Mary Newton Stanard - The Dreamer

M >> Mary Newton Stanard >> The Dreamer

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23

THE DREAMER

A Romantic Rendering of the Life-Story of Edgar Allan Poe

by

MARY NEWTON STANARD
(Author of "The Story of Bacon's Rebellion")

"They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which
escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions
they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in waking, to
find they have been upon the verge of the great secret."

--_Edgar Allan Poe, in "Eleanora"_

Richmond, Virginia
The Bell Book and Stationery Company
1909
Copyright 1909
By Mary Newton Stanard

[Illustration: THE HERMITAGE PRESS
Bindery of L.H. Jenkins
Richmond, Va.]

In the Sacred Memory
of
My Father and Mother

TO THE READER

This study of Edgar Allan Poe, poet and man, is simply an attempt to
make something like a finished picture of the shadowy sketch the
biographers, hampered by the limitations of proved fact, must, at best,
give us.

To this end I have used the story-teller's license to present the facts
in picturesque form. Yet I believe I have told a true story--true to the
spirit if not to the letter--for I think I have made Poe and the other
persons of the drama do nothing they may not have done, say nothing they
may not have said, feel nothing they may not have felt. In many
instances the opinions, and even the words I have placed in Poe's mouth
are his own--found in his published works or his letters.

I owe much, of course, to the writers of Poe books before and up to my
time. Among these, I would make especial and grateful acknowledgment to
Mr. J.H. Ingram, Professor George E. Woodberry, Professor James A.
Harrison and Mrs. Susan Archer Weiss.

But more than to any one of his biographers, I am indebted to Poe
himself for the revelations of his personality which appear in his own
stories and poems, the most part of which are clearly autobiographic.

M.N.S.

THE DREAMER

CHAPTER I.

The last roses of the year 1811 were in bloom in the Richmond gardens
and their petals would soon be scattered broadcast by the winds which
had already stripped the trees and left them standing naked against the
cold sky.

Cold indeed, it looked, through the small, smoky window, to the eyes of
the young and beautiful woman who lay dying of hectic fever in a dark,
musty room back of the shop of Mrs. Fipps, the milliner, in lower Main
Street--cold and friendless and drear.

She was still beautiful, though the sparkle in the great eyes fixed upon
the bleak sky had given place to deep melancholy and her face was
pinched and wan.

She knew that she was dying. Meanwhile, her appearance as leading lady
of Mr. Placide's company of high class players was flauntingly announced
by newspaper and bill-board.

The advertisement had put society in a flutter; for Elizabeth Arnold Poe
was a favorite with the public not only for her graces of person and
personality, her charming acting, singing and dancing, but she had that
incalculable advantage for an actress--an appealing life-story. It was
known that she had lately lost a dearly loved and loving husband whom
she had tenderly nursed through a distressing illness. It was also known
that the husband had been a descendant of a proud old family and that
the same high spirit which had led his grandfather, General Poe,
passionately denouncing British tyranny, to join the Revolutionary Army,
had, taking a different turn with the grandson, made him for the sake of
the gifted daughter of old England who had captured his heart--actress
though she was--sever home ties, abandon the career chosen for him by
his parents, and devote himself to the profession of which she was a
chief ornament. A brief five years of idylic happiness the pair had
spent together--happiness in spite of much work and some tears;--then
David Poe had succumbed to consumption, leaving a penniless widow with
three children to support. The eldest, a boy, was adopted by his
father's relatives in Baltimore. The other two--a boy of three years in
whom were blended the spirit, the beauty, the talent and the ardent
nature of both parents, and a soft-eyed, cooing baby girl--were clinging
about their mother whenever she was seen off the stage, making a picture
that was the admiration of all beholders.

The last roses of the year would soon be gone from the gardens, but Mrs.
Fipps' windows blossomed gallantly with garlands and sprays more
wonderful than any that ever grew on tree or shrub. Not for many a long
day had the shop enjoyed such a thriving trade, for no sooner had the
news that Mr. Placide's company would open a season at the theatre been
noised abroad than the town beaux addressed themselves to the task of
penning elegant little notes inviting the town belles to accompany them
to the play, while the belles themselves, scenting an opportunity to
complete the wreck of masculine hearts that was their chief business,
addressed themselves as promptly to the quest of the most ravishing
theatre bonnets which the latest Paris fashions as interpreted by Mrs.
Fipps could produce. As that lady bustled back and forth among her
customers, her mouth full of pins and hands full of ribbons, feathers,
flowers and what not, her face wore, in spite of her prosperity, an
expression of unusual gravity.

