Although St. George dispensed his hospitality without form or pretence,
never referring to his intended functions except in a casual way, the
news of so unusual a dinner to so notorious a man as Edgar Allan Poe
could not long be kept quiet.
While a few habitues occupying the arm-chairs on the sidewalk of the
club were disappointed at not being invited,--although they knew that
ten guests had always been St. George's limit,--others expressed their
disapproval of the entire performance with more than a shrug of the
shoulders. Captain Warfleld was most outspoken. “Temple,” he said, “like
his father, is a law unto himself, and always entertains the queerest
kind of people; and if he wants to do honor to a man of that stamp, why
that, of course, is his business, not mine.” At which old Tom Purviance
had blurted out--“And a shiftless vagabond too, Warfield, if what I hear
is true. Fine subject for St. George to waste his Madeira on!” Purviance
had never read a dozen lines of anybody's poetry in his life, and looked
upon all literary men as no better than play actors.
It was then that Richard Horn, his eyes flashing, had retorted:
“If I did not know how kind-hearted you were, Purviance, and how
thoughtless you can sometimes be in your criticisms, I might ask you to
apologize to both Mr. Poe and myself. Would it surprise you to know that
there is no more truth in what you say than there is in the reports of
that gentleman's habitual drunkenness? It was but a year ago that I met
him at his cousin's house and I shall never forget him. Would it also
surprise you to learn that he has the appearance of a man of very great
distinction?--that he was faultlessly attired in a full suit of black
and had the finest pair of eyes in his head I have ever looked into? Mr.
Poe is not of your world, or of mine--he is above it. There is too much
of this sort of ill-considered judgment abroad in the land. No--my dear
Purviance--I don't want to be rude and I am sure you will not think I
am personal. I am only trying to be just to one of the master spirits
of our time so that I won't be humiliated when his real worth becomes a
household word.”
The women took a different view.
“I can't understand what Mr. Temple is thinking of,” said the wife
of the archdeacon to Mrs. Cheston. “This Mr. Poe is something
dreadful--never sober, I hear. Mr. Temple is invariably polite to
everybody, but when he goes out of his way to do honor to a man like
this he only makes it harder for those of us who are trying to help our
sons and brothers--” to which Mrs. Cheston had replied with a twinkle
in her mouse eyes and a toss of her gray head:--“So was Byron, my dear
woman--a very dreadful and most disreputable person, but I can't spare
him from my Library, nor should you.”
None of these criticisms would have affected St. George had he heard
them, and we may be sure no one dared tell him. He was too busy, in
fact--and so was Harry, helping him for that matter--setting his house
in order for the coming function.
That the table itself might be made the more worthy of the great man,
orders were given that the big silver loving-cup--the one presented
to his father by no less a person than the Marquis de Castellux
himself--should be brought out to be filled later on with Cloth of Gold
roses so placed that their rich color and fragrance would reach both
the eyes and the nostrils of his guests, while the rest of the family
silver, brightened to a mirror finish by Todd, was either sent down to
Aunt Jemima to be ready for the special dishes for which the house was
famous, or disposed on the side-board and serving-table for instant use
when required. Easy-chairs were next brought from upstairs--tobacco and
pipes, with wax candles, were arranged on teak-wood trays, and an extra
dozen or so of bubble-blown glasses banked on a convenient shelf. The
banquet room too, for it was late summer, was kept as cool as the season
permitted, the green shutters being closed, thus barring out the heat of
early September--and the same precaution was taken in the dressing-room,
which was to serve as a receptacle for hats and canes.
And Todd as usual was his able assistant. All the darky's training came
into play when his master was giving a dinner: what Madeira to decant,
and what to leave in its jacket of dust, with its waistcoat of a label
unlaundered for half a century; the temperature of the claret; the
exact angle at which the Burgundy must be tilted and when it was to be
opened--and how--especially the “how”--the disturbing of a single grain
of sediment being a capital offence; the final brandies, particularly
that old Peach Brandy hidden in Tom Coston's father's cellar during
the war of 1812, and sent to that gentleman as an especial “mark of my
appreciation to my dear friend and kinsman, St. George Wilmot Temple,”
etc., etc.--all this Todd knew to his finger ends.
