Imp: Being the Lost Notebooks of Rufus Wilmot Griswold in the Matter of the Death of Edgar Allan Poe

by Douglas Vincent Wesselmann

  “No, not a riddle.”

  “Sounds like a riddle to me. Get to the point, damn you.”

  “An anagram.”

  “What anagram?” I was again struggling to make meaning of Poe, who still paced like a maniac.

  “He shouted at us.”

  “Fox.”

  “A proud and haughty man. He gives us a clue to taunt me.”

  “What? When he said something about the ape and his mule looking for inspiration. Is that it?”

  “Yes.” Poe stopped and faced me. “Ape. Mule. Not inspiration. Where does the poet find his spark?”

  “The muses.”

  “Ape. Mule. Muses”

  “Yes.” I was with him. “An anagram.” I began to think. The whiskey made it difficult. Poe, despite the quantity of absinthe he had consumed, gave me no chance to ponder.

  “Peale’s Museum.”

  I went over the solution in my head, shuffling the words. ”Why, you’re right. Peale’s Museum. I’ve heard of the place somewhere. Are we going there? Why of course, Peale’s Museum.”

  “One small problem,” Jupiter interrupted.

  “Yes, I know,” said Poe. “I know.”

  “What are you two talking about?”

  “Peale’s Museum closed.”

  “When?” I felt the air go out of my lungs.

  “More than ten years ago.”

  “And the building. Maybe the Odalisk is in the old Peale’s building.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Why?”

  “It now serves as city hall.”

  Molly moaned, and blood bubbled out of her wound again. I turned to clear it as best I could. After a moment, she settled again. “So only Molly knows.”

  “Yes.” Jupiter went back to his chair.

  Poe went to the desk and picked up a small vial of laudanum. With a toss of his head, he finished the last of it. “Get yourself presentable, Griswold. We have a little trip to take.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I recall hearing that Rembrandt Peale, former operator of the Peale’s Museum, now noted American artist, spends much of his year in Paris.”

  “We’re off to Paris? Drink some more, Poe. It still won’t be enough, but do drink some more.”

  “What I mean to suggest – I also heard he rents an apartment.”

  “Where?” I wondered what Poe’s intention was.

  “Why, on Calvert Street at Baltimore.”

  I remembered passing the corner. I remembered the brightly painted dioramas posted on the sides of the building. I saw again an old man dancing under a streetlight with Molly in his arms and above them the brightly painted dioramas of Noah and other Patriarchs. “My God! Of course.”

  “He lives above the Baltimore Museum.”

  I jumped up to wash my face. “Get ready, Poe. Jupiter, can you take care of Molly? By God, Poe, it seems right.”

  “It seems right? What an interesting choice of words, Griswold. ”It seems right. Ha!” Poe slapped Jupiter on the back. “You could still help her.” He nodded towards Molly.

  “No.” Jupiter was abrupt. “I’ll watch her and nothing more.”

  “Keep her alive,” I said to him.

  “Ha!” laughed Poe again.

  We readied ourselves without any more conversation, save my brief explanation to Jupiter on how I had kept Molly’s breath free. I had some hesitation, but little choice. I had to trust her life to his care.

  The iron door on the alley gave only after a stout shove. The evening air was thick and cold. Darkness came to Baltimore early on that clouded day. We set out without a word. Poe clicked his Malacca cane on the walk to mark the rhythm of our steps.

  It sounded like a nail being driven into a coffin’s lid.

  Chapter 26

  September 30, 1849 7:10 p.m. - The Gaily Jeweled Dead -

  Those who dream by day understand certain truths, which go unnoticed by those limited to the disjointed visions night can bring. In the gray dreams of sleeping hours, most men obtain mere glimpses of eternity and, on awakening, find the secret slip away from their grasp, hidden by the silken screens of consciousness. The knowledge of good and the wisdom of evil are only given to them in snatches.

  Poe has always been a man of constant dreaming – his life a perpetual stream of image and verse springing from a mythical source that, even in its profligate flow, never slaked his thirst. I have always recognized this divine curse in his person and in his work. I envied him his agony.

