Poe Page 9
The result of the Washington debacle was, of course, that he did not gain an interview with President Tyler or retain any hope of obtaining the clerkship. It is also doubtful whether he enlisted many subscribers for the new periodical. Or, if he had, that he would be able to remember them. “Did you say Dow,” he wrote to his friend in a postscript, “that Commodore Elliot had desired me to put down his name? Is it so or did I dream it?” Poe was completely unsuited to arranging the economic management, or financial future, of any enterprise.
• • •
Soon after his return from Washington, the Poe household decamped once again. The pressure of debt kept them moving on. They had now arrived in a suburb of Philadelphia, in the district known as Spring Garden, and were lodged in a wooden plank-built “lean-to” of three rooms. This was the account of their dwelling given by a neighbour, Captain Wayne Reid, who became acquainted with them. Reid characterised Maria Clemm as “a woman of middle age, and almost masculine aspect.” It seemed astonishing to him that she should be the mother of “a lady angelically beautiful in person and not less beautiful in spirit.”
Reid also left a description of Maria Clemm's familial role. “She was the ever vigilant guardian of the home,” he wrote, “watching it against the silent but continuous sap of necessity … She was the sole servant, keeping everything clean; the sole messenger, doing the errands, making the pilgrimages between the poet and his publishers … And she was also the messenger to the market; from it bringing back not ‘the delicacies of the season,’ but only such commodities as were called for by the dire exigencies of hunger.”
Yet despite its privations, and Virginia's illness, the family appeared to others to be relatively contented. Another neighbour recalled that in the mornings “Mrs. Clemm and her daughter would be generally watering the flowers …They seemed always cheerful and happy, and I could hear Mrs. Poe's laugh before I turned the corner. Mrs. Clemm was always busy. I have seen her of mornings clearing the front yard, washing the windows and the stoop, and even white-washing the palings.” Everyone remarked upon the neatness, and cleanliness, of the various Poe abodes. Maria Clemm also rented out the front room of the Spring Garden house to lodgers. This was one way of alleviating their endless poverty.
And what of Poe himself? Another neighbour, Lydia Hart Garrigues, a young girl who lived on the same street, recalled that he “wore a Spanish cloak.” She noted that “I was always impressed with the grave and thoughtful aspect of his face … He, his wife and Mrs. Clemm kept to themselves. They had the reputation of being very reserved— we thought because of their poverty and his great want of success.” Miss Garrigues added that “it was not until after ‘The Raven’ was published … that we knew him as a literary figure.” It might have interested her to know that, in fact, Poe had already begun the writing of that famous poem while residing in Spring Garden. It had a long gestation, and by Poe's account it was accompanied by an amount of calculation and technical experiment that would have wearied Milton and Sophocles combined. He wanted the bird to be an owl, but then changed his mind. So here, in Philadelphia, was hatched the raven.
There also emerged a prize-winning short story. Poe's tale of adventure and detection, “The Gold Bug,” won a hundred dollar prize from the Dollar Newspaper. It is a story concerning the discovery of hidden treasure, set in the neighbourhood of Sullivan's Island, where Poe had been stationed as a private soldier fifteen years before. The subtropical beaches, with their “dense undergrowth of the sweet myrtle … burthening the air with its fragrance,” provide the atmosphere for a tale of invisible ink and cryptography, enigmatic codes and secret instructions. “The Gold Bug” may not hold sufficient interest for a contemporary audience, but Poe's first readers deemed it “a production of superior merit” in which all the pleasures of verisimilitude were maintained within the context of a quest for fabled gold. Poe could quite rightly be construed as a second Defoe, whose Robinson Crusoe he had praised very highly for its constant pursuit of veracity and probability. The Saturday Museum, Poe's usual champion, described the story as “the most remarkable piece of American fiction that has been published within the last fifteen years.” The edition of the Dollar Newspaper containing the first part was sold out.
