The Home Life of Poe Part 11

Poe, in adopting the Raven, evidently did not obliterate all traces of the Owl.

Of these troubles with the poem he had before informed me, and now, in answer to a remark of mine, he said, in effect:

"_The Raven_ was never completed. It was published before I had given the final touches. There were in it certain knotty points and tangles which I had never been able to overcome, and I let it go as it was."

He told how, toward the last, he had become heartily tired of and disgusted with the poem, of which he had so poor an opinion that he was many times on the point of destroying it. I believe that his having published it under the _nom de plume_ of "_Quarles_" was owing to this lack of confidence in it, and that had it proven a failure he would never have acknowledged himself the author. He feared to risk his literary reputation on what appeared to him of such uncertain merit.

He now, in speaking of the poem, regretted that he had not fully completed before publis.h.i.+ng it.

"If I had a copy of it here," he said, "I could show you those knotty points of which I spoke, and which I have found it impossible to do away with," adding: "Perhaps you will help me. I am sure that you can, if you will."

I did not feel particularly flattered by this proposal, knowing that since his coming to Richmond he had made a similar request of at least two other persons. However, I cleared the table of the fruit and the flowers and placed before him several sheets of generous foolscap, on which I had copied for a friend _The Raven_ as it was first published.

He requested me to read it aloud, and as I did so, slowly and carefully, he sat, pencil in hand, ready to mark the difficult pa.s.sages of which he had spoken.

I paused at the third line. Had I not myself often noted the incongruity of representing the poet as pondering over _many_ a volume instead of a single one? I glanced inquiringly at Mr. Poe and, noting his unconscious look, proceeded. When I reached the line,

"And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor;"

he gave a slight s.h.i.+ver or shrug of the shoulders--an expressive motion habitual to him--and the pencil came down with an emphatic stroke beneath the six last words.

This was one of the hardest knots, he said, nor could he find a way of getting over it. "_Ember_" was the only word rhyming with the two preceding lines, but in no way could he dispose of it except as he had done--thus producing the worst line in the poem.

We "pondered" over it for awhile and finally gave it up.

(But I may here mention that I have since, in studying the poem, made a discovery which, strangely enough, seems never to have occurred to the author. This was that in this particular stanza he had unconsciously reversed the order or arrangement of the lines, placing those of the triple rhymes first and the rhyming couplet last. Thus all his long years of worry over that unfortunate "_ember_" had been unnecessary, since the construction of the verse required not only the omission of the word as a rhyme, but of the whole line of

"And each separate dying ember;"

when the succeeding objectionable words,

"Wrought its ghost upon the floor,"

could have been easily altered; and the addition of a third line to the succeeding couplet would have made the stanza correct.)

Our next pause was at the word "_beast_," through which he ran his pencil.

"Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above my chamber door."

"I must get rid of that word," he said; "for, of course, no beast could be expected to occupy such a position."

"Oh, yes; a mouse, for instance," I suggested, at which he gave me one of his rare humorous smiles.

Leaving this point for future consideration, we pa.s.sed on to a more serious difficulty.

"This and more I sat divining, With my head at ease reclining On the cus.h.i.+on's velvet _lining_, with the lamplight gloated o'er."

The knotty point here was in the word "lining"--a blunder obvious to every reader. Poe said that the only way he could see of getting over the difficulty was by omitting the whole stanza. But he was unwilling to give up that "violet velvet" chair, which, with the "purple silken curtain," he considered a picturesque adjunct to the scene, imparting to it a character of luxury which served as a relief to the more sombre surroundings. I had so often heard this impossible "lining" criticised that when he inquired, "Shall I omit or retain the stanza?" I ventured to suggest that it might be better to give up the stanza than have the poem marred by a defect so conspicuous. For a moment he held the pencil poised, as if in doubt, and I have since wondered what would have been his decision.

But just here we were interrupted by the tumultuous entrance of my little dog, Pink, in hot pursuit of the family cat. The latter took refuge beneath the table at which we were seated, and there ensued a brisk exchange of duelistic pa.s.ses, until I called off Pink and Mr. Poe took up the cat and, placing her on his knee, stroked her soothingly, inquiring if she were my pet. Upon my disclaiming any partiality for felines, he said, "I like them," and continued his gentle caressing.