  That night, as I followed his tapping cane through the Sunday evening streets of Baltimore, I found that my jealousy had been taken as a prayer – and answered. For it seemed to me that all of the world had transformed itself. Or, perhaps the impression may be better described as a lifting of some veil that, in my comfort, I had never sensed before.

  I saw faces in some new, revealing light that illuminated the hidden. And I saw shadows as an artist sees them – revelations rather than mysteries. A man in a gray coat with black collar passed, and on his features, composed for his public hours, I saw the lust that he carried within for his own daughter. Reflected in his eyes, I saw her innocent dance and his furtive hand.

  A woman handsomely attired in fur collar and straw flower bonnet strolled by, and her composed and proper smile became a mask of rage. I saw a scissor in her hands and a slash of bloody anger. The woman’s sister sat working her sampler while the blades tore her neck. Stab as she might, the victim never noticed and never missed a stitch.

  All around me, windows became eyes and doorways mouths. The building chewed and spat out a living circus. Boys tumbled like acrobats, and girls rode by standing on the backs of white stallions. Dogs balanced balls on their noses, and pigs issued from the alleys as pachyderms. I heard the music of a brass band and saw the ringmaster on his stand.

  “Griswold. Griswold.” Poe was shaking my shoulders.

  I returned from whatever bewitchment had overcome me. Blinking my eyes, I saw we stood on a brightly lit street corner.

  “Drink this.” Poe put a flask to my lips and tipped a burning sip of absinthe into my mouth.

  I sputtered with the shock. “Enough,” I choked.

  “Are you there?” He mocked me. But his eyes looked into mine with recognition. “I know where you’ve been.” He laughed. “Compose yourself. We are almost there. The museum is just across the street.”

  With a final shake and swallow, my head cleared. There, in front of me, in the middle of the intersection of Calvert and Baltimore, was a bonfire. The yellow flames licked over the stacked logs and melted the evening fog. A crowd was gathered around the blaze, and a crude stack of crates raised one man above the others.

  “Damn the Democrats and damn the traitors, one and the same!” He waved his hat, and the crowd cheered weakly. They raised some few signs and unfurled their flags.

  “God preserve Zachary Taylor and the Union!” He waved his hat again, and again a desultory cheer went up. Many among the assembly looked about nervously, for there were small knots of burly men on each side of the gathering. “Here’s to Old Rough and Ready!”

  “Hip! Hip!” The speaker continued, and the crowd gave a “Hooray!” empty of any enthusiasm.

  I followed Poe as he snaked his way through the edge of the rally towards the four story brick building on the far corner. It was illuminated by streetlights on the lower reaches, and the reddish flicker of the bonfire lit its upper floors. Above the third floor windows were raised white gothic letters – BALTIMORE MUSEUM. Between the second and third, and split by a colonial arch over the entrance was the motto – GALLERY OF FINE ARTS.

  Along the façade on the Calvert Street side of the museum were a series of canvas banners. Rendered in the brightest colors, the four large dioramic sketches illustrated Biblical scenes. Moses held the tablets of the covenant above his head under strokes of Yahweh’s lightning. Abraham looked to heaven as he prepared the blade for his son’s awaiting chest. Noah greeted the animal
s fleeing the deluge.

  My eye stopped upon the visage of the Ark’s builder. I had noted this place before. The night we had met Molly and were returning to the hotel – yes, there he was. I smiled with the memory of Molly joining the old man’s empty-armed waltz for that brief interlude when we passed him in his reverie. For the poor bereft codger still was there. He no longer danced, but instead stood back in a shallow recess of the wall and leaned against a small peeled-purple, iron-barred side door, staring off into space, unaware of the crowds that passed him by.

  Poe paid the man no notice. The poet’s eyes were examining the dioramas, Moses, Abraham, Noah – he gave each a careful study. And the last of the scenes, Joshua leading his trumpeters over the crumbled walls of Jericho, must have inspired some thought in him, for his lips moved in a silent recitation as he stood beneath it. Another banner stretched above all four of the illustrations, announcing “Artistic Masterpieces of the Holy Book Within.”

