arrived at her doorstep alone. He had first arranged to occupy one room on her premises at the rear of the first floor, but recently, over the last few days, with his big success (she spoke behind her hand that he had bragged something awful about some confabulation, something involving a flying balloon, she did not know how, of which he said he was the author), he had sent for his wife, her mother, and their cat, and taken an adjoining room for their comfort.
Although Mr. Poe was not at home, she said, smoothing her faded housedress, his mother-in-law and wife were. “The poor dear seems sickly,” the landlady whispered. “Such a young thing.”
The door to the rooms occupied by the Poe family was then pointed out to him by this landlady, and it was she, the young, infirm wife, who answered the door when Hays knocked.
53
130 Greenwich Street
An elderly woman appeared from behind Mrs. Poe. Hays assumed her to be the mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm. She was severe and manly, square and heavyset, dressed in a plain black dress with a stark white bib collar and apron.
“Can I help you?” she said, stepping in front of her daughter, who literally fell back behind the broad obstruction of her mother before catching herself.
Hays introduced himself, touching the brim of his bowler hat. “I am High Constable Jacob Hays of the New York City Day and Night Watch,” he said, failing or ignoring to remember the crucial bit of knowledge that the Watch had suffered most recent dissolution, and in fact, even if he needed reminder, he now represented that newly birthed body, the New York municipal force of police.
No matter, Mrs. Clemm gave no indication of being impressed.
“I am Maria Clemm,” she said evenly.
Hays glanced past her at Poe’s wife. She looked a child, but Hays knew her to be at least twenty years. She had a full flush to her cheeks, which if he did not know better would have bespoken health.
“This is my daughter, Virginia Poe,” Mrs. Clemm introduced her.
“Pleased to meet you both.” Hays bowed slightly to each. “Is the man of the house at home?” he asked.
“Mr. Poe is about town, seeing to his work,” said Mrs. Clemm.
“I see.”
“Can I help you in any way? If this is about funds owed, Eddie has had some recent success, and I know he is currently at work on an article already promised. You can be certain consideration will be coming, and all bills will be paid.”
Hays shook his head. “I am not here about accounts,” he assured her.
A shadow passed over Mrs. Clemm’s suspicious eyes that did not escape the high constable. He registered her concern, and felt more than a small amount of empathy for the elderly woman, alone and fearful for the well-being of her children. “I am unaware of when he will return,” she said.
She turned to her daughter then, and asked wouldn’t she feel better to go back into the apartment out of the chill. It was not a question and the girl smiled at Hays, but without a word obediently stepped back from the threshold and retreated into the interior, repairing to a small sitting alcove where she took up some handwork. From the angle and distance Hays could not quite be sure if it was crewel point or crocheting she was about.
From what he could garner, behind the broad and severe obstacle of Mrs. Clemm, the boardinghouse apartment seemed to be composed of two rooms. There may have been an additional small closet or sleeping alcove. There seemed to be no kitchen, although there was a cast-iron stove that must have been stoked despite the already mild spring temperature, because the rooms, even from where he stood, were very warm.
He had remained standing in the public hall. Flock wallpaper adorned the walls, and worn carpet stretched down to the corridor end.
“Were you expecting to come in and wait for Edgar, sir, because my daughter is not quite well, and I fear your presence…” Her strong but febrile voice trailed off. “That would be impossible.”
“No,” Hays stated, “I would not be so bold, nor would I want to impose on your hospitality, madam. If you would simply inform Mr. Poe that I was here, and that I need to have a word with him. I can be found at my office on the ground floor of the Men’s House of Detention on Centre and Leonard streets. If I don’t hear from him, please let him know that I will return.”
“I shall do that.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you, High Constable.”
“He knows who I am, Mrs. Clemm. Please say Old Hays needs a word with him.”
54
What Song the Syrens Sing
“Note well, Papa,” Olga Hays forewarned her father, “his first tale of ratiocination, ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue,’ begins with a quotation, the words of Sir Tom Browne: ‘What song the Syrens sang, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women.’”
“And who is this Sir Tom?”
“That doesn’t matter, Papa. A seventeenth-century English author who concerned himself with Christian morals. We are here to discern Mr. Poe’s intent, not Sir Thomas Browne’s hidden meaning.”
“And what are you supposing this hidden intent of Mr. Poe to be?” asked Hays.
She looked her father straight in the eye. “Mr. Poe is likening him self to the strongest and bravest of men, one not even to be outdone by such of a magnitude as a Greek hero. Yet through his authorial voice he is telling us of his vulnerability, that he is not above hiding behind the skirts of females.”
“I see,” Hays said.
Olga was not totally convinced that he did.
Both Olga and her father had dishes of China tea in front of them at the kitchen table. Olga had not touched hers. Hays had both his thick hands woven round his, warming.
Some nights before, he had returned from Wiley & Putnam’s laden with books and page proofs. These he had turned over to his daughter. Since then she had taken up her chore. For the intervening three days and much of the three nights she had kept bent over at her desk perusing Poe’s well-worked words in what had once been her mother’s sewing room.
“It is a tantalizing puzzle he presents,” Olga observed. “As you have described the scene at Greenwich Street, it is not beyond all conjecture.”
“That he hides behind his wife and mother-in-law?”
She cocked her head at her father. “That he obfuscates behind them, his women, just so.”
She saw him wince, almost imperceptibly, at her use of his phrase.
“And what of the al
teration of text in the ‘Marie Rogêt’ story from its first appearance in the Ladies’ Companion until now?” he asked. “What of that?”
“There are fifteen changes that I have counted. Three are deletions, the rest additions.”
“Putnam said he thought there were seventeen.”
She shrugged. “Maybe so. But I only counted fifteen.”
“Do these fifteen change the story perceptibly?”
“They do. As before, they make a case for the possibility of an accidental death at the hand of an abortionist performed at the innkeeper Madame Deluc’s roadside house, rather than outright cold-blooded murder by a scorned lover. These alterations are designed to make it appear that right from the start, the author was kerrect in his exercise of deciphering the crime.”
“And what precisely are these alterations?”
“The deletions first. As I stated, there are three. The first two refer to the thicket as the scene of the crime. The third made reference to an individual assassin who purportedly made confession of the murder of Marie to the gendarmerie. By these three cuts he exculpates himself from his initial implication that one man, ostensibly a lover, committed this sordid crime perpetrated against the innocent Marie in a thicket near the Parisian woods.”
“Can we imagine the one man mentioned, he, the author, trying to draw attention to himself?”
Olga shrugged. “As you wish, Papa. I would think not, but you are free to think what you will.”
Hays chose to ignore his daughter’s implication. “And the additions?” he inquired.
“As I said, the additions are crafted to insinuate Marie’s death occurred during a premature delivery at Madame Deluc’s roadhouse, rather than in a lover’s fit of jealousy or rage. There are twelve instances of text added that I have counted, and in all they encompass something less than one hundred and fifty words in a story that spans some twenty thousand words.”