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Mary Newton Stanard - The Dreamer

M >> Mary Newton Stanard >> The Dreamer




And so the unhappy pair pined and sighed and gloomed, each reckoning the
other faithless and believing that life was forever robbed of joy.

Edgar Poe had never really loved the girl. He had merely loved the dream
to which her tender words and timid caresses gave an adorable reality;
but now in his disappointment at not hearing from her he felt that her
love and loyalty to him were the only things in the world worth having
and persuaded himself that without her there as no incentive to live or
to strive. His misery was increased by an over-whelming homesickness, to
escape from which, he wandered restlessly about, vainly seeking
excitement and forgetfulness.

In this mood, he eagerly accepted an invitation to spend the evening
from a class-mate whose room in "Rowdy Row" had a reputation for
conviviality. His own room, shared by a quiet and steady Richmond boy
with whom he had a slight acquaintance at home, was in one of the
cloister-like dormitories opening upon the main lawn.

While Edgar Poe had been a somewhat wayward and at times a disobedient
boy, at home, he had never been a _bad_ boy except when judged by John
Allan's standards, and had never been in the least wild. Wines were used
upon the table of his foster-father, as upon the tables of other
gentlemen whose homes he had visited, and he had always been permitted
to drink a small quantity at a time, at dinner, or to sip a little
mint-julep from the goblet passed around before breakfast and supposed
to be conducive to appetite and healthful digestion; but he had never
thought of exceeding this allowance. As to cards, he knew nothing of
them save as an innocent, social pastime in which he found pleasure, as
in all other games and sports--especially such as required exercise of
ingenuity or mental skill.

The evening in "Rowdy Row" was therefore a revelation, as well as a
diversion to him. As he approached the end of this arcaded row in which
his new friend's room was situated his interest received a spur from the
sounds of hilarity that greeted him, and his spirits began to rise. In a
few moments more he found himself in the midst of a group of exceedingly
jolly youths evidently prepared to make a night of it. Several of them
were gathered about a huge bowl in which they were mixing a variety of
punch which they called "peach-honey." Others were seated around a card
table while one of their number entertained the rest with what seemed to
be almost magical tricks. These Edgar joined. His interest was
immediately aroused and he fixed his eyes with intentness upon the
juggler. The tricks were new to him, but he soon amazed the crowd by
showing the solution of them all.

Finally, the punch was declared to be ready; other packs of cards were
produced and the real sport of the evening began. It was Edgar's first
experience in drinking with boys and his conscience, not yet hardened
to it, kept him in check without worrying him enough to destroy his
pleasure. Somewhat of his old exhilaration returned to him at the bare
thought, for he felt himself a man, following his own will and yet not
disobeying any direct command.

In spite of much urging, he only drank one glass of the peach-honey, but
thanks to a jovial ancestor of whom he had never heard, but of some of
whose sins (in accordance with the ancient law) he bore the marks in his
temperament, he was peculiarly susceptible to the influences of strong
drink, and as he drained the glass at a gulp, a new freedom seemed to
enter his soul. The dejection which had oppressed him dropped from him
instantly, and with his great eyes glowing like lamps with new zest in
life, he sat down at a card table to be initiated into the mysteries of
the fascinating game of _loo_, which had lately become the fashion, and
at the same time into his first experience in playing for money.

He had beginner's luck--held good hands and won straight through the
game. His success, with the effects of the punch, developed his wittiest
vein and Edgar Goodfellow assumed complete ascendancy.

His new acquaintances were charmed, and encouraged his mood by loud
applause and congratulated themselves upon having added to their number
such good company.

From that night Edgar Poe's new friends, who constituted what was known
as the "fast set" at the University, became his boon companions. It was
in the card-table, much more than the punch-bowl that the charm for him
lay, for the gambling fever had entered his blood with his first
winnings, but in the combination of the two he found, for the present, a
sure cure for his "blue devils."

Alas, Helen! Where was your sweet spirit that it did not hover, as
guardian angel, about the head of this wayward child of genius in his
hour of sore need, when temptations gathered thick around his pathway
and there was no one to steer him into safer waters; no one to restrain
his feet from their first blind steps toward that Disaster to which
ruinous companionship invited him, with syren voice?

