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
"I've done everything in time to it since I was three years old,"
murmured her husband. He drew the miniature from the inside pocket of
his coat where he had carried it, close against his heart, throughout
his life, and gazed long upon it. In his grey eyes was the tender,
brooding expression which the picture always called forth. "Ever since I
heard that word for the first time from the lips of my old nurse when
she took me in to see my mother robed for the grave, my feet and my
thoughts have kept time to it; and generally when my steps and my face
have been set toward hope and happiness it has risen before me like a
wall, blocking my way."
Virginia arose from her chair letting her work and the bank note fall
unheeded from her lap, and went to him. Gently taking the miniature from
his hands she restored it to its place in his pocket and then with a
hand on each of his shoulders lifted her eyes to his.
"Buddie," she said, calling him by the old pet name of their earliest
days, "You frighten me sometimes. The miniature is beautiful but it
makes you so sad. And when you talk that way about 'The Raven,' I feel
as if I could hear your tears dropping on my coffin-lid!" Then, with a
sudden change of mood, her laugh rang out, and she pressed her lips upon
his.
"I'll have you know," she said, "I'm not dead yet, and you will not have
to journey to any 'distant Aidenn' to 'clasp' me."
"No, thank God!" he breathed, crushing her to him.
* * * * *
It was upon January 29, 1845, that "The Raven" appeared, with Willis's
introductory puff. In spite of Dr. Griswold and the staff of _Graham's
Magazine_, it created an instant furor. It was published and republished
upon both sides of the Atlantic. To quote a contemporary writer,
everybody was "raven-mad" about it, except a few "waspish foes" who
would do its author "more good than harm."
It brought to the two bright rooms up the two flights of stairs visitors
by the score, eager to congratulate the poet, to make the acquaintance
of his interesting wife and mother and to assure all three of their
welcome to homes approached by brown-stone steps.
And it brought letters by the score--some from the other side of the
Atlantic. Among these was one from Miss Elizabeth Barrett, soon to
become the wife of Mr. Robert Browning.
"Your 'Raven' has produced a sensation here in England," she wrote.
"Some of my friends are taken by the fear of it, and some by its music.
I hear of persons haunted by the 'Nevermore,' and one of my friends who
has the misfortune of possessing a bust of Pallas never can bear to look
at it in the twilight. Mr. Browning is much struck by the rhythm of the
poem.
"Then there is that tale of yours, 'The Case of M. Valdemar,' throwing
us all into a 'most admired disorder,' and dreadful doubts as to whether
'it can be true,' as children say of ghost stories. The certain thing in
the tale in question is the power of the writer and the faculty he has
of making horrible improbabilities seem near and familiar."
Of all the letters from far and near, this was the one that gave The
Dreamer most pleasure, and as for Virginia and the Mother, they read it
until they knew it by heart.
When, some months later, his new book, "The Raven and Other Poems," came
out, its dedication was, "To the noblest of her sex--Miss Elizabeth
Barrett, of England."
* * * * *
And there was joy in the two rooms up two flights of stairs where Edgar
Poe sat at his desk reeling off his narrow little strips of manuscript
by the yard. His work filled _The Broadway Journal_ and overflowed into
many other periodicals.
While he created stories and poems, he gave more attention than ever to
the duties of his cherished post as Defender of Purity of Style for
American Letters, and the fame to which he had risen giving him new
authority, he made or marred the reputation of many a literary aspirant.
Exposition of plagiarism became a hobby with him, and his attacks upon
Longfellow upon this ground, brought on a controversy between him and
the gentle poet which reached such a heat that it was dubbed "The
Longfellow War." All attempts of friends and fellow journalists to make
him more moderate in his criticisms were in vain; they seemed indeed,
but to excite the Imp of the Perverse, under whose influence he became
more merciless than ever. An admirer of this virtue carried to such an
extreme that it became a serious fault, as it was assuredly a grievous
mistake, humorously characterized him in a parody upon "The Raven,"
containing the following stanza:
"Neither rank nor station heeding, with his foes around him bleeding,
Sternly, singly and alone, his course he kept upon that floor;
While the countless foes attacking, neither strength nor valor lacking,
On his goodly armor hacking, wrought no change his visage o'er,
As with high and honest aim he still his falchion proudly bore,
Resisting error evermore."