For with St. George to dine meant something more than the mere
satisfying of one's hunger. To dine meant to get your elbows next to
your dearest friend--half a dozen or more of your dearest friends, if
possible--to look into their faces, hear them talk, regale them with the
best your purse afforded, and last and best of all to open for them your
rarest wines--wines bred in the open, amid tender, clustering leaves;
wines mellowed by a thousand sunbeams; nurtured, cared for, and put
tenderly to sleep, only to awake years thereafter to warm the hearts and
cheer the souls of those who honored them with their respect and never
degraded them with their debauchery.
As for the dishes themselves--here St. George with Jemima's help was
pastmaster: dishes sizzling hot; dishes warm, and dishes stone cold.
And their several arrivals and departures, accompanied by their several
staffs: the soup as an advance guard--of gumbo or clams--or both if you
chose; then a sheepshead caught off Cobb's Island the day before, just
arrived by the day boat, with potatoes that would melt in your mouth--in
gray jackets these; then soft-shell crabs--big, crisp fellows, with
fixed bayonets of legs, and orderlies of cucumber--the first served on
a huge silver platter with the coat-of-arms of the Temples cut in the
centre of the rim and the last on an old English cut-glass dish. Then
the woodcock and green peas--and green corn--their teeth in a broad
grin; then an olio of pineapple, and a wonderful Cheshire cheese, just
arrived in a late invoice--and marvellous crackers--and coffee--and
fruit (cantaloupes and peaches that would make your mouth water), then
nuts, and last a few crusts of dry bread! And here everything came to
a halt and all the troops were sent back to the barracks--(Aunt Jemima
will do for the barracks).
With this there was to follow a change of base--a most important change.
Everything eatable and drinkable and all the glasses and dishes were to
be lifted from the table--one half at a time--the cloth rolled back and
whisked away and the polished mahogany laid bare; the silver coasters
posted in advantageous positions, and in was to rattle the light
artillery:--Black Warrior of 1810--Port of 1815--a Royal Brown Sherry
that nobody knew anything about, and had no desire to, so fragrant was
it. Last of all the notched finger-bowls in which to cool the delicate,
pipe-stem glasses; and then, and only then, did the real dinner begin.
All this Todd had done dozens and dozens of times before, and all this
(with Malachi's assistance--Richard Horn consenting--for there was
nothing too good for the great poet) would Todd do again on this
eventful night.
As to the guests, this particular feast being given to the most
distinguished literary genius the country had yet produced,--certainly
the most talked of--those who were bidden were, of course, selected with
more than usual care: Mr. John P. Kennedy, the widely known author and
statesman, and Mr. John H. B. Latrobe, equally noteworthy as counsellor,
mathematician, and patron of the fine arts, both of whom had been Poe's
friends for years, and who had first recognized his genius; Richard
Horn, who never lost an opportunity to praise him, together with Judge
Pancoast, Major Clayton, the richest aristocrat about Kennedy Square and
whose cellar was famous the county over--and last, the Honorable Prim.
Not because old Seymour possessed any especial fitness one way or the
other for a dinner of this kind, but because his presence would afford
an underground communication by which Kate could learn how fine and
splendid Harry was--(sly old diplomat St. George!)--and how well he
had appeared at a table about which were seated the best Kennedy Square
could produce.
“I'll put you right opposite Mr. Poe, Harry--so you can study him at
your leisure,” St. George had said when discussing the placing of the
guests, “and be sure you look at his hands, they are just like a girl's,
they are so soft and white. And his eyes--you will never forget them.
And there is an air about him too--an air of--well, a sort of haughty
distraction--something I can't quite explain--as if he had a contempt
for small things--things that you and I, and your father and all of us
about here, believe in. Blood or no blood, he's a gentleman, even if he
does come of very plain people;--and they were players I hear. It seems
natural, when you think it over, that Latrobe and Kennedy and Horn
should be men of genius, because their blood entitles them to it, but
how a man raised as Mr. Poe has been should--well--all I can say is that
he upsets all our theories.”
“But I think you are wrong, Uncle George, about his birth. I've been
looking him up and his grandfather was a general in the Revolution.”
“Well, I'm glad of it--and I hope he was a very good general, and very
much of a gentleman--but there is no question of his descendant being a
wonder. But that is neither here nor there--you'll be right opposite and
can study him in your own way.”
Mr. Kennedy arrived first. Although his family name is the same as that
which dignifies the scene of these chronicles, none of his ancestors, so
far as I know, were responsible for its title. Nor did his own domicile
front on its confines. In fact, at this period of his varied and
distinguished life, he was seldom seen in Kennedy Square, his duties at
Washington occupying all his time, and it was by the merest chance that
he could be present.
