All too soon the Wolf scratched at the door of the cottage on Fordham
Hill. All too soon the shadow that had so often enveloped the
rose-embowered cottage in Spring Garden--the shadow from the wing of the
Angel of Death--fell upon the cottage among the cherry trees.
The Dreamer sat before his desk under the picture of "Helen," for hours
and hours, or when Virginia was too ill to be up, at a little table
beside her bed in the chamber which was like a nest in a tree. In fair
weather and foul the stately figure and sorrowful eyes of Mother Clemm
were to be seen upon the streets of New York as she went about offering
the narrow rolls of manuscript for sale as fast as they were finished,
or trying to collect the little, over-due checks from those already sold
and published. Yet, with all they could do, had it not been for the
generous gifts of friends the three must needs have succumbed to cold
and hunger. And all the time the poison that fell from Rufus Griswold's
tongue was at work. Even the visits of the angels of mercy who
ministered to him and his invalid wife in this their darkest hour were
made, by the working of this poison, to appear as things of evil. How
was one of the furtive eye and the black heart of a Rufus Griswold to
understand love of woman of which reverence was a chief ingredient?
These ministering angels--Mrs. Osgood, Mrs. Gove, Mrs. Marie Louise
Shew, and others whose love for the racked and broken Dreamer and for
herself Virginia so perfectly understood--Virginia the guileless, with
her sense for spiritual things and her warm, responsive heart--brought
to the cottage not only encouragement and sympathy, but medicines and
delicacies which were offered in such manner that even one of Edgar
Poe's sensitive pride could accept them without shame.
Summer passed, and autumn, and winter drew on--filling the dwellers in
Fordham cottage with fear of they knew not what miseries. There had been
ups and downs; there had been happiness and woe; there had been times of
strength and times of weakness--of weakness when The Dreamer, unable to
hold out in the desperate battle of life as he knew it; hungry, cold and
heartbroken at the sight of his wife with that faraway look in her eyes,
had fallen--had sought and found forgetfulness only to know a horrible
awakening that was despair and that was oftentimes accompanied by
illness. Now, there was added to every thing else the knowledge that
she--his wife--his heartsease flower, and the Mother, in spite of all
his striving for them, were objects of charity.
When some of his friends, in the kindness of their hearts, published in
one of the papers an appeal to the admirers of Edgar Poe's work for aid
for him and his family in their distress, he came out in a proud denial
of their need for aid. The need was great enough, God knows!--but the
pitiful exposure was more painful than the pangs of cold and hunger.
* * * * *
At last the day drew near of whose approach all who had visited the
cottage knew but of which they had schooled themselves not to think.
January 1847 was waning. For many days the ground had not been seen. The
branches of the cherry trees gleamed--not with flowers, but with
icicles--as they leaned against the windows of the bed-chamber under
the roof. Sometimes as the winter blast stirred them, they knocked
against the panes with a sound the knuckles of a skeleton might have
made. There was not the slightest suggestion of the soft-voiced "Ligeia"
in that harsh, horrible sound.
Upon the bed the girl-wife lay well nigh as still and as white as the
snow outside. Now and again she coughed--a weak, ghostly sort of cough.
Over her wasted body, in addition to the thin bed-clothing, lay her
husband's old military cape. Against her breast nestled Catalina,
purring contentedly while she kept the heart of her mistress warm a
little longer. Near the foot of her bed the Mother sat--a more perfect
picture than ever of the Mater Dolorosa--chafing the tiny cold feet; at
the head her husband bent over her and chafed her hands. About the room,
but not near enough to intrude upon the sacred grief of the stricken
mother and husband, sat several of the good women whose friendship had
been the mainstay of the three. Through the window, gaining brilliance
from the ice-laden branches outside, fell the rays of the setting sun,
glorifying the room and the bed. Scarce a word was spoken, but upon the
request of the dying girl for music one of the visitors began to sing in
low, tremulous tones, the beautiful old hymn, "Jerusalem the Golden." To
the man, bowed beneath his woe as it had been a physical weight, the
words came as a knell, and a blacker despair than ever settled upon his
wild eyes and haggard face. To his dying wife they were a promise--the
smile upon her lip and the look of wonder in her eyes showed that she
was already beholding the glories of which the old hymn told.