Many of the "waspish foes" thus made turned their stings upon his
private character, against which there was already a secret poison
working--the poison that fell from the tongue, and the pen of Rufus
Griswold. He had the ear of numbers of Edgar Poe's friends in the
literary world, and what time The Dreamer dreamed his dreams in utter
ignorance of the unfriendliness toward him of the big man whose big
brain he admired, the big man watched for his chance to insert the
poison. It was invariably hidden in a coating of sugar. Poe was a
wonderful genius, he would declare, his imagination--his style--they
were marvellous! Marvelous! His _head_ was all right, but--. The "but"
always came in a lowered tone, full of commiseration, "_but_--his
_heart_!--Allowance should, of course, be made for his innate lack of
principle--he should not be held _too_ responsible. His habits--well
known to everyone of course!"
No--they were not even suspected, many of his listeners replied. Might
not Dr. Griswold be mistaken? they asked. Was it possible that an
habitual drunkard could turn out such a mass of brilliant and artistic
work? And consider the exquisite neatness of his manuscript!
Peradventure the listener persisted in believing his informant
mistaken--peradventure he at once accepted the damaging statements; but
in every case the poison had been administered, and was at work.
* * * * *
There was just one class among the writers of the day sacred from the
attacks of Edgar Poe's pen. Before almost everything else The Dreamer
was chivalrous. The "starry sisterhood of poetesses" and authoresses,
therefore, escaped his criticisms. One of his contemporaries said of
him that he sometimes mistook his vial of prussic acid for his ink-pot.
In writing of authors of the gentle sex, his ink-pot became a pot of
honey.
Several of these literary ladies living in New York had their salons,
where they received, upon regular days, their brothers and sisters of
the pen, and at which The Dreamer became a familiar figure.
"I meet Mr. Poe very often at the receptions," gossiped one of the fair
poetesses in a letter to a friend in the country. "He is the observed of
all observers. His stories are thought wonderful and to hear him repeat
'The Raven' is an event in one's life. People seem to think there is
something uncanny about him, and the strangest stories are told and what
is more, _believed_, about his mesmeric experiences--at the mention of
which he always smiles. His smile is captivating! Everybody wants to
know him, but only a few people seem to get well acquainted with him."
Chief among the salons of New York was that of Miss Anne Charlotte
Lynch--who was afterward Mrs. Botta. An entre to her home was the
most-to-be-desired social achievement New York could offer, for it meant
not only to know the very charming lady herself, but to meet her
friends; and she had drawn around her a circle made up of the persons
and personages--men and women--best worth knowing. She became one of The
Dreamer's most intimate friends, and always made him and his wife
welcome at her "evenings." It was not long after "The Raven" had set the
town marching to the word "nevermore," that he made his first visit
there--a visit which long stood out clear in the memories of all
present.
In the cavernous chimney a huge grate full of glowing coals threw a
ruddy warmth into Miss Lynch's spacious drawing-room. Waxen tapers in
silver and in crystal candelabra, and in sconces, filled the apartment
with a blaze of soft light, lit up the sparkling eyes and bright,
intellectual faces of the assembled company, and showed to advantage the
jewels and laces of the ladies and the broadcloth of the gentlemen.
Miss Lynch stood at one end of the room between the richly curtained
windows and immediately in front of a narrow, gold-framed mirror which
reached from the frescoed ceiling to the floor and reflected her
gracious figure to advantage. She was listening with interested
attention to Mr. Gillespie, the noted mathematician, whose talk was
worth hearing in spite of the fact that he stammered badly. His subject
tonight happened to be the versatility of "Mr. P-P-Poe."
"He might have been an eminent m-m-mathematician if he had not elected
to be an eminent p-p-poet," he was saying.
To her right Mr. Willis's daughter, Imogen, was flirting with a tall,
lanky young man with sentimental eyes, a drooping moustache and thick,
straight, longish hair, whose lately published ballad, "Oh, Don't You
Remember Sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?" was all the rage.
To her left the Minerva-like Miss Margaret Fuller whose critical papers
in the _New York Tribune_ were being widely read and discussed, was
amiably quarreling with Mr. Horace Greely, and upon a sofa not far away
Mr. William Gilmore Simms, the novelist and poet, was gently disagreeing
with Mrs. Elizabeth Oakes Smith in her contention for Woman's Rights.