True, his staid room-mate, Miles George, raised his voice in warning
against the dangerous intimacies he was forming but Miles' view seemed
extreme to him. Besides, he found at the University the same caste
feeling that had cut him off from familiar intercourse with the leaders
among his Richmond schoolmates. It was but natural, therefore, that he
should have turned gratefully, to the society where his welcome was
sure.

Finally words passed between him and Miles, ending in a formal meeting,
with seconds on both sides. Their only weapons were their fists, and
they shook hands afterward; but the idea of continuing to share the same
bed-room was out of the question. Of the vacant rooms to be had, Edgar
promptly decided upon Number 13, Rowdy Row, and the second step in a
wrong direction quickly followed the first.

He was hailed by the rest of the "Row" with delight, and he promptly
decided to return their many hospitalities in his new room, which he
proceeded to elaborately prepare for their reception.

The result was an early and noisy house-warming. The guests were filled
with admiration to find the walls of Number 13 decorated in honor of the
occasion with charcoal sketches representing scenes from Byron's works
done by the clever hand of the new occupant himself. They also found
Edgar Goodfellow in the character of host, presiding over his own
card-table and his own bowl--a generous one--of peach-honey, in the
highest feather and his most captivating mood.




CHAPTER XI.


Erelong Number 13 was the liveliest and most popular room in the Row,
but of the orgies held there the faculty rested in blissful
unconsciousness. At class-time young Poe was invariably in his place and
invariably the pale, thoughtful, student-like and faultlessly neat and
gentle-mannered youth whose intelligent attention and admirable
recitations were the joy of his masters. They heard rumors that he was
something of a poet and were not surprised, the suggestions of ideality
in the formation of his brow and the expression of his eyes hinted at
such talent, and so long as he did not let the Muse come between him and
his regular work, he should not be discouraged or restrained.

Indeed, in spite of the sway of Edgar Goodfellow at this time, Edgar the
Dreamer was often present too, and during solitary tramps into the wild
fastenesses of the Ragged Mountains, he not only conceived many fancies
to be worked into poems, but made mentally, the first draft of a story
to win fame.

The love of no real woman came to supplant the seemingly faithless
Elmira, and though he still carried his mother's miniature with him and
gazed often and fondly upon it, the sense of nearness between her spirit
and his and the soul satisfaction he had found in this nearness in the
past, were gone. The gambling fever that had fired his veins and the
nightly potations of peach-honey created an excitement and restlessness
that blurred the images his memory held of the angel mother who had
dominated his childhood and of the madonna-like mistress who had filled
the dreams of his early youth. These holy dreams became for the time
being, a reproach to him, for they aroused his conscience to an
unpleasant activity which required more frequent recourse to peach-honey
to quiet.

* * * * *

Love was, nevertheless, as necessary to this poet's soul as meat and
drink were to his body, and in the No Man's Land, "out of space, out of
time," which his fancy created and where it loved to stray, he fashioned
for himself the weirdest, strangest lady ever loved by mortal. The name
he gave her was "Ligeia." She laid upon him no exactions, chastened him
with no rebukes, demanded of him no service save that he should
dream--and dream--and dream; for was not she herself formed from "such
stuff as dreams are made of?"

The music of nature had long possessed a sort of personality for Edgar
Poe, and now the voices, the motions, the numberless colors of the world
about him took definite shape in his fancy of a wonderous fairy-woman
whom he worshipped with an unearthly, poetic passion that was compared
to the passion of the normal man to flesh and blood woman as moonlight
to sunshine--a passion which was luminous without heat.

Dim and elusive as is the very conception of "Ligeia" to the ordinary
mind, she was perfectly real to her creator. In the summer-night breeze
he heard the music of her voice and felt the delicious coolness of her
caress. Tall, swaying trees spoke to him of her height, her majesty and
her grace. He perceived the softness and lightness of her footfalls in
the passage of evening shadows across a lake or meadow, the perfection
of her features in the form and finish of flower petals and the delicate
tints of her beauty in the coloring of flowers; the raven hue and
sweeping length of of her tresses in the drowning shades of midnight and
the entrancing veil of her lashes in deep mysterious woods; and when, in
fancy, he looked beneath that veil into her eyes, as unfathomable as the
ocean itself, he was struck dumb with reverence and wonder, for they
held in keeping all the secrets of the moon and the stars, of dawn and
sunset, of green things growing and flowers in bloom, of the butterfly
in the crysalis and on the wing, of still waters and of running brooks.