And so wandered her spirit out of the cold and the want and the gloom
that had darkened and chilled the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, into
the regions of "bliss beyond compare."
But her husband, left behind, was as the man in his own story,
"Silence," who sat upon a rock--the gray and ghastly rock of
"Desolation." "With his brow lofty with thought and his eyes wild with
care and the fables of sorrow and weariness and disgust with mankind
written in furrows upon his cheek," he sat upon the lonely grey rock and
leaned his head upon his hand and looked out upon the desolation. She
was no more--no more!--the maiden who lived with no other thought than
to love and be loved by him;--his wife--in all the storm and stress of
his troubled life his true heartsease!
Out of the desolation he perceived a thing that was formless, that was
invisible--but that was appalling--_silence_. Silence that made him
shrink and quake--he that had loved, had longed for silence! Silence
would crush him now. And solitude!--how often he had craved it! He had
solitude a plenty now.
Like a hunted animal, he looked about for a refuge from the Silence and
the Solitude that gave him chase, but he knew that however fast he might
flee they would be hard on his heels.
How white she was--and how still! Nevermore to hear the sounds of her
low sweet voice, nevermore to hear her merry laughter, nevermore her
light foot-step that--like her voice and her laugh--was music to his
ears! Nevermore!--for she was wrapped in the Silence--the last great
silence of all.
Nevermore would she sit beside him as he worked, or plant flowers about
the door, or lay her hand in his and explore with him the wonderful
dream-valley; nevermore lay her sweet lips upon his or raise the
snow-white lids from her eyes and shine on him from under their long,
jetty fringes. Henceforth a Solitude as vast as the Silence would be his
portion.
Their sweet friend Marie Louise Shew robed her for the tomb and over the
snow they bore her to rest in a vault in the village churchyard.
Then, for many weeks Edgar Poe lay in the bed-chamber under the roof,
desperately ill--for the most part unconscious. The mother bereaved of
her child had no time to give herself over to mourning, for as she had
wrestled with death for the possession of a son when he was first given
into her keeping, even more fiercely did she wrestle now that he must be
son and daughter too. The kind friends who had made Virginia's last days
comfortable aided her in the battle, and finally the victory was
won,--pale, shaken, wraith-like, the personification of woe made
beautiful--The Dreamer came forth into the air of heaven once more, and
as spring opened was to be seen, as of old, walking among the pines or
beside the river.
And ever and anon his clear-cut, chastened features and his great,
solemn eyes were turned skyward--especially at night when the heavens
were sown with stars; for from some one of those bright worlds,
peradventure, would she whose absence made the Solitude and the Silence
be looking down upon him. And as he gazed and dreamed, high thoughts
took form in his brain--thoughts of the "Material and Spiritual
Universe; its Essence, its Origin, its Creation, its Present Condition
and its Destiny,"--thoughts to be made into a book dedicated to "Those
who feel rather than to those who think--to the dreamers and those who
put faith in dreams as in the only realities"--thoughts for his
projected work, "Eureka!" Out of the Silence and the Solitude came the
development and completion of this strange prose poem.
Like an uneasy spirit he wandered, night and day, up and down the river
bank, in the wood or in the churchyard that held the tomb of his
Virginia.
Meanwhile the Mother still kept the cottage bright. She asked no
questions when he went forth, night or day, or when he came in, night or
day; but her heart bled for him and sometimes when he would throw
himself into a deep chair and sit by the hour, seemingly staring at
nothing, but really (she knew by the harassed and brooding look in the
great, deep eyes) "dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream
before," she would steal gently to his side and with her long, slim,
expressive fingers stroke the large brow until natural sleep brought
respite from painful memories. Her ministrations were grateful to him,
yet he was barely conscious of her presence. Not even for her, and far
less for any other human being, did he feel kinship at this time. His
vision, when not turned within, looked far beyond human companionship to
the wonders of the universe--the stars and the mountains and the forests
and the rivers; but his only real companion was his own stricken heart.
Many times he said to his heart in the prophetic words of his fantastic
creation, "Morella,"
"Thy days henceforth shall be days of sorrow--that sorrow which is the
most lasting of impressions as the cypress is the most enduring of
trees. For the hours of thy happiness are over, and joy is not gathered
twice in a lifetime as the roses of Paestum twice in a year."