_She could not get the lodger in the back room off her mind._

Mr. Placide, who had been to see the sick woman, was confident that her
disorder was "nothing serious," and that she would be able to meet her
engagements, and charged the thrifty dealer in fashionable head-gear and
furnished rooms by no means to let the fact that the star was ill "get
out." But the fever-flush that tinged the patient's pale cheeks and the
cough that racked her wasted frame seemed very like danger signals to
good Mrs. Fipps, and though she did not realize the hopelessness of the
case, her spirits were oppressed by a heaviness that would not be shaken
off.

Ill as Mrs. Poe, or Miss Arnold, as she was still sometimes called, was,
she had managed by a mighty effort of will and the aid of stimulants to
appear once or twice before the footlights. But her acting had been
spiritless and her voice weak and it finally became necessary for the
manager to explain that she was suffering from "chills and fevers," from
which he hoped rest and skillful treatment would relieve her and make
it possible for her to take her usual place. But she did not appear.
Gradually her true condition became generally known and in the hearts of
a kindly public disappointment gave place to sympathy. Some of the most
charitably disposed among the citizens visited her, bringing comforts
and delicacies for her and presents for the pretty, innocent babes who
all unconscious of the cloud that hung over them, played happily upon
the floor of the dark and bare room in which their mother's life was
burning out. Nurse Betty, an ample, motherly soul, with cheeks like
winter apples and eyes like blue china, and a huge ruffled cap hiding
her straggly grey locks from view--versatile Betty, who was not only
nurse for the children and lady's maid for the star, but upon occasion
appeared in small parts herself, hovered about the bed and ministered to
her dying mistress.

As the hours and days dragged by the patient grew steadily weaker and
weaker. She seldom spoke, but lay quite silent and still save when
shaken by the torturing cough. On a Sunday morning early in December she
lay thus motionless, but wide-eyed, listening to the sounds of the
church-bells that broke the quiet air. As the voice of the last bell
died away she stirred and requested, in faint accents, that a packet
from the bottom of her trunk be brought to her. When this was done she
asked for the children, and when Nurse Betty brought them to the bedside
she gave into the hands of the wondering boy a miniature of herself,
upon the back of which was written: "For my dear little son Edgar, from
his mother," and a small bundle of letters tied with blue ribbon. She
clasped the baby fingers of the girl about an enameled jewel-case, of
artistic workmanship, but empty, for its contents had, alas, gone to pay
for food. She then motioned that the little ones be raised up and
allowed to kiss her, after which, a frail, white hand fluttered to the
sunny head of each, as she murmured a few words of blessing, then with a
gentle sigh, closed her eyes in her last, long sleep.

The baby girl began to whimper with fright at the suddenness with which
she was snatched up and borne from the room, and the boy looked with awe
into the face of the weeping nurse who, holding his sister in one arm
dragged him away from the bedside and out of the door, by the hand.
There was much hurried tramping to and fro, opening and closing of doors
and drawing to of window-blinds. These unusual sounds filled the boy
with a vague fear.

That night the children were put to bed upon a pallet in Mrs. Fipps' own
room and Mrs. Fipps herself rocked the baby Rosalie to sleep and gave
the little Edgar tea-cakes, in addition to his bread and milk, and told
him stories of Heaven and beautiful angels playing upon golden harps.
The next day the children were taken back to their mother's room. The
shutter to the window which let in the one patch of dim light was now
closed and the room was quite dark, save for two candles that stood upon
stands, one at the foot, the other at the head of the bed. The air was
heavy--sickening almost--with the odor of flowers. Upon the bed, all
dressed in white, and with a wreath of white roses on her dark ringlets,
lay their mother, with eyelids fast shut and a lovely smile on her
lips. She was very white and very beautiful, but when her little boy
kissed her the pale lips were cold on his rosy ones, as if the smile had
frozen there. It was very beautiful but the boy was a little frightened.

"Mother--" he said softly, pleadingly, "Wake up! I want you to wake up."

The weeping nurse placed her arm around him and knelt beside the bed.

"She will never wake up again here on earth, Eddie darling.
Never--nevermore. She has gone to live with the angels where you will be
with her some day, but never--nevermore on earth."