“Ah, St. George!” he exclaimed, as he handed his hat to Todd and grasped
his host's hand. “So very good of you to let me come. How cool and
delicious it is in here--and the superb roses--Ah yes!--the old
Castellux cup. I remember it perfectly; your father once gave me a sip
from its rim when I was a young fellow. And now tell me--how is our
genius? What a master-stroke is his last--the whole country is ringing
with it. How did you get hold of him?”
“Very easily. He wrote me he was passing through on his way to Richmond,
and you naturally popped into my head as the proper man to sit next
him,” replied St. George in his hearty manner.
“And you were on top of him, I suppose, before he got out of bed. Safer,
sometimes,” and he smiled significantly.
“Yes, found him at Guy's. Sit here, Kennedy, where the air is cooler.”
“And quite himself?” continued the author, settling himself in a chair
that St. George had just drawn out for him.
“Perhaps a little thinner, and a little worn. It was only when I told
him you were coming, that I got a smile out of him. He never forgets you
and he never should.”
Again Todd answered the knocker and Major Clayton, Richard Horn, and Mr.
Latrobe joined the group. The major, who was rather stout, apologized
for his light seersucker coat, due, as he explained, to the heat,
although his other garments were above criticism. Richard, however,
looked as if he had just stepped out of an old portrait in his dull-blue
coat and white silk scarf, St. George's eyes lighting up as he took in
the combination--nothing pleased St. George so much as a well-dressed
man, and Richard never disappointed him, while Latrobe, both in his
dress and dignified bearing, easily held first place as the most
distinguished looking man in the room.
The Honorable Prim now stalked in and shook hands gravely and with much
dignity, especially with Mr. Kennedy, whose career as a statesman he
had always greatly admired. St. George often said, in speaking of this
manner of the Scotchman's, that Prim's precise pomposity was entirely
due to the fact that he had swallowed himself and couldn't digest the
meal; that if he would once in a while let out a big, hearty laugh it
might split his skin wide enough for him to get a natural breath.
St. George kept his eyes on Harry when the boy stepped forward and shook
Prim by the hand, but he had no need for anxiety. The face of the young
prince lighted up and his manner was as gracious as if nothing had ever
occurred to mar the harmony between the Seymour clan and himself.
Everybody had seated themselves now--Malachi having passed around a
course of palm-leaf fans--Clayton, Latrobe, and Horn at one open window
overlooking the tired trees--it was in the dog days--Seymour and the
judge at the other, while St. George took a position so that he could
catch the first glimpse of the famous poet as he crossed the Square--(it
was still light), the dinner hour having arrived and Todd already
getting nervous.
Once more the talk dwelt on the guest of honor--Mr. Kennedy, who, of all
men of his time, could best appreciate Poe's genius, and who, with Mr.
Latrobe, had kept it alive, telling for the hundredth time the old story
of his first meeting with the poet, turning now and then to Latrobe for
confirmation.
“Oh, some ten or more years ago, wasn't it, Latrobe? We happened to be
on the committee for awarding a prize story, and Poe had sent in his
'Manuscript in a Bottle' among others. It would have broken your hearts,
gentlemen, to have seen him. His black coat was buttoned up close to his
chin--seedy, badly worn--he himself shabby and down at the heels, but
erect and extremely courteous--a most pitiable object. My servant wasn't
going to let him in at first, he looked so much the vagrant.”
“And you know, of course, Kennedy, that he had no shirt on under that
coat, don't you?” rejoined Latrobe, rising from his seat as he spoke and
joining St. George at the window.
“Do you think so?” echoed Mr. Kennedy.
“I am positive of it. He came to see me next day and wanted me to let
him know whether he had been successful. He said if the committee only
knew how much the prize would mean to him they would stretch a point in
his favor. I am quite sure I told you about it at the time, St. George,”
and he laid his hand on his host's shoulder.
“There was no need of stretching it, Latrobe,” remarked Richard Horn
in his low, incisive voice, his eyes on Kennedy's face, although he
was speaking to the counsellor. “You and Kennedy did the world a great
service at the right moment. Many a man of brains--one with something
new to say--has gone to the wall and left his fellow men that much
poorer because no one helped him into the Pool of Healing at the
right moment.” (Dear Richard!--he was already beginning to understand
something of this in his own experience.)
Todd's entrance interrupted the talk for a moment. His face was screwed
up into knots, both eyes lost in the deepest crease. “Fo' Gawd, Marse
George,” he whispered in his master's ear--“dem woodcock'll be sp'iled
if dat gemman don't come!”
St. George shook his head: “We will wait a few minutes more, Todd. Tell
Aunt Jemima what I say.”
Clayton, who despite the thinness of his seersucker coat, had kept his
palm-leaf fan busy since he had taken his seat, and who had waited until
his host's ear was again free, now broke in cheerily:
“Same old story of course, St. George. Another genius gone astray. Bad
business, this bee of literature, once it gets to buzzing.” Then with a
quizzical glance at the author: “Kennedy is a lamentable example of what
it has done for him. He started out as a soldier, dropped into law,
and now is trying to break into Congress again--and all the time
writes--writes--writes. It has spoiled everything he has tried to do
in life--and it will spoil everything he touches from this on--and now
comes along this man Poe, who--”
“--No, he doesn't come along,” chimed in Pancoast, who so far had kept
silence, his palm-leaf fan having done all the talking. “I wish he
would.”
“You are right, judge,” chuckled Clayton, “and that is just my point.
Here I say, comes along this man Poe and spoils my dinner. Something,
I tell you, has got to be done or I shall collapse. By the way,
Kennedy--didn't you send Poe a suit of clothes once in which to come to
your house?”
The distinguished statesman, who had been smiling at the major's
good-natured badinage, made no reply: that was a matter between the poet
and himself.
“And didn't he keep everybody waiting?” persisted Clayton, “until your
man found him and brought him back in your own outfit--only the shirt
was four sizes too big for his bean-pole of a body. Am I right?” he
laughed.
“He has often dined with me, Clayton,” replied Kennedy in his most
courteous and kindly tone, ignoring the question as well as all allusion
to his charity--“and never in all my experience have I ever met a more
dazzling conversationalist. Start him on one of his weird tales and let
him see that you are interested and in sympathy with him, and you will
never forget it. He gave us parts of an unfinished story one night at my
house, so tremendous in its power that every one was frozen stiff in his
seat.”
Again Clayton cut in, this time to St. George. He was getting horribly
hungry, as were the others. It was now twenty minutes past the dinner
hour and there were still no signs of Poe, nor had any word come from
him. “For mercy's sake, St. George, try the suit-of-clothes method--any
suit of clothes--here--he can have mine! I'll be twice as comfortable
without them.”
“He couldn't get into them,” returned St. George with a smile--“nor
could he into mine, although he is half our weight; and as for our
hats--they wouldn't get further down on his head than the top of his
crown.”
“But I insist on the experiment,” bubbled Clayton good-naturedly.
“Here we are, hungry as wolves and everything being burned up. Try the
suit-of-clothes trick--Kennedy did it--and it won't take your Todd ten
minutes to go to Guy's and bring him back inside of them.”
“Those days are over for Poe,” Kennedy remarked with a slight frown. The
major's continued allusions to a brother writer's poverty, though pure
badinage, had begun to jar on the author.
For the second time Todd's face was thrust in at the door. It now looked
like a martyr's being slowly roasted at the stake.
“Yes, Todd--serve dinner!” called St. George in a tone that showed how
great was his disappointment. “We won't wait any longer, gentlemen.
Geniuses must be allowed some leeway. Something has detained our guest.”
“He's got an idea in his head and has stopped in somewhere to write it
down,” continued Clayton in his habitual good-natured tone: it was the
overdone woodcock--(he had heard Todd's warning)--that still filled his
mind.
“I could forgive him for that,” exclaimed the judge--“some of his best
work, I hear, has been done on the spur of the moment--and you should
forgive him too, Clayton--unbeliever and iconoclast as you are--and you
WOULD forgive him if you knew as much about new poetry as you do about
old port.”
Clayton's stout body shook with laughter. “My dear Pancoast,” he cried,
“you do not know what you are talking about. No man living or dead
should be forgiven who keeps a woodcock on the spit five minutes over
time. Forgive him! Why, my dear sir, your poet ought to be drawn and
quartered, and what is left of him boiled in oil. Where shall I sit, St.
George?”
“Alongside of Latrobe. Kennedy, I shall put you next to Poe's vacant
chair--he knows and loves you best. Seymour, will you and Richard
take your places alongside of Pancoast, and Harry, will you please sit
opposite Mr. Kennedy?”
And so the dinner began.