There was one reader, however, who was not so impressed by what he called “unmitigated trash” and a piece of “humbug”—the “humbug” consisting of that very air of veracity cast over a series of remarkable events. The author of this attack, F.H. Duffee, then suggested that Poe had actually been paid only ten or fifteen dollars rather than the supposed full prize. So Poe sued him for libel, claiming that his “character for integrity” had been injured. He hired a lawyer, and signed an affidavit in the District Court. There were many who made fun of Poe's sudden sensitivity, noting that he had in the past published “severe and scorching criticisms” of his own. But the action came to nothing. A week after Poe's appearance in court, he and Duffee met, resolved their differences, and signed an agreement.
On hearing the news of the prize from the Dollar Newspaper, Poe's cousin, William Poe, sent him a congratulatory letter in which he hoped that the money would help to relieve “the sickness & despondency you were suffering when you last wrote.” So Poe had been announcing his feelings even to members of his own family. William Poe also wished to caution his cousin against that “which has been a great enemy to our family.” The enemy was, of course, a “too free use of the Bottle.” The Bottle was the demon of the Poes. In the summer of 1843 Poe was satirised in print as a drunkard. He was lampooned in a novel by Thomas Dunn English, The Drunkard's Doom, in which he was characterised as “the very incarnation of treachery and falsehood.” It was the first, but by no means the last, occasion that Poe entered a work of fiction.
His appearance was also the object of much comment and speculation. He was five feet eight inches in height, and held himself erect with an almost military bearing; he invariably wore black, with a black frockcoat and black cravat as if he were in perpetual mourning. He was of slender, or slight, build; he had dark brown hair, slightly curled, and grey eyes that were variously described as “restless” or as “large and liquid.” His broad forehead was noticeable, emphasising what was known in the language of phrenology (in which he believed) as the “bump of ideality.” His mouth was thin, and seemed to others to be expressive of scorn or discontent; sometimes it seemed even to form a sneer. His complexion was pale, his features very fine. In 1845 he grew a moustache, which was long rather than heavy. His manner was “nervous and emphatic,” his visage prone to what one contemporary called the “nervousness of expression so peculiar to Poe.” That expression was generally deemed to be sad or melancholy or sombre or grave or dreamy. A judicious mixture of these will give an approximate clue to his general appearance. But there was one other detail. In the extant photographs there was some contrast or disjunction between the right and left sides of the face, with slight but noticeable differences in the eye and mouth, brow and chin. One side was weaker than the other.
• • •
In the autumn of 1843 Poe told a fellow writer in Philadelphia that “his wife and Mrs. Clemm were starving.” So fifteen dollars were promptly raised from journalists and others; an hour after the money had been given to Poe, “he was found in a state of intoxication in Decatur Street.” This was the street that harboured the Decatur Coffee House, which advertised its “Mint Juleps, Cobblers, Egg Noggs etcetera.”
He had in the meantime been disappointed with the sales of a new edition of his tales. Graham's brother had agreed to publish a “Uniform Serial Edition of the Prose Romances of Edgar A. Poe.” It was to comprise a series of cheaply produced pamphlets, at a price of twelve-and-a-half cents, but the first of them included only “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” and “The Man that Was Used Up.” It was noticed by two or three local journals, but the fact that no further pamphlets were issued is proof enough that the enterprise was not a success. There were several tales, now written but
still not published—among them “The Premature Burial.” “The Purloined Letter,” and “Thou Art the Man.” It can be said with some certainty that Poe's true genius was not recognised until after his death.
So with his authorial career in abeyance, his journalistic career in the doldrums, and his plans for the Stylus indefinitely postponed, he embarked upon a course of lectures. On 21 November 1843 he addressed an audience in Philadelphia on “American Poetry;” according to the United States Gazette “hundreds … were unable to gain admission” to the Julianna Street Church where the lecture was held. It was successful enough, in any case, for him to repeat the experience in the Temperance Hall in Wilmington, at Newark Academy in Delaware, at the Mechanics Institute in Reading, and at the Lecture Room of the Philadelphia Museum. He then went on to the Odd Fellows’ Hall in Baltimore.