With that she fell to weeping bitterly, hiding her face on his little
shoulder.

The child, marvelling, softly repeated, "Nevermore--nevermore." The
solemn, musical word, with the picture in the dim light, of the sleeping
figure--asleep to wake nevermore--and so white, so white, all save the
dusky curls, sank deep into his young mind and memory. His great grey
eyes were wistful with the beauty, and the sadness, and the mystery of
it all.

The next day the boy rode in a carriage with Mrs. Fipps and Nurse Betty
who had left off the big white cap and was enveloped from head to foot
in black, up a long hill, to a white church in a churchyard where the
grass was still green between the tombstones. The bell in the white
steeple was tolling slowly, solemnly. Soft grey clouds hung over the
steeple and snow-flakes as big as rose-leaves began to fill the air.
Presently the bell ceased tolling and he and Nurse Betty moved up the
aisle behind a train of figures in black, with black streamers floating
from their sleeves. The figures bent beneath a heavy burden. It was long
and black and grim, but the flowers that covered it were snow-white and
filled the church with a sweet smell. A white-robed figure led the way
up the aisle, repeating, as he walked, some words so solemn and full of
melody that they sounded almost like music. The church was dim, and
quiet, and nearly empty. The organ began to play--oh, so softly! It was
very beautiful, but still the boy shuddered, for he dimly realized that
the grim box held the sleeping form that seemed to be his mother, but
was not his real mother. _Her_ kisses were not frozen, and _she_ was in
Heaven with the angels.

The choir sang sweet music and the white-robed priest said more solemn
words that were like spoken music; then the procession moved slowly down
the aisle again and out of the door. The bell in the steeple was silent
now, and the organ was silent. Silently the procession moved--silently
the snow came down. Silently and softly, like white flowers. The green
graves were white with it now, like the flowers on the coffin lid; but
the open grave in the churchyard corner, near the wall--it was dark, and
deep and terrible! The boy's heart almost stood still as, clinging to
Nurse Betty's hand, he stared into its yawning mouth. He felt that he
would choke--would suffocate. They were lowering the box into that deep,
dark pit! What if the sleeping figure should awake, after all--awake to
the darkness and narrowness of that narrow bed!

With a piercing shriek the child broke from his nurse's hand and thrust
himself upon the arm of one of the black figures who held the ropes, in
a wild effort to stay him; then, still shrieking, was borne from the
spot.

CHAPTER II.

"Since it seems you have set your heart upon this thing, I do not forbid
it; but remember, you are acting in direct opposition to my judgment and
advice, and if you ever live to regret it (as I believe you shall) you
will have no one but yourself to blame."

John Allan's voice was harsher, more positive, than usual; his shoulders
seemed to square themselves and a frowning brow hardened an always
austere face. His whole manner was that of a man consenting against his
will. His young wife hung over his chair vainly endeavoring to smooth,
with little pats of her fair hands, the stubborn locks that _would_
stand on end, like the bristles of a brush, whatever she did. Her soft
and vivacious beauty was in striking contrast to the strength and
severity of his rugged and at the same time distinguished countenance.
His narrow, steel-blue eyes, deep sunk under bushy brows and a high, but
narrow, forehead, were shrewd and piercing; his nose was large and like
a hawk's beak. His face too, was narrow, with cheek-bones high as an
Indian's. His mouth was large, but firmly closed, and the chin below it
was long and prominent and was carried stiffly above the high stock and
immaculate, starched shirt-ruffles. Her figure, as she leaned against
the chair's high back, was slender and girlish,--childish, almost, in
its low-necked, short-waisted, slim-skirted, "Empire" dress, of some
filmy stuff, the pale yellow of a Marshal Niel rose. Her face was a
pure oval with delicate, regular features. Her reddish-brown hair,
parted in the middle, was piled on top of her small head, and airy
little curls hung down on her brow on either side of the part. Her
eyes--the color of her hair--were gentle and sweet and her mouth was
tenderly curved and rosy. With her imploring attitude, the sweetness of
her eyes and mouth and the warmth of her plea, her fresh beauty glowed
like a flower, newly opened. All unmoved, John Allan repeated,

"You will have no one but yourself to blame."

Her ardor undimmed by the chariness of the consent she had gained, she
showered the lowering brow with cool, delicate little kisses until it
grew smooth in spite of itself.

"Oh, I know I never shall regret it, John," she cooed. "He is such a
beautiful boy--so sweet and affectionate, so merry and clever! Just what
I should like our own little boy to be, John, if God had blessed us with
one."

"I grant you he seems a bonny little lad enough, Frances. But I realize,
as it seems you do not, the risk of undertaking to rear as your own the
child of any but the most unquestionable parentage. I confess the
thought of introducing into my family the son of professional players is
extremely distasteful to me."

"But John, dear, you know these Poes were not ordinary players. The
father was one of the Maryland Poes and I understand the mother came of
good English stock. She certainly seemed to be a lady and a good, sweet
woman, poor thing! The Mackenzies have decided to adopt the baby
Rosalie, though they have children, as you know; and with this charming
little Edgar for my very own I shall be the happiest woman alive."

"Well, well, keep your pretty little pet, but if he turns out to be
other than a credit to you, don't forget that you were warned."

* * * * *

And so the little Edgar Poe--the players' child--became Edgar Allan,
with a fond and admiring young mother who became at once and forever his
slave and whose chief object in life henceforth was to stand between him
and the discipline of a not intentionally harsh or unkind, but strict
and uncompromising father; who though he too was fond of the boy, in a
way, and proud of his beauty and little accomplishments, was constantly
on the lookout for the cloven foot which his fixed prejudice against the
child's parentage made him certain would appear.

In her delight over her acquisition, Frances Allan was like a child with
a new toy. She almost smothered him with kisses when, accepting her
bribe of a spaniel pup and his pockets full of sugar-kisses, he agreed
to call her "Mother." With her own fingers she made him the quaintest
little baggy trousers, of silk pongee, and a velvet jacket, and a tucker
of the finest linen. His cheap cotton stockings were discarded for
scarlet silk ones, and for his head, "sunny over with curls" of bright
nut-brown, she bought from Mrs. Fipps, the prettiest peaked cap of
purple velvet, with a handsome gold tassel that fell gracefully over on
one shoulder. Thus arrayed, she took him about town with her to show
him to her friends who were ecstatic in their admiration of his pensive,
clear-cut features, his big, grey eyes and his nut-brown ringlets; of
his charming smile and the frank, pretty manner in which he gave his
small hand in greeting.

"Oh, but you should hear him recite and sing," the proud foster-mother
would say. "And he can dance, too."

She gave a large dinner-party just to exhibit the accomplishments of her
treasure--actually standing him upon the table when it had been cleared,
to sing and recite for the guests. Even her husband unbent so far as to
applaud vigorously the modest, yet self-possessed grace with which the
mite drank the healths of the assembled company--making a neat little
speech that his new mother had taught him.

The boy's young heart responded to the affection of the foster-mother to
a certain degree; but, mere baby though he was, his real heart lay deep
in the grave on the hill-top, where the earthly part of that other
mother was lying so still, so white, with the roses on her hair and the
frozen smile on her lips.

The churchyard on the hill was but a short distance away from his new
home, and as spring opened, became a favorite resort of nurses and
children. The negro "mammy" who had replaced Nurse Betty used often to
take him there, and often, as she chatted with other mammies, her charge
would wander from her side to the grave against the wall, where he would
stretch his small body full length upon the turf and whisper the
thoughts of his infant mind to the dear one below; for who knew but
that, even down under ground she might be glad to hear, through her
white sleep, her little boy's words of love and remembrance--though
never, nevermore she could see him on earth. He would even imagine her
replies to him, until the conversations with her became so real that he
half believed they were true.

At night, when bed-time came, he said his prayers at the knee of his
pretty new mother, who told him jolly stories and sang him jolly songs,
and patted him and soothed him with caresses which he found very
agreeable, and accepted graciously. But he always took the miniature
which had been his dying mother's parting gift to bed with him and he
was glad when the new mother kissed him goodnight and put out the light
and softly closed the door behind her; for it was then, with the picture
close against his breast, that the visions came to him--the visions of
angels making sweet music upon golden harps and among them his lost
mother, with her sweet face saddened but made sweeter still by that
thought of nevermore.

Oh, that wondrous word nevermore! Its music charmed him, its
hopelessness filled and thrilled him with a strange, a holy sorrow, in
which there was no pain.

With the lovely vision still about him, the picture still clasped to his
breast, he would sink into healthful sleep to wake on the morrow a
bright, joyous boy, alive to all the pleasures of the new
day--delighting in the beauties of blue sky and sunshine, of whispering
tree and opening flower, ready for sport with his play-fellows and his
pets, and full of all manner of merry pranks and jokes. For in the frame
of this small boy there dwelt two distinct personalities--twin
brothers--yet as utterly unlike as strangers and foreigners, thinking
different thoughts, speaking different languages, and dominating
him--spirit and body--by turns. One of these we will call Edgar
Goodfellow--Edgar the gay, the laughter-loving, the daring, the real,
live, wholesome, normal boy; keen for the society of other boys and
liking to dance, to run, to jump, to climb, even to fight. The other,
Edgar the Dreamer, fond of solitude and silence and darkness, for they
aided him to wander far away from the everyday world to one of make
believe created by himself and filled with beings to whom real people
were but as empty shadows; but a world that the death and burial of his
beautiful and adored young mother and the impression made upon him by
those scenes, had tinged with an eternal sadness which hung over it as a
veil.

The life of Edgar the Dreamer was filled with the subtle charm of
mystery. It was a secret life. The world in which he moved was a secret
world--an invisible world, to whose invisible door he alone held the
key. Edgar the Dreamer was himself an invisible person, for the only
outward difference between him and his twin brother, Edgar Goodfellow,
lay in a certain quiet, listless air and the solemn look in his big,
dark grey eyes which his playmates--bored and intolerant--took as
indications that "Edgar was in one of his moods," and his
foster-father--eyeing him keenly and with marked displeasure--as an
equally unmistakable indication that he was "hatching mischief."

There were times when in the midst of the liveliest company this
so-called "mood" would possess the child. He would fall silent; his
mouth would become pensive, his dark grey eyes would seem to be
impenetrably veiled; his chin would drop upon his hand; he would seem
utterly forgetful of his surroundings. The familiar Edgar--Edgar
Goodfellow--would have given place to Edgar the Dreamer, who though
apparently of the company, would really have slipped through that
invisible portal and wandered far afield with the playmates of his
fancy.

At such times Mrs. Allan would say, "Eddie, what are you thinking
about?" And brought back to her world with a jolt, the boy would answer
quickly (somewhat guiltily it seemed to Mr. Allan--noting the startled
expression),

"Nothing." It was his first lie, and a very little one, but one that was
often repeated; for he that would guard a secret must be used to
practice deception.

Mr. Allan would say, "Wake up, wake up, child! Only the idle sit and
stare at nothing and think of nothing. You'll be growing up an idle,
trifling boy if you give way to such a habit."

Between the Allans and Edgar the Dreamer a great gulf lay--for how
should a dreamer of day-dreams reveal himself to any not of his own
tribe and kind? Upon Edgar Goodfellow Mrs. Allan doted. All of her
friends agreed with her that so remarkable a child--one so precocious
and still so attractive--had never been seen, and Mr. Allan was
secretly, as proud of his wrestling, running, riding and other out-door
triumphs as his wife was of his pretty parlor accomplishments. Their
friends agreed too, that she made him the best of mothers, barring the
fact (for which weakness she was excusable--he was such a love!) that
she spoiled him, and perhaps permitted him to rule her too absolutely.
Was he grateful? Oh, well, that would come in time. Appreciation was not
a quality to be expected in children, and what more natural than that
the boy should accept as a matter of course the good things which she
made plain it was her chief pleasure in life to shower upon him? She was
indeed, as good a mother as it was possible for a mother without a
highly developed imagination to be.

A most lovely woman was Frances Allan, justly admired and liked by all
who knew her. She was pretty and gracious and sunny-tempered and
sweet-natured; charitable--both to society and the poor--and faithful to
her religious duties. Withal, a notable house-keeper, given to
hospitality, fond of "company" and gifted in the art of making her
friends feel at home under her roof. If she was not gifted with a lively
imagination she did not know it, and so had not missed it. As Mr.
Allan's wife she had not needed it. And so she lavished upon Edgar
Goodfellow everything that heart could wish. She delighted to provide
him with pets and toys and good things to eat, and to fill his little
pockets with money for him to spend upon himself or upon treating his
friends. Fortunately, the other Edgar--Edgar the Dreamer--was not
dependent upon her for his pleasures, for the beauties of sky and river
and garden and wood which nourished his soul were within his own reach.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23