Yet as the back is fitted to the burden and the wind tempered to the
shorn lamb, so again, as in his early griefs, the sorrow of The Dreamer
was not all pain, there was an element of beauty--of poetry--in it that
made it possible to be endured. Out of the depths of the Solitude and
the Silence he said to his soul,
"It is a happiness to wonder--it is a happiness to dream." And more than
ever before in his life his whole existence had become a dream--the
realities being mere shadows.
To dream, to wonder, to work; to work, to wonder, to dream--thus were
the hours, the hours of sorrow, spent. The hours of which the poet lost
all count, for between his dreams and his work so intensely full were
the hours of vivid mental living that each day was as a lifetime in
itself.
And as he wandered under the pines or along the river, wrapped in his
dreams and wondering thoughts of heaven and earth, or leaned from the
window of the chamber under the low sloping roof--the chamber that had
been the chamber of death--and looked beyond the embowering cherry trees
upon the sky; or at dead of night sat under his lamp pondering over his
books--always, everywhere, he listened--listened for the voice and the
foot-falls of Virginia as he had listened in his earlier days for the
voice and the footfalls of the mythical "Ligeia." For had she not
promised that she would watch over him in spirit and, if possible, give
him frequent indications of her presence--sighing upon him in the
evening winds or filling the air which he breathed with perfume from the
censers of the angels?
And her promises were faithfully kept, for often as he listened he heard
the sounds of the swinging of the censers of the angels, and streams of
a holy perfume floated about him, and when his heart beat heavily the
winds that bathed his brow came to him laden with soft sighs, and
indistinct murmurs filled the night air.
* * * * *
And so the green spring and the flowery summer passed, and autumn drew
on.
Then came a day of days--a soft October day when merely to exist was to
be happy and to hope. And new life, like some sweet, rejuvenating
cordial seemed to enter and course through the veins of The Dreamer and
for the first time since the Silence and the Solitude had enveloped the
cottage he laughed as he flung wide the windows of the chamber that had
been the chamber of death, to let in the day. And as he looked forth he
said, again quoting the words of his "Morella,"
"The winds lie still in heaven. There is a dim moisture over all the
earth and a warm glow upon the waters, and upon the forest a rainbow--a
bow of promise--from the firmament has surely fallen. It is not a day
for sorrow but for joy, for it is a day out of Aidenn itself, and I feel
that ere it has passed I shall hold sweeter, more real communion with
her that is in Aidenn than ever before."
He went forth and wandered through the radiance of that perfect day
hours on hours, and as he paced the solemn aisles of the pine wood, or
strolled along the river walk which was veiled in a golden haze and
carpeted thick with the yellow and crimson and brown leaves of October,
he heard, clearly, the sound of the swinging of the censers of the
angels, as his senses were bathed in the holy perfume, and the zephyrs
that blew about his brow were laden with audible sweet murmurs.
As evening fell a pleasant languor possessed his limbs--a wholesome
weariness from his long wanderings--and he lay down upon a bank littered
with fallen leaves and slept. And as he slept in the fading light, the
spirit of Virginia approached him more nearly--more tangibly--than ever
before; and finally, when the red sun had sunk into the river, and when
the afterglow in the sky and the rainbow that lay upon the forest were
alike blotted out by the shadows of night, and the moon--a lustrous blur
through the haze--wandered uncertainly up the sky, she drew nearer and
nearer, and pressed a fluttering kiss--such a kiss as a butterfly might
bestow upon a flower--upon his lips; then, sighing, drew away.
The sleeper awoke with a start--a start of heavenly bliss followed by
instant pain--for as he peered into the night he saw that he was
alone--with the Silence and the Solitude. The winds lay still in heaven
and bore him no whisper or sigh. The perfume from the censers of the
angels still filled the air, but he was conscious of a great void--a
pain unbearable. The kiss had awakened a thousand thronging memories;
the kiss had robbed of their charm the elusive perfume, and the ghostly
whisper of fluttering garments, and the shadowy foot-falls, and the
faint, faraway sighs. Henceforth these would cease to satisfy. The kiss
had made him know the want of his heart for love and companionship, such
as the living Virginia had given him.
He listened and listened, but the winds lay still in heaven, and he was
alone with the Silence--the dread Silence--and the heart-hunger, and the
despair.