At the opposite end of the room a lovely woman in a Chippendale chair
was the central figure of a group of ladies and gentlemen each of whom
hung upon her least word with an interest amounting to affection. She
was a woman who looked like a girl, for thirty years had been kind to
her. Glossy brown hair parted in the middle and brushed smoothly down in
loops that nearly covered her ears framed an oval face, with delicate,
clear-cut features, pale complexion and eyes as brown and melting as a
gazelle's.
She was none other than Mrs. Frances Osgood, the author, or authoress,
as she would have styled herself, of "The Poetry of Flowers"--so much
admired by her contemporaries--whose husband, Mr. S.S. Osgood, the well
known artist, had won her heart while painting her portrait.
Conspicuous in the group of literary lights surrounding her was Dr.
Griswold in whose furtive glance, had she been less free from guile, she
might have read an admiration fiercer than that of friendship or even of
platonic love, and to whose fires she had unwittingly added fuel by
expressing admiration for his poems--Mr. Poe's opinion to the contrary.
Mr. Locke, author of "The Moon Hoax," was of the group; and the Reverend
Ralph Hoyt, who was a poet as well as a preacher; and Mr. Hart, the
sculptor; and James Russell Lowell, who happened to be in town for a few
days; and Mr. Willis and his new wife; and Mrs. Embury whose volume of
verse, "Love's Token Flowers," was just out and being warmly praised;
and George P. Morris, Willis's partner in the _Mirror_, whose "Woodman,
Spare that Tree!" and "We were Boys Together," had (touching a human
chord) made him popular.
The beloved physician, Dr. Francis, seemed to be everywhere at once, as
he moved about from group to group with a kindly word for
everybody--the candle-light falling softly upon his flowing silver locks
and his beaming, ruddy countenance.
Suddenly, there was a slight stir in the room--a cessation of talk--a
turning toward one point.
"There is Mr. P-P-Poe now," said Mr. Gillespie to Miss Lynch, and
followed her as, with out-stretched hand and cordial smile, she hastened
toward the door where stood the trim, erect, black-clad figure of Edgar
Poe, with his prominent brow and his big dreamy eyes, and his wife, pale
as a snow-drop after her many illnesses, and as lovely as one, and still
looking like a child, upon his arm.
Instant pleasure and welcome were written upon every face present save
one, and even that quickly assumed a smile as its owner came forward
bowing and stooping in an excess of courtesy.
The pair became immediately the centre of attraction. Everybody wanted
to have a word with them. It made Virginia thoroughly happy to see
"Eddie" appreciated, and she chatted blythely and freshly with all--her
spontaneous laugh bearing testimony to her enjoyment--while The Dreamer
yielded himself with his wonted modesty and grace to the hour--answering
questions as to whether he _really did_ believe in ghosts and whether
the experiments in mesmerism in his story, "The Case of M. Valdemar" had
_any_ foundation in fact, with his captivating but enigmatic smile, and
a little Frenchified shrug of the shoulders.
It would have seemed at first that he had diverted attention from the
fair author of "The Poetry of Flowers" to himself, but erelong--no one
knew just how it came to pass--Edgar Poe was sitting upon an ottoman
drawn close to the Chippendale chair, and the two lions were deep in
earnest and intimate conversation upon which no one else dared intrude.
The furtive eye of Rufus Griswold marked well the evident attraction
between these two beautiful and gifted beings--_poets_--and something
like murder awoke in his heart.
The tete-a-tete was interrupted by Miss Lynch, who declared that she
voiced the wish of all present in requesting that Mr. Poe would recite
"The Raven."
All the candles save enough to make (with the fire's glow) a dim
twilight, were put out, and the poet took his stand at one end of the
long room.
A hush fell upon the company and in a quiet, clear, musical voice, he
began the familiar words.
There was scarcely a gesture--just the motionless figure, the pale,
classic face, which was dim in the half-light, and the deep, rich voice.
Miss Lynch was the first to break the silence following the final
"Nevermore." Moving toward him with her easy, distinguished step, she
thanked him in a few low-spoken words. Mrs. Osgood, rising gracefully
from her chair, followed her example, with Dr. Griswold at her heels,
and in a few moments more the whole room was in an awed and subdued hum.
The girl-wife came in for her share of the lionizing. Her appearance was
in marked contrast to that of the richly apparelled women about her. The
simplest dress was the only kind within her reach--for which she may
have consoled herself with the thought that it was the kind that most
adorned her. She wore tonight a little frock made by her own fingers, of
some crimson woolen stuff, without a vestige of ornament save a bit of
lace, yellow with age, at the throat. Her hair was parted above the
placid brow, looped over her ears and twisted in a loose knot at the
back of her head, in the prevailing fashion for a young matron; which
with her youthful face, gave her a most quaint and charming appearance.