To the inner vision of this most unusual youth, "Ligeia"--this myth
called into being by the enchantment of his own fancy--not only became
as real as if she had been flesh and blood; his pagan soul bowed down
before her and she blotted from his mind, for the time, all thought or
consciousness of more robust womanhood. She became, in imagination, the
sharer of his studies, the wife of his bosom, and he sat at her feet and
gladly learned from her the beautiful, strange secrets of this fearfully
and wonderfully made world.

He was sometimes haunted by another, and a far less agreeable vision. In
spite of the absence of restraint under which he lived and the fact
that between his dreams, his books and his dissipations there seemed
little opportunity left for the still, small voice to make itself heard,
there were times when his better self shook off slumber and rose before
him like a ghost that, for all his efforts, would not be laid--a ghost
like him in all regards save for the sternness of its look and of the
voice which accused him in whispers to which all others ears were deaf,
but his own intensely, horribly sensitive.

It was generally at the very height of excitement in play, when he had
just been dealt a hand which he told himself, with exultation, would win
him all the money in the pool, or, perhaps at the moment when he raised
the glass to his lips, anticipating the delicious exhilaration of the
seductive peach-honey, that the unwelcome spectre would, with startling
suddenness, appear before his eyes. His face would blanch, his own voice
become almost as hoarse as the warning whisper that was in his ear, and
with trembling hand he would put down the cards or the cup and refuse to
have anything more to do with the evening's sport.

His companions at first thought these attacks the result of some
physical weakness but finally became accustomed to them and attributed
them to his "queerness."

* * * * *

Thus the youthful poet passed his year at college--dividing his time
between his dreams, his classes and his carousals. The session closed in
December. The final examinations occupied the early part of the month
and when the faculty met upon the 14th., it was found that Edgar Poe
had not only stood well in all of his studies, but in two of them--Latin
and French--he had taken the highest honors.

In spite of this, and of the fact that at no time during the session had
he come under the censure of the faculty, a startling revelation was
made. Edgar Poe, model student as he seemed to be, whose only fault--if
it could be called a fault--as the faculty knew him, had been a tendency
toward a romantic dreaminess that had led him upon lonely rambles among
the hills rather eccentric in a boy of seventeen; Edgar Poe, the quiet,
the gentlemanly, the immaculately neat, the scholarly, the poetic, had
been a spendthrift and a reckless gambler. His debts, for a boy of his
age, were astounding. No one was more amazed at the sum of them than
Edgar himself. He had always had the lordly indifference to money, and
the contempt for keeping account of it, that was the natural result of
being used to have what seemed to him to be an unlimited supply to draw
upon, with the earning of which he had nothing to do. As to hoarding it,
he would as soon have thought of hoarding the air he breathed which came
to him with no less effort. He was, unfortunately, as heedless of what
he owed as what he spent--lavishing it upon his companions as long as it
lasted and when his supply of cash was exhausted running up accounts
with little thought of a day of reckoning--though of course he fully
intended to pay.

His mind was, indeed, too much engrossed with the charming creations of
his brain to leave him time for brooding upon such sordid matters as the
keeping of accounts, or the making of two ends meet. The amount of his
indebtedness was now, however, sufficient to give him a shock which
thoroughly aroused him, and he was genuinely distressed; for he had no
wish to ruthlessly pain his foster-father. The haunting better self not
only arose and confronted him, but remained with him, keeping close step
with him and upbraiding him and condemning him in the whisper audible to
his quick imagination and so terrifying.

Still, the thought that Mr. Allan had plenty of money, and that no
severe sacrifice would be needful for the payment of his debts relieved
his penitence of much of its poignancy. That Mr. Allan would settle
these "debts of honor," as he called them, as the fathers and guardians
of boys as reckless as himself had done, he had not the slightest doubt.
But, as will be seen, he reckoned without Mr. Allan.

He wrote Mrs. Allan a dutiful letter, confessing all and expressing his
sorrow, and begging to be permitted to repay Mr. Allan for settling his
affairs at the University with work as a clerk in the counting house.