Then he arose from his bed of withered and sere leaves and as one
distraught, wandered through the shadows of the misty, weird night. In
the wood and by the waters he wandered, while the night wore on and the
moon held its way--still a lustrous blur in the heavens.
On, on he wandered, seeking peace for his soul and finding none, till
the moon was out and the stars fainted in the twilight of the
approaching day, when lo, above the end of the path through the wood,
the morning star--"Astarte's bediamonded crescent"--arose upon his
vision!
And as he gazed with wonder and delight upon the beautiful star, hope
was born anew in his heart, for he said,
"It is the Star of Love!"
He that had always looked for signs in the skies, had he not found one?
What could it mean, this rising of the Star of Love upon the hour of his
bitterest need but a sign of hope, of peace?
Vainly did his soul upbraid him and warn him not to trust the beacon--to
fly from its alluring light and cast aside its spell. All deaf to the
warning, he eagerly followed the star which promised renewal of hope and
love and relief from the Solitude and the Silence--the desolation that
the kiss had made so real and intolerable.
But alas, as he wandered on and on, his eyes upon the star, his feet
following blindly, without marking the path into which they had turned,
his progress was suddenly checked. Through the misty twilight of the
approaching dawn there loomed an obstacle to his steps. It was with
horror unspeakable that he recognized the vault in which lay, in her
last sleep, his loved Virginia....
"Then his heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crispéd and sere,--
As the leaves that were withering and sere!"
The Star of Love was fading in the eastern sky and through the ghostly
dawn he turned and fled aghast to the cottage among the cherry trees.
* * * * *
Mother Clemm who had lain waiting and watching for him all night arose
from her uneasy couch when she heard the latch of the gate lifted, and
opened the door. He came in and walked past her like a wraith. His eyes
were wild, his face was bloodless and haggard, his hair damp and
disordered. The Mother's eyes were filled with dumb pain. He suffered
her to take his hand in hers and to gaze into his eyes with pity and
even raised the hand that held his own to his lips, as though to
reassure her; but he spake no word--made no attempt at explanation--and
she asked no questions.
For a moment he remained beside her, then straight to his desk he walked
and began arranging writing materials before him, while she disappeared
into the kitchen and started a blaze under a pot of coffee that stood
upon the little stove.
He wrote rapidly--furiously--without pausing for thought or for the
fastidious choice of words that was apt to make him halt frequently in
the act of composition, and the words that he wrote were the wild
words--wild, but beautiful and moving as an echo from Israfel's own
lute--of the poem, "Ulalume:"
"The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crispéd and sere,--
The leaves they were withering and sere,--
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year."
* * * * *
After that eventful night a change came over him that sat upon the Rock
of Desolation. The Solitude and the Silence still enfolded him, but the
Star of Love had arisen in his firmament, ushering in a new day and new
hope to his soul. And he no longer trembled as he sat upon the rock, but
with new energy he worked and with exceeding patience he waited. And as
he worked interest in life returned to him, and ambition returned.
One day he copied "Ulalume" upon a long, narrow slip of paper and rolled
it into one of the tight little rolls that all the editors knew and
Mother Clemm made a pilgrimage to the city especially on account of it.
First she tried it at _The Union Magazine_, which promptly rejected it.
It was too "queer" the editor said. But _The American Review_ agreed to
take it and to print it without signature--for this poem must be
published anonymously, if at all, the poet insisted. It soon afterward
appeared and Mr. Willis copied it into the next number of _The Home
Journal_ with complimentary editorial comment.
The result was a new sensation--the reader everywhere declared himself
to be brought under a magic spell by the words of this remarkable
poem--though he frankly owned that he did not in the least understand
them; which was as Edgar Poe intended.
* * * * *
Even the old dream of founding a magazine returned and possessed him as
it had so often possessed him before. It was in the interest of the
magazine, which he still proposed to name _The Stylus_, that he
determined to give his new work, "Eureka!" as a lecture, in various
places. He did give it once--in New York--coming out of his seclusion
for the first time, upon a frosty February night. The rhapsody,
delivered in his low but musical and dramatic tones, thrilled his
audience, but it was a small audience, and when soon afterward, the work
was published by the _Putnams_ it was a small number of copies that was
sold.
And again Edgar Poe was desperately poor. Yet he had seen the Star of
Love--"Astarte's bediamonded crescent"--usher in a new morning; and he
waited and worked in hope.