  Such an exhibit of moral rectitude was the purpose of such places as the Baltimore Museum. Indeed, I had visited Mr. Barnum’s American Museum in New York on occasions to view such displays – most recently a showing of episodes in the life of Christ. Such establishments filled a needed space in the education of the public in both spiritual improvement and aesthetic judgment.

  “You do have a couple of dollars, Griswold?” Poe had ended his recitation, or whatever it was, and hurried me along with a poke of the cane towards the entrance.

  Just inside the front door beneath the arch of the second floor window, a man sat in a booth behind some decoratively turned wrought iron bars.

  “Ten cents for the museum, sirs. Twenty-five for the oddities downstairs and another twenty-five for the lecture that starts in precisely twenty-five minutes.” His words were clipped and rushed. He’d repeated them a thousand times that very day, I was sure.

  “Pay him, Griswold.”

  Digging in my clasp-purse, I removed one dollar and twenty cents in coin, which I passed through the bars.

  “Thank you, sir.” My money disappeared in a flash. The man leaned forward and gave a wink. “The good stuff is downstairs – if you catch my meaning. Thank you, sir.” He winked again.

  I did not pursue an explanation as Poe was already on his way inside. I gave my ticket to a boy dressed in worn military garb, and we entered the exhibits.

  Now the Baltimore Museum is in no way comparable to the scale of the American in New York City. That establishment stretches most of a city block and contains full five floors of the magnificent to the disturbing. Still, this smaller collection was well-organized and displayed with full forethought.

  Our first encounter was a large selection of various examples of taxidermy. A condor stretched its mighty wings over us as we perused the artfully posed specimens. From Blue-throated Warbler, to Passenger Pigeon, to a marvelous example of a Bald Eagle clutching a torn lamb in its talons, there were many interesting examples of America’s feathered fauna. I might have spent time examining each, but Poe continued to poke at me and push me along.

  We passed through the main floor quickly, stealing merely a glance at the wax figures, including one of Socrates holding his last measure of hemlock and a fine likeness of Junius Brutus Booth, the actor, costumed as Macbeth.

  On we went to the steps leading down towards the “Oddities” – for so advertised the sign. I turned over our tickets to another bored-looking lad, and down the steep steps we went – Poe almost leaping in his rush to reach the bottom. I followed as best I could.

  The lighting on the lower level was much dimmer than that on the main floor, and just as well. Many of the items and creatures displayed there were of a dark nature. On first coming into the maze of cages, booths, curtains, and counters, I came face to face with a large glass tank full of a sepia-tinted fluid.

  Within was an animal straight out of the fables. A small round face with a tiny nose and extremely large human eyes stared out of the cloudy liquid through the pane. From its narrow shoulders, thin arms stretched down past elbows to delicate five fingered hands, and on each finger, precisely formed nails – on each hand a thumb. The trunk of the body, though small, was mature and lightly haired, until at the abdomen the hair gave way to scales, and the body narrowed into a long sinuous fish-like tail where the legs should be. The wonder was labeled, “FeeGee Mer-man.”

  Distracted by the wonder, I had lost contact with Poe. Hurriedly, I began searching for him. A small wave of fear washed over me. The displays became more and more menacing as I wandered through the dimly lit aisles.

  I passed a hugely fat woman standing on a small riser, no, two hugely fat women. “The Mirror Sisters,” read the placard. They slapped at the flesh on their bared bellies, and a tidal motion of a disturbing nature traveled across their near naked mammoth bodies.

  A three-legged man sat on a stool playing a flute, two legs crossed over his knee. A hairy-faced boy of no more than six years barked at me as I called out in vain, “Poe!”

  Finally, in the back of the level, near another stairway marked “Up To Main Hall,” I came upon a curtained area marked, “See the Odalisque!”

  A man holding one flap of the drape beckoned me with a leer, and I rushed past him. There was Poe. He stood transfixed by the large painting hanging on the wall. There, surrounded by a Baroque gilded frame, she reclined in her glory.