He was trenchant. He denounced the system of “puffery” then in vogue with the American press, and exposed the fraudulence of authors reviewing their own books or praising those of their friends. These were not faults from which Poe himself was free. He then went on to examine the merits of the American poets, concentrating largely upon the “collections,” or anthologies, which were then highly popular. He singled out Rufus Griswold's Poets and Poetry of America, which he praised as the “best” of the current compilations, but then condemned Griswold, the editor, for “a miserable want of judgement—the worst specimens being chosen instead of the best—and an extravagant amount of space being allotted to personal friends …”
Poe had met Griswold two years before, and they had circled each other in mutual suspicion masked by professed admiration. Griswold had succeeded Poe at Graham's Magazine, where he gained a reputation for literary chicanery. But the publication of his anthology in 1842 brought him a measure of success. Poe was ambivalent, describing it as “a most outrageous humbug” to a private correspondent while lauding it in print as “the most important addition which our literature has for many years received.” The protestation was not enough. When a wholly and sarcastically negative review of Griswold's anthology appeared in the Saturday Museum, Griswold assumed (wrongly, as it happened) that Poe had composed it. Then there came Poe's animadversions upon the book in his series of lectures. But Griswold eventually had his revenge. After Poe's death he would be responsible for the most lethal character assassination in the history of American literature.
• • •
In April 1844 the Poe household was on the move again, its destination being once more New York. The fact that his previous experiences there had been almost uniformly unhappy did not deter him. What could be worse than poverty in Philadelphia?
Poe and Virginia went on ahead, travelling by train and steamboat, and the morning after their arrival Poe sent a long letter to Maria Clemm. “When we got to the wharf,” he reported, “it was raining hard. I left her on board the boat, after putting the trunks in the Ladies’ Cabin, and set off to buy an umbrella and bought one for 62 cents.” He originally wrote “56,” and then changed it to “62.” The extra expense of six cents was important for one such as Maria Clemm.
Poe went up Greenwich Street, and soon found a boarding house that surpassed his expectations. “Last night, for supper, we had the nicest tea you ever drank …” Then he went on to expatiate upon the meats and cheeses and breads placed on the table before them. Virginia, or “Sis,” “has coughed hardly any and had no night sweat. She is now busy mending my pants which I tore against a nail.” For Poe, this letter is remarkably unguarded. He added in a matter of fact manner that he was going out to borrow money—a sign of how common an occupation that had become for him—and noted that “I feel in excellent spirits & haven't drank a drop—so that I hope so to get out of trouble.” This is the clearest sign that Poe was an habitual drinker, and that Maria Clemm knew it. There was no need for obfuscation or excuse. If he stayed clear of drink, then he might also stay out of “trouble”—the trouble being general wretchedness, and an inability to work.
This time, he stayed true to his word. Within a week of his arrival he had sold a story of sensation to the New York Sun. On April 13 that newspaper carried the headline, ASTOUNDING INTELLIGENCE BY PRIVATE EXPRESS FROM CHARLESTON VIA NORFOLK! THE ATLANTIC OCEAN CROSSED IN THREE DAYS!! ARRIVAL AT SULLIVAN S ISLAND OF A STEERING BALLOON INVENTED BY MR. MONCK MASON!! It was one of Poe's most successful “spoofs” or “hoaxes,” a game in which he delighted. It suited his propensity both for calculation and for comedy. The newspaper published an extra edition that afternoon, and it was rapidly sold out. Poe wrote that “I never witnessed more intense excitement to get possession of a newspaper.” The newsboys were charging outrageous prices, and Poe himself could not get hold of a copy all that day. Two days later, after a chorus of disbelief and disapproval, the Sun retracted its “scoop.” But the power of Poe's pen had been proved beyond doubt.
“The Balloon Hoax” is one of his most celebrated stories, not least because it opened the path for later writers of science fantasy including Jules Verne and H.G. Wells. It has even been suggested that Poe is the forerunner of nineteenth- and twentieth-century science fiction. If that accolade is placed beside his claim to be the originator of the detective story, then Poe left a distinguished legacy. “The Balloon Hoax” purports to be the journal of Mr. Monck Mason, a real aeronaut who had already flown by balloon from Vauxhall Gardens to Weilberg in Germany. So Poe adopts his name and contrives a fantastic adventure for him; Mason performs what was then considered an impossible feat and, by ingenious arrangement of valves and air, manages to steer his balloon across the Atlantic. Poe was a century ahead of the actual achievement, but there is nothing in his account that strains credulity. It is a thoroughly practical enterprise, narrated in a direct and unmediated style of journalistic reportage. Poe had perpetrated a similar hoax some nine years before in “Hans Phaall—A Tale,” in which a journey by balloon to the moon is outlined in some detail; he had written this at the age of twenty-six. He always enjoyed these fantasies. They were a form of satire, directed against the “crazes” of the moment. But they were also a form of ratiocination, a challenge to create a suitable and perfectly plausible set of circumstances by which the impossible could be conveyed with the utmost verisimilitude.
• • •
In the spring of 1844 Maria Clemm, together with the black cat Catterina, joined her daughter in Greenwich Street, while Poe stayed temporarily in bachelor's quarters. But they were all soon on the move again. In early June the household took lodgings in a farmhouse some five miles outside New York, in a rural spot now to be identified as the corner of Eighty-fourth Street and Broadway. Here, in the words of a contemporary, was “a wilderness of rocks, bushes, and thistles with here and there a farm house.” But the front windows looked down into the valley of the Hudson, and took in the sweep of the river. He described the place later as “a perfect heaven,” and in these more tranquil surroundings it was to be hoped that his own nervous terrors would abate and that Virginia's malady might improve. The son of the landlord, Tom Brennan, later recalled that Poe would take walks into the country or beside the nearby river; then, in the afternoon, he would return and “work unceasingly with pen and paper until the evening shadows.” Tom's sister, Martha Brennan, recalled the weakness of Virginia, who was sometimes so frail that Poe would have to carry her into dinner. There is one other significant point. The landlady, Mrs. Brennan, was an uncompromising supporter of the temperance movement. Perhaps Poe refrained from drinking during his stay in her farmhouse.
Dollars were, as usual, in short supply. He managed to pay Mrs. Brennan, but sometimes he did not have the cents to claim the letters waiting for him at the local post office. In this period the recipient, not the sender, paid for the mail. He liked life in the country so much, however, that he did not wish to return to the city to look for work. But, as usual, Maria Clemm took matters into her own hands. At the end of September she made one of her infrequent visits to the city and called upon Nathaniel P. Willis,
the editor of a newly launched daily newspaper, the Evening Mirror, asking or rather begging for work to be given to her son-in-law. Willis was already a well-known magazine journalist, who supplied an endless stream of witty and fanciful pieces for an increasingly receptive public; but he sensed Poe's talent, and defended his reputation before and after Poe's death. According to Willis, Maria Clemm “excused her errand by mentioning that Poe was ill, that her daughter was a confirmed invalid, and that their circumstances were such as compelled her taking it upon herself.”
Poe was thereupon enrolled as a “mechanical para-graphist,” no very exalted position in a profession where he had already been an acting editor. His job consisted principally in condensing items from other papers, culling material from the French press that might be suitable for an American audience, and in general providing amusing “copy.” His post at the Mirror entailed a five-mile walk each way from the farmhouse. The omnibus fare was a shilling, a sum that Poe could scarcely have afforded. So in the winter of 1844 the Poe family moved back into the city, and took rented apartments once more in Greenwich Street. He was now close to his work.
Willis recalled to a colleague “how absolutely and how good-humouredly ready he was for any suggestion, how punctually and industriously reliable … how cheerful and present-minded in his work when he might excusably have been so listless and abstracted.” This is an account of Poe to be placed beside the more lurid and dramatic notices of his intoxication. In the right circumstances, even in the face of his young wife's lingering disease, he was courteous and industrious. He was dogged by poverty, and cursed by lack of success; yet he seemed to some of his contemporaries to be patiently enduring his fate. Stoicism was not the least of his remarkable qualities. Willis also reflected upon “the presence and magnetism of a man of genius” and Poe's “mysterious electricity of mind.” But, he added, “he was a man who never smiled.”