Her husband's coat had seen long service, but it was neatly brushed and
darned, and the ability to wear threadbare clothing with distinction was
not the least of Edgar Poe's talents. Beside his worn, but cared-for
apparel, costly dress often seemed tawdry.
* * * * *
Out from the warmth and the light and the perfume and the luxury and the
praise of the beautiful drawing-room with its distinguished
assemblage,--out into the streets of New York--into the bleakness and
the darkness of the winter's night--stepped Edgar Poe and his wife.
Virginia was wrapped against the cold in a Paisley shawl that had been
one of Mother Clemm's bridal presents, while Edgar wore the military
cape he had at West Point and which, except in times of unusual
prosperity, had served him as a great-coat ever since.
Through the dimly-lit streets, slippery with ice, and wind-swept, they
made their way to the two rooms up two flights of stairs, where the
Widow Clemm mended the fire with a few coals at a time and sewed by a
single candle, as she waited for them--the lion of the most
distinguished circle in America and his beautiful wife!
Back from a world of dreams created by a company of dreamers to the
reality of an empty larder and a low fuel pile and a dun from the
landlord from whom they rented the two rooms.
"The Raven" had brought its author laurels in abundance, but only ten
dollars in money. Editors were clamoring for his work and he was
supplying it as fast as one brain and one right hand could; and some of
them were sending their little checks promptly in return and some were
promising little checks some day; but _The Broadway Journal_ had failed
for lack of capital. It was the old story. He had no regular income and
the irregularly appearing little checks only provided a
from-hand-to-mouth sort of living for the three.
Yet they had their dreams. Landlords might turn them out of house and
home but they were powerless to deprive them of their dreams.
Mother Clemm's one candle was burning low--its light and that of the
dying fire barely relieved the room from darkness and did not prevent
the rays of the newly arisen full moon from coming through the lattice
and pouring a heap of silver upon the bare floor.
"Look Muddie! Look Sissy!" cried the poet. "If we lived in a blaze of
light, like your rich folk, we should have to go out of doors to see the
moon. Who says there are not compensations in this life?"
CHAPTER XXX.
But it was not always possible to take a hopeful view. Continued poverty
which oftentimes reached the degree of positive want, anxiety for
Virginia's health and inability to provide for her the remedies and
comforts he felt might preserve her life, were enough to arouse Edgar
Poe's blue devils, and they did.
Why detail the harassments of the rest of that winter, during which The
Dreamer led a strange double life--a life in the public eye of
distinction, prosperity, popularity, but in private, a hunted life--a
life of constant dread of the wrath of a too long indulgent landlord or
grocer--a flitting from one cheap lodgement to another.
One gleam of genuine sunshine brightened the dreary days. The
acquaintance with Frances Osgood begun at Miss Lynch's salon soon
ripened into close friendship. She found her way up the two flights of
stairs and Edgar and Virginia and the Mother received her with as ready
courtesy and welcome as though the two rooms that looked on the sky had
been a palace. Her intimacy became so complete--her understanding of,
and sympathy with, the three who lived for each other only so perfect
that it was almost as if she had been admitted to the Valley of the
Many-Colored Grass.
Upon her The Dreamer bestowed in abundant measure that poetic love which
the normal heart is no more capable of feeling than the normal mind is
capable of producing his poetry. A love which was like his landscapes,
not of this world or of the earth earthy--a love of the mind, the
imagination, the poetic faculty. A love whose desire was not to possess,
but to kneel to. In his rhapsodies over the phantasmal women his genius
created or the real ones whose charm he felt, it was never of flesh and
blood beauty--of blooming cheek or rounded form--that he sang, but of
the expression of the eye, the tones of the voice, the graces and gifts
of the spirit and the intellect.
In return for this love he asked only sympathy--sympathy such as he drew
from the sky and the forest and the rock-bound lake and the winds of
heaven--mood sympathy.
It was a love quite beyond the imagination of Rufus Griswold to conceive
of, even. His furtive eye was on the watch, his jealous heart was filled
with foul surmises and he added a new poison to the old, with which he
was working, drop by drop, upon the good name of Edgar Poe.
Meantime the poet, harassed by troubles of divers kinds but innocent of
the new poison as he had been of the old, welcomed the intimacy of this
congenial woman friend as balm to his tried spirit; and delved away at
his work.
Upon his desk one morning, were piled a number of the small rolls of
narrow manuscript with which the reader is familiar. These were a series
of critical sketches entitled "The Literati of New York," by which he
hoped to keep the pot boiling some days. Virginia was listening for a
step on the stair, for she had written Mrs. Osgood a note that morning,
begging her to come to them, and she knew that she would respond. The
door opened and the slight, graceful figure and delicate face with the
gentle eyes, she looked for, appeared.
"What are all these?" asked the visitor, when she had embraced Virginia
warmly and when the poet had, after bowing over her hand, which he
lightly touched with his lips, led her to a chair.
Her eyes were fixed upon the pile of manuscripts.
"One of them is yourself, Madam," replied the poet.
"Myself?" she questioned, in amazement.
He bowed, gravely. "Yourself--as one of the Literati of New York. In
each one of these one of you is rolled up and discussed. I will show you
by the difference in their length the varying degrees of estimation in
which I hold you literary folk. Come Virginia, and help me!"
The fair visitor smiled as they drew out to the full length roll after
roll of the manuscript--letting them fly together again as if they had
been spiral springs. The largest they saved for the last. The poet
lifted it from its place and gave an end to his wife and like two merry,
laughing children they ran to opposite corners, stretching the
manuscript diagonally across the entire space between.
"And whose 'linked sweetness long drawn out' is that?" asked the
visitor.
"Hear her!" cried Edgar Goodfellow who was in the ascendent for the
first time in many a long day. "Hear her! Just as if her vain little
heart didn't tell her it's herself!"
But the moment of playfulness was a rarity, and all the more enjoyed for
that.
The papers came out in due course, serially, and created a new sensation
and brought their little reward, but they also plunged their author into
a succession of unsavory quarrels. As each one appeared, it was looked
for with eagerness and read with intense interest by the public, but
frequently with as intense anger by the subject.
Perhaps the most caustic of all the critiques was the one upon the work
of Mr. Thomas Dunn English, whom Poe contemptuously dubbed, "Thomas Done
Brown."
Mr. English bitterly retorted with an attack upon his critic's private
character. A fierce controversy followed in which English became so
abusive that Poe sued and recovered two hundred and twenty-five dollars
damages--which goes to prove that even an ill wind can blow good.
Long after the papers had been published the scene of playful idleness,
with all its holiday charm, when Edgar Poe drew out the strips of
manuscript in which were rolled up "The Literati of New York" remained
in Mrs. Osgood's memory, and in his own. To him it was indeed a gleam of
brightness amid a throng of "earnest woes," a season of calm in a
"tumultous sea."
But, as been said, why dwell upon the details of that bleak, despairing
winter? Spring brought a change which makes a more pleasant picture.
* * * * *
Ever since they had left Philadelphia the Poes had clung, in memory, to
the rose-embowered cottage in Spring Garden. There, they told each
other, they had a home to their minds. It was the dear "Muddie," their
ever faithful earthly Providence to whom they were already so deeply
indebted, who discovered in the suburb of Fordham, a tiny cottage which
had much of the charm of which they dreamed--even to the infinitesimal
price for which it could be rented.
It was only a story and a half high, but there was a commodious and
cheerful room down stairs, with four windows, and from the narrow
hallway a quaint little winding stair led to an attic which though its
roof was low and sloping contained a room large enough to serve the
double purpose of bed-chamber and study.
There was a pleasant porch across the front of the cottage which would
make an ideal summer sitting-room and study, when the half-starved
rose-bush upon it should have been nursed and trained to screen it from
the sun.
The cottage stood upon a green hill, half-buried in cherry trees--just
then in full bloom and filled with bird-song. Nearby was a grove of
pines and a short walk away was the Harlem River, with its picturesque,
high, stone bridge. It was an abode fit to be in Paradise, Edgar told
Virginia and the Mother, and within a few days they and their few small
possessions--including Catalina--were as well established there as if
they had never known any other home.
The moving in recalled the earliest days of their life at Spring Garden.
Again "Muddie" was busy, not with soap and water only, but with the
whitewash brush. Again their hearts were blythe with the pleasing sense
of change--of the opening up of a new vista of there was no knowing what
happiness--just as children welcome any change for the change itself,
always expecting to find pleasant surprises upon a new and untried road.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 | 19 |
20 |
21 |
22 |
23