  The smooth lines of her unclothed body began at her graceful left foot. With her back half-turned and one leg drawn up slightly so that her right foot rested on the bare flesh of one calf, her hand, clutching a peacock fan bound in silver, caressed the other. Her thighs became rich hips that rested on a soft cushion, and the subtle curve of her spine led up in a balanced arc to her neck. Beneath her arm, the soft swell of her breast tantalized the eye. Her skin was the color of heated alabaster. But above all, it was the power of her gaze that took my breath. Her turbaned head was turned, and over her shoulder, she looked at me with a sense of submission mixed with domination. Her eyes invited and yet proclaimed her inviolability.

  “The Odalisk?” I whispered to Poe.

  “Le Grande Odalisque,” he replied.

  “And then we have discovered…”

  “A fine reproduction of a painting by Ingres, nothing more.”

  “Nothing?”

  “A naked woman is never nothing, Griswold,” he said, and he reached out to stroke the woman’s bare leg.

  “No touching.” The man at the entrance had his eyes on us.

  “Then what?...”

  Poe had already turned and rushed up the stairs outside the booth. I again became the pursuer as he led the way back to the main level and up another flight of stairs. I caught up with him as he entered the exhibit of “Fine Art.” We were soon surrounded by the prophets, apostles, virgin martyrs, and mummies.

  Yes, a curious inclusion in a Biblical exhibit, but there they were nonetheless. Most were poor and dusty, but two enclosed together in a crystal case were breathtaking, and I could not help but stop to view them.

  King and Queen, they were side by side, each crowned with amethyst and gold. Jade collars studded with emeralds circled their necks. Their belts were crafted of minuscule links of gold wire and diamond clasps. I was enraptured.

  Poe poked me with his cane. “Do not miss the decay.”

  I looked away from the jewels and saw the linen bandages stained by tar and pitch, the sunken orbs where eyes had been, and the bone thin fingers that held the silver scepters.

  “They are dead,” Poe pointed out.

  “I realize that. But the jewels…”

  “Are dead as well.” He turned quickly, and headed with purpose into the rest of the displays.

  As was his habit, Poe flitted from one picture to another like some maddened hummingbird, never alighting in any one place for more than an instant. Saint Stephen pierced by a hundred arrows – a stuffed anaconda curled round a pillar, clutching a wax apple in its stiff jaws – Lot’s wife petrified in salt – Pha
raoh’s army drowned in the Sea of Reeds – Jesus himself conquering the waves of Galilee – all the paintings and poses were of little interest, until we came upon the patriarch again. Methuselah’s long beard and Jacob’s ladder – King David’s dance and Solomon’s Temple – these flanked a long aisle that led to a wall where two large paintings were hung.

  On the left was Noah again. Clouds filled the stormy sky behind his head, and his long hair streamed out in wild tendrils as the tempest gathered around him. His arms were outstretched as he bade the animals to come to the refuge he had built them at God’s behest. On the right, Abraham stood over his son’s body, bound hand and foot and placed on the altar of piled stones in the wilderness. His right hand held a knife, and his left hand reached towards heaven hoping for reprieve from the promise he had given.

  Between the two paintings was a marble pedestal about six feet tall. On the top of the stone column was a small oil lamp that burnt with a bluish flame and illuminated a small rude clay figure. She – for the heavy breasts and triangle of Venus so proclaimed its sex – stood on delicate feet. Her arms were open to welcome worship, and her crudely formed face smiled on one side of its mouth and frowned on the other. Deep, dark indentations served as eyes, and the statue was crowned with a star-shaped halo.

  Poe seemed lost in thought, as I had found him when he was in the presence of the Grande Odalisque.

  “Poe?”

  He gazed at the statue, so out of place in its setting, and murmured, “The oldest whore – Astarte.”

  “Does it mean anything?”

  “Ssssh!”

  “Is it?...”

  A bell rang. Such as a school bell, it sounded from the floor below us. A hand held bell, it rang with a bright tone to belie the atmosphere we stood in. A voice announced, “The lecture is about to begin. Seats for the lecture, please.” The bell rang again.

  “Come,” said Poe.

  I kept close beside him as we descended the stairway to the main level and then off to the right where a sign clearly marked the entrance to the theater. On the board on an easel near the auditorium’s door was the bill: