The next morning found Mr. Graham still under the spell of the evening
with the Poes. He caught himself impatiently watching the clock, for the
man under whose charm he had come was to call at a certain hour, to
confer with him in regard to the magazine. He could hear him coming
(stepping briskly and whistling a "Moore's Melody") before the rap upon
the door announced him. He came in with the bright, alert air of a man
ready for action for which he has appetite. His rarely heard laugh rang
out, fresh and spontaneous, several times during the interview. His
manners were at all times those of a prince, but Mr. Graham had never
seen him so genial, so gay. The mantle of dreamer and poet had suddenly
dropped from him, but the new mood had a charm all its own.
When business had been dispatched and they sat on to finish their
cigars, Mr. Graham reiterated his expressions of pleasure in his visit
of the evening before.
"You gave me food for thought, Mr. Poe," said he. "I've been pondering
on that creed of yours for finding and keeping the secret of true
happiness. It is about the most wholesome and sane doctrine I've met
with for some time. I've determined to adopt it, and to, at least
endeavor, to practice it."
His companion smiled.
"Good!" said he. "I only hope you'll have better success in living up to
it than I have."
Mr. Graham's eyebrows went up. "I thought that was just what you did,"
was his answer.
"So it is, at times; but when the blues or the imp of the perverse get
hold of me all my philosophy goes to the devil, and I realize what an
arch humbug I am."
"The imp of the perverse?" questioned Mr. Graham.
"That is my name for the principle that lies hidden in weak human
nature--the principle of antagonism to happiness, which, with unholy
impishness, tempts man to his own destruction. Don't you think it an apt
name?"
"I don't believe I follow you."
"Then let me explain. Did you never, when standing upon some high point,
become conscious of an influence irresistibly urging you to cast
yourself down? As you listened--fascinated and horrified--to the voice,
did you not feel an almost overwhelming curiosity to see what the
sensations accompanying such a fall would be--to know the extremest
terror of it? Your tempter was the _Imp of the Perverse_.
"Did you never feel a sense of glee to find that something you had said
or done had shocked someone whose good opinion you should have desired?
Did you never feel a desire to depart from a course you knew to be to
your interest and follow one that would bring certain harm--possible
disaster--upon you? Did you never feel like breaking loose from all the
restraints which you knew to be for your good--throwing off every
shackle of propriety, and right, and decency?--Mr. Graham, did you never
feel like throwing yourself to the devil for no reason at all other than
the desire to be perverse? Could any desire be more impish?--I will
illustrate by my own case, I am in one respect not like other men. An
exceptionally high-strung nervous temperament makes alcoholic
stimulants poison to me. It works like madness in my brain and in my
blood. The glass of wine that you can take with pleasure and perhaps
with benefit drives me wild--makes me commit all manner of reckless
deeds that in my sane moments fill me with sorrow!--and sometimes
produces physical illness followed by depression of spirits, horrible in
the extreme. More--an inherited desire for stimulation and the
exhilaration produced by wine, makes it well nigh impossible for me,
once I have yielded my will so far as to take the single glass, to
resist the second, which is more than apt to be followed by a third, and
so on. I am fully aware therefore, of the danger that lies for me in a
thing harmless to many men, and that my only safety and happiness and
the happiness of those far dearer to me than myself, lies in the
strictest, most rigid abstinence. Knowing all this, one would suppose
that I would fly from this temptation as it were the plague. I do
generally. At present, several years have passed since I yielded an
inch. But there have been times--and there may be times again--when the
Imp of the Perverse will command me to drink and, fully aware of the
risk, I _will_ drink, and will go down into hell for a longer or shorter
period afterward."
During this lecture upon one of his favorite hobbies, the low voice of
The Dreamer was vibrant with earnestness. He spoke out of bitter
experience and as he who bore the reputation of a reserved man, laid his
soul bare, his vivid eyes held the eyes of his companion by the very
intensity--the deep sincerity of their gaze.
Mr. Graham's last conversation with his new editor had dazed him; this
one dazed him still more. What manner of man was this? (he asked
himself) with whom he had formed a league? He could not say--beyond the
fact that he was undoubtedly original--and interesting. Admirable
qualities for an editor--both!
The readers of the new monthly thoroughly agreed with him. The history
of Edgar Poe's career as editor of _The Southern Literary Messenger_
promptly began to repeat itself with _Graham's Magazine_. The
announcement that he had been engaged as editor immediately drew the
attention of the reading world toward _Graham's_, and it soon became
apparent that in the new position he was going to out-do himself. The
rapidity with which his brilliant and caustic critiques and essays, and
weird stories, followed upon the heels of one another was enough to take
one's breath away. He alternately raised the hair of his readers with
master-pieces of unearthly imaginings and diverted them with playful
studies in autography and exhibitions of skill in reading secret
writing.
About the time of his beginning his duties at _Graham's_ he must needs
have had a visit from some fairy godmother, the touch of whose enchanted
wand left him with a new gift. This was a wonderfully developed power of
analysis which he found pleasure in exercising in every possible way. To
quote his own words, "As the strong man exults in his physical ability,
delighting in such exercises as bring his muscles into action, so
glories the analyst in that moral activity which disentangles. He
derives pleasure from even the most trivial occupations bringing his
talent into play."
He tried the newly discovered talent upon everything. In his papers on
"Autography" he practised it in the reading of character from
hand-writing, and in his deciphering of secret writing he carried it so
far and awakened the interest and curiosity of the public to such extent
that it bade fair to be the ruin of him; for it seemed his
correspondents would have him drop literature and devote himself and the
columns of _Graham's Magazine_ for the rest of his life, to the solving
of these puzzles. Finally, having proved that it was impossible for any
of them to compose a cypher he could not read in less time than its
author had spent in inventing it, he took advantage of his only
safeguard, and positively declined to have anything more to do with
them.
But he found a much more interesting way of exercising his power of
analysis. In the April number of _Graham's_ he tried it upon a
story--"The Murders in the Rue Morgue"--which set all the world buzzing,
and drew the interested attention of France upon him. In the next
number, while the "Murders" were still the talk of the hour, he made an
excursion into the world of _pseudo_-science the result of which was his
thrilling "Descent into the Maelstrom;" but later in the same month he
returned to his experiments in analysis--publishing in _The Saturday
Evening Post_ an _advance_ review of Charles Dickens' story "Barnaby
Rudge," which was just beginning to come out in serial form. In the
review he predicted, correctly, the whole development and conclusion of
the story. It brought him a letter from Dickens, expressing
astonishment, owning that the plot was correct, and enquiring if Edgar
Poe had "dealings with the devil."
Soon followed the "Colloquy of Monos and Una," in which in the exquisite
prose poetry of which The Dreamer was a consummate master, his
imagination sought to pierce the veil between this world and the
next--to lay bare the secrets of the soul's passage into the "Valley of
the Shadow."
Whatever else Edgar Poe wrote, he continued to pour out through the
editorial columns of _Graham's Magazine_ a steady stream of criticism of
current books. While entertaining or amusing the public as far as power
to do so in him lay, he did not for a moment permit anything to come
between him and the duties of his post as Defender of Purity of Style in
American Letters. He was unsparing in the use of his pruning hook upon
the work of his contemporaries and the height of art to which by his
fearless, candid and, at times, cruel criticism, he sought to bring
others, he exacted of himself. In spite of the amount of work he
produced, each sentence that dropped from his pen in this time of his
maturity--his ripeness--was the perfection of clear and polished
English.
But the evidences of this conscientiousness in his own work did not make
the little authors one whit less sore under his lash. Privately they
writhed and they squirmed--publicly they denounced. All save one--an
ex-preacher, Dr. Rufus Griswold--himself a critic of ability, who would
like to have been, like The Dreamer, a poet as well as a critic.
When Edgar Poe praised the prose writings of Dr. Griswold, but said he
was "no poet," Dr. Griswold like the other little authors writhed and
squirmed secretly--very secretly--but openly he smiled and in smooth,
easy words professed friendship for Mr. Poe--and bided his time.
As for Poe himself, he had by close and devoted study of the rules which
govern poetic and prose composition--rules which he evolved for himself
by analysis of the work of the masters--so added to his own natural
gifts of imagination and power of expression, so perfected his taste,
that crude writing was disgusting to his literary palate. He had made
Literature his intellectual mistress, and from the day he had declared
his allegiance to her he had served her faithfully--passionately--and he
could brook no flagging service in others.
Both his growing power of analysis and his highly developed artistic
feeling were brought into full play in this review work. Under his
guidance the writings of his contemporaries, whether they were the
little authors or the giants such as, in England, Tennyson (who was a
prime favorite with him), Macauley, Dickens, Elizabeth Barrett, or in
America, Longfellow, Lowell, Hawthorne, Irving, Emerson, stood forth
illumined--the weak spots laid bare, the strong points gleaming bright.
He unfalteringly declared his admiration of Hawthorne (then almost
unknown) in which the future so fully justified him. The tales of
Hawthorne, he declared, belonged to "the highest region of Art--an Art
subservient to genius of a very lofty order."
Even the work of the little authors was indebted to him for many a good
word, but the little authors hated him and returned the brilliant
sallies his pungent pen directed toward their writings with vollies of
mud aimed at his private character.
No matter what his subject, however, Edgar Poe always wrote with
power--with intensity. He seemed by turns to dip his pen into fire, into
gall, into vitriol--at times into his own heart's blood.
Of the last named type was the story "Eleonora," which appeared, not in
_Graham's_, but in _The Gift_ for the new year, and wherein was set
forth in phrases like strung jewels the story of the "Valley of the
Many-Colored Grass." The whole fabric of this loveliest of his
conceptions is like a web wrought in some fairy loom of bright strands
of silk of every hue, and studded with fairest gems. In it is no hint of
the gruesome, or the sombre--even though the Angel of Death is there. It
is all pure beauty--a perfect flower from the fruitful tree of his
genius at the height of its power.
All of Edgar Poe's work gains much by being read aloud, for the eye
alone cannot fully grasp the music that is in his prose as well as his
verse. "Eleonora" was read aloud in every city and hamlet of the United
States, and at firesides far from the beaten paths--the traveled
roads--that led to the cities; for it was written when every word from
the pen of Edgar Poe was looked for, waited for, with eager impatience,
and when _Graham's Magazine_ had been made in one little year, by his
writing, and the writing of others whom he had induced to contribute to
its pages, to lead the thought of the day in America.
And the success of The Dreamer made him a lion in the "City of Brotherly
Love" as it had made him a lion in Richmond. The doors of the most
exclusive--the most cultivated--homes of that fastidious city stood open
to welcome him. The loveliest women, whether the grey ladies of the
"Society of Friends" or the brightly plumaged birds of the gayer world,
smiled their sweetest upon him. As he walked along the streets
passers-by would whisper to one another,
"There goes Mr. Poe. Did you notice his eyes? They say he has the most
expressive eyes in Philadelphia."
* * * * *
Throughout this year of almost dazzling triumph the little cottage with
its rose-hooded porch, in Spring Garden, had been a veritable snug
harbor to The Dreamer. In winter when the deep, spotless snow lay round
about it, in spring when the violets and hyacinths came back to the
garden-spot and the singing birds to the trees that overhung it, in
summer when the climbing green rose was heavy with bloom and in autumn
when the wind whistled around it, but there was a bright blaze upon the
hearth inside, his heart turned joyously many times a day, and his feet
at eventide, when his work at the office in the city was over, toward
this sacred haven.
And Edgar the Dreamer was happy. He should have been rich and would have
been but for the meagre returns from literary work in his time. Men were
then supposed to write for fame, and very little money was deemed
sufficient reward for the best work. The poverty of authors was
proverbial and to starve cheerfully was supposed to be part of being
one.
Still, with his post as editor of _Graham's_ and the frequency with
which his signature was seen in other magazines, he was making a living.
The howl of the wolf or his sickening scratching at the door were no
more heard, and in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass the three
dreamers laughed together, and in the streets of the "City of Brotherly
Love" Edgar Goodfellow whistled a gay air, or arm in arm with some boon
companion of the "Press gang" threaded his way in and out among of the
human stream, with a smile on his lips and the light of gladness in
living in his eyes.
And why should he not be happy? he asked himself. He had the snuggest
little home in the world and, in it, the loveliest little wife in the
world and the dearest mother in the world. He was upon the top of the
wave of prosperity. His fame was growing--had already reached France,
where "The Murders" were still being talked about. Why should he not be
happy? His devils had ceased to plague him this long while. The
blues--he was becoming a stranger to them. The Imp--he had not had a
single glimpse of him during the year. He was temperate--ah, therein lay
man's safety and happiness! By strict abstinence his capacity for
enjoyment was exalted--purified. He would let the cup forever
alone--upon that he was resolved!
This was not always easy. Sometimes it had been exceedingly hard and
there had been a fierce battle between himself and the call that was in
his blood--the thirst, not for the stuff itself, but for its effects,
for the excitement, the exhilaration; but he had won every time and he
felt stronger for the battle and for the victory--the victory of will.
"Man doth not yield himself to the angels or to death utterly" (he
quoted) "save only through the weakness of his feeble will." Upon
continued resistence--continued victory--he was resolved, and in the
resolution he was happy.
Best of all, Virginia was happy, and "Muddie"--dear, patient "Muddie!"
The two women chatted like magpies over their sewing or house-work, or
as they watered the flowers. They, like himself, had made friends.
Neighbors dropped in to chat with them or to borrow a pattern, or to
hear Virginia sing. And they had had a long visit from the violet-eyed
Eliza White. What a pleasure it had been to have the sweet, fair
creature with them! (He little guessed how tremulously happy the little
Eliza had been to bask for a time in his presence--just to be near the
great man--and meanwhile guard all the more diligently the secret that
filled her white soul and kept her, for all her beauty and charm, and
her many suitors, a spinster).
Eliza had brought them a great budget of Richmond news. It had been like
a breath of spring to hear it. She talked and they listened and they all
laughed together from pure joy. How Virginia's laugh had rippled out
upon the air--it filled all the cottage with music!
It was mid-January, and he sat gazing into the rose-colored heart of the
open coal fire going over it all--the whole brilliant, full year.
"Sissy," he said suddenly, "Do you remember the birthday parties I used
to tell you about--that I had given me when I was a boy living with the
Allans?"
"Yes, indeed! and the cake with candles on it and all your best friends
to wish you many happy returns."
"Well, you know the nineteenth will be my birthday, and I want to have a
party and a cake with candles and all our best friends here to wish you
and me many happy returns of the happiest birthday we have spent
together. I only wish old Cy were here to play for us to dance! I'd give
something pretty to have him and his fiddle here, just to see what these
sober-sided Penn folk would think of them. My, wouldn't they make a
sensation in the 'City of Brotherly Love!'" He began whistling as
clearly and correctly as a piccolo the air of a recently published
waltz. After a few bars he sprang to his feet and--still
whistling--quickly shoved the table and chairs to the wall, clearing the
middle of the floor. The tune stopped long enough for him to say,
"Come, Sweetheart, you must dance this with me. My feet refuse to be
still tonight!"--then was taken up again.
The beautiful girl was in his arms in an instant and while "Muddie," in
her seat by the window, lifted her deep eyes from the work in her
ever-busy hands and let them rest with a smile of indulgent bliss upon
her "children," they glided round and round the room to the time of the
fascinating new dance.
At length they stopped, breathless and rosy, and the poet, with
elaborate ceremony, handed his fair partner to a chair and began fanning
her with "Muddie's" turkey-tail fan. He was in a glow of warmth and
pleasure. His wonderful eyes shone like lamps. His pale cheeks were
tinged with faint pink. While fanning Virginia with one hand he gently
mopped the pleasant moisture from his brow with the other. Virginia's
eyes shot sunshine. Her laughter bubbled up like a well-spring of pure
joy.
"What would people say if they could see the great Mr. Poe--the grand,
gloomy and peculiar Mr. Poe--the author of 'Tales of the Grotesque and
Arabesque,' who's supposed to be continually 'dropping from his Condor
wings invisible woe?'" said she, as soon as she could speak. The idea
was so vastly amusing to her that she laughed until the shining eyes
were filled with dew.
"If they could know half the pleasure I got out of that they wouldn't
say anything," he replied. "They would be dumb with envy. I suppose it's
my mother in me, but I just _must_ dance sometimes. And this waltz! In
spite of all the prudes say against it, it is the divinest thing in the
way of motion that ever was invented. It's exercise fit for the gods!"
He drew her to him and kissed her eyes and her cheeks and her lips.
"It was heavenly--heavenly, Sis," said he, "And I don't suppose even the
prudes could object to a man's waltzing with his own wife. I wonder will
we ever dance to old Cy's fiddle again?"