The letter filled the tender heart of the foster-mother with yearning.
The sum frightened her, though she, like the boy, comforted herself with
the thought that her husband could pay it without embarrassment. Still,
she trembled to think of his wrath. Her chief feeling was one of
sympathy for her erring, penitent boy. How natural it was for one of his
age to be led away by evil associates! All boys--she supposed--must sow
some wild oats, though few, she was confident, showed such a beautifully
penitent spirit, and it would be a small matter in future years when he
should have become the great and good man she knew he was going to be.

How noble it was of him to offer to give up or postpone the completion
of the education so dear to his heart and tie himself to a desk in that
tiresome counting-house in order to pay his debts--he that was born to
shine as a poet. She exulted that he had offered to make such a
sacrifice, but he should never make it, never while _she_ had breath in
her body to protest!

How her heart bled for him in his sorrow over his wrong-doing! How she
longed to fold his dear curly head against her breast and tell him that
he was quite, quite forgiven! She would reward him for the splendid
stand in his classes and at the same time make him forget his troubles
on account of the debts by giving him the loveliest imaginable
Christmas. Uncle Billy must search the woods for the brightest greens,
the prettiest holly; for the house must look its merriest for the
home-coming of its young master, covered with honors! There must be
mistletoe, too she told herself, her mouth dimpling and a suspicion of a
twinkle flashing out from under her dewy lashes. The fatted calf should
be killed, her boy should make merry with his friends.

The dear letter was kissed and cried over until it took much smoothing
on her knee to make it presentable to hand over to her husband for
perusal. Her fingers were still busy stroking out the crumples, though
her tears were dried, and her thoughts were happily engaged with plans
for a Christmas party worthy to celebrate the home-coming of her
darling, when Mr. Allan came in to supper. She was brought back to
recollection of the confession in the letter and her apprehensions as to
how it would be received, with a start, and before timidly handing her
husband the open letter, she began preparing him for its contents and
excusing the writer.

"A letter from Eddie, John, dear. He has stood splendidly in his
classes, but asks your forgiveness for having done wrong in his spare
time. He is so manly and noble in his confession, John, and in his offer
to make reparation!"

John Allan's face clouded and hardened instantly.

"What is this? Confession? Reparation?--Give me the letter!"

But she held it away from him.

"It seems he has gotten into a card-playing set who have led him away
further than he realized. Oh, don't look like that, John! He is so
young, and you know how evil association can influence the best of
boys!"

But the storm gathered fast and faster on John Allan's face.

"Card-playing? Do you mean the boy has been gambling? Give me the
letter."

She could withhold it no longer, but as he sat down to read it she threw
herself upon an ottoman at his feet and clasping his knees hid her face
against them, crying,

"Oh, John, have pity, have pity!"

But even as she sobbed out the words, she felt their futility. She knew
that there was no pity to be expected from the owner of that face of
stone, that eye of steel.

As he read, his rage became too great for the relief of an outburst. A
still, but icy calm settled upon him. For some minutes he spoke no word
and seemed unconscious of the tender creature so appealing in her
loveliness and in the humility of her attitude, beseeching at his knee.
The truth was, that much as he loved her, his contempt for what he
called her "weakness" for the son of her adoption, but added to his
harshness in judging the boy.

Presently he arose, impatiently pushing her away from him as he did so,
saying;

"Pack my bag and order an early breakfast. I'm going to take the morning
stage for the University."

It was a difficult evening for the little foster-mother. In the stately,
octagon-shaped dining-room soft lamplight was cheerily reflected by
gleaming mahogany and bright silver and china, upon which was served the
most toothsome of suppers; but the meal was almost untouched and the
mere pretense of eating was carried through in silence and gloom. In the
drawing-room, afterward, the firelight leaped saucily against shining
andirons and fender, bringing forgetfulness of the frosty night outside,
while the carved wood-work and the great mirrors and soft-hued
paintings, in their gilded frames, on the walls, and the deep carpets on
the floors spoke of comfort. But the beautiful room was a mockery, for
the promised comfort, was not there--only futile luxury. Upon that
bright hearth was warmth for the body, but none for the spirit, for
before it sat the master and mistress--the presiding geniuses of the
house--upon whose oneness the structure of the _home_ must stand, or
without it fall into ruin; there they sat, wrapped in moods so out of
sympathy and tune that speech was as impossible between them as if they
had been of different tongues, and each unknown to the other.

Meantime, Edgar Poe was spending his last hours at the University in the
dust and ashes of self-condemnation and regretful retrospection No
farewell orgie celebrated his leave-taking. Only one of his friends was
invited to his room that night and he no denizen of "Rowdy Row," but the
quiet, irreproachable librarian. To this gentle guest The Dreamer
confided his past sins and his penitence, while he laid upon the glowing
coals the year's accumulation of exercise books, and the like, which had
served their purpose and were finished and done with, and watched the
devouring flames leap from the little funeral pyre they made into the
chimney.

More than anything he had ever done in his life, he told his companion,
he regretted the making of the gambling debts for which Mr. Allan would
have to advance the money to pay. But, as has been said, he reckoned
without Mr. Allan, who settled all other obligations, but utterly
ignored the so-called "debts of honor."

"Debts of honor?" he queried with contempt. "Debts of _dishonor_, I
consider them."

And that was his last word upon the subject.




CHAPTER XII.


The late January night was bitterly cold, and clear as crystal. There
was a metallic glitter about the round moon, shining down from a
cloudless, blue sky--too bright to show a star--upon the black and bare
trees and shrubbery in the terraced garden of the Allan homestead.

Edgar Poe looked from his casement upon the splendor of the beautiful,
but frigid and unsympathetic night. Bitterness was in his heart
contending with a fierce joy. At last it had come--the breach with Mr.
Allan--and he was going away! He knew not where, but he was going, going
into the wide world to seek fame and fortune.

He had much to regret. He loved Richmond--loved it for the joy and pain
he had felt in it; for the dreams he had dreamed in it. He loved it
exceedingly for the two dear graves, one in the churchyard on the hill
and one in the new cemetery, that held his beloved dead.

Yes, he was sorry to leave this _home_-city, if not of his birth, at
least of his childhood and early youth, and his soul was still shaken by
the scene with his foster-parents through which he had just passed. But
in spite of all, his heart--rejoicing in the nearness of the freedom for
which he had so fiercely longed, sang, and stilled his sorrow.

But a few weeks had passed since his return from the University. A few
weeks? They seemed to him years, and each one had left a feeling of
increased age upon his spirit.

The home-coming had not been altogether unhappy--humiliating as it was.
In spite of the black looks of his foster-father, the little mother
(bless her!) had welcomed him with out-stretched arms and eyes beaming
with undimmed love. Never had she been more tenderly sweet and dear. She
had given the most beautiful Christmas party, with all his best friends
invited, and everything just as she knew he would like it. Her husband
had frowningly consented to this, but her tears and entreaties were all
of no avail to win his consent for the boy's return to college. Vainly
had she plead his talents which she believed should be cultivated, and
the injustice (since they had voluntarily assumed the responsibility of
rearing him) of cutting short his education at such an early age. John
Allan was adamant.

And so, after the holidays, he had taken his place in the counting-house
of "Ellis and Allan."

Distasteful as the new work was to the young poet, he was determined to
stick to it, and would probably have done so, but the strict
surveillance he soon realized he was under (as if he could not be
trusted!) and the manner of Mr. Allan who rarely spoke to him except
when it was absolutely necessary, and seemed to regard him as a hopeless
criminal, would have been unbearable to a far less proud and sensitive
nature than Edgar Poe's. Both at the office and at home, Mr. Allan's
narrow, steel-colored eyes seemed to keep constant watch, under their
beetling brows, for faults or blunders; and it seemed to the driven boy
that no matter what he did or said, he should have done or said just the
reverse. He felt constantly that a storm was brewing which must sooner
or later, certainly break, and that night it had burst forth with all
the fury of the tempest which has been a long time gathering.

He hardly knew what had brought it on, or how it had begun. Its violence
was so great as to almost stun him until at length, without being more
than half conscious of the significance of his own words he had asked if
it would not be better for him to go away and earn his own living; and
then came his foster-father's startlingly ready consent, with the
warning that if he did go he must look for no further aid from him.

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