(Was he thinking of _Catalina_, his wife's pet cat, which he had left at home at Fordham, and which after her death had sat upon his shoulder as he wrote far into the night? Recalling his grave and softened expression, I think that it must have been so. But at that time I had never heard of Catalina.)

But now came the final and most difficult "tangle" of all--the blunder apparent to the world--the defect which mars the whole poem, and yet is contained in but a single line:

"And the lamplight o'er him streaming casts his shadow on the floor."

Poe declared this to be hopeless, and that it was, in fact, the chief cause of his dissatisfaction with the poem. Indeed, it may well excite surprise that he, so careful and fastidious as to the completeness of his work, should have allowed _The Raven_ to go from his hands marred by a defect so glaring, but this is proof that he did indeed regard it as hopeless.

When Mr. Poe left us on this September morning he took with him this ma.n.u.script copy of _The Raven_; which, however, he on the following day handed to me, begging that I would keep it until his return from New York. I found that he had marked several minor defects in the poem, one of which was his objection to the word "shutter," as being too commonplace and not agreeing with the word "lattice," previously used.

He remarked, before leaving for New York, that he intended having _The Raven_, after some further work upon it, published in an early number of the _Stylus_. I do not doubt but that, had he lived, he would have made it much more perfect than it now is.

After his death his friend, Mr. Robert Sully, the Richmond artist, was desirous of making a picture of the _Raven_, but explained to me why it could not be done--all on account of that impossible "shadow on the floor." Of course, said he, to produce such an effect the lamplight must come from above and behind the bust and the bird. No; it was impracticable."

This set me to thinking; and the result was that I, some time after, went to Mr. Sully's studio and said to him: "How would it do to have a gla.s.s transom above the door; one of those large fan-shaped transoms which we sometimes find in old colonial mansions, opening on a lofty galleried hall?"

It would do, he said. Indeed, with such an arrangement, and the lamp supposed to be suspended from the hall ceiling, as in those old mansions, there would be no difficulty with either the poem or the picture. And we were both delighted at our discovery, and thought how pleased Poe would have been with the idea--so effective in explaining that mysterious shadow on the floor.

Mr. Sully commenced upon his picture, but died before completing it.

This ma.n.u.script copy of _The Raven_, with all its pencil-marks, as made by Mr. Poe on that September morning, remained in my possession for many years. It is yet photographed upon my memory, with all the details here given from an odd leaf of a journal which I kept about that time--the quiet parlor, the outside drizzle, the books, the roses, and the face and figure of Mr. Poe as he gravely bent over that ma.n.u.script copy of his immortal poem of _The Raven_.

Had he no premonition that even then a darker shadow than that of the _Raven_ was hovering over him? It was one of the last occasions on which I ever saw him.

CHAPTER XXIX.

MRS. SHELTON.

Poe's first visits on his arrival in Richmond had been to Mrs. Shelton, and it soon became known that an engagement existed between them, although they were never seen together in public, and Poe on all occasions denied the engagement. Yet morning after morning the curious neighbors were treated to a sight of the poet ascending the steps of the tall, plain, substantial looking brick house on the corner of Grace street, facing the rear of St. John's church, and had they watched more closely they might at times have seen another figure following in its footsteps. This was Rosalie Poe, who, delighted at her brother's engagement, and being utterly without tact or judgment, would present herself at Mrs. Shelton's door shortly after his own arrival, as she said, for the pleasure of seeing the couple together. Once she surprised them at a _tete-a-tete_ luncheon at which "corned beef and mustard"

figured; but on another occasion Mrs. Shelton met and informed her that Mr. Poe had a headache from his long walk and was resting on the parlor sofa, where she herself would attend to him, and so dismissed her, to her great indignation. Not alone to Mrs. Shelton's were these "shadowings" of her brother confined, but if she at any time knew of his intention to call at some house where she herself was acquainted, she would as likely as not make her own appearance during his visit; or, in promenading Broad street, he would unexpectedly find himself waylaid and introduced to some prosy acquaintance of his sister. It required Mrs.

Mackenzie's authority to relieve him from these annoyances. There was, however, something pathetic in the sister's pride in and affection for a brother from whom she received but little manifestation of regard. He treated her indulgently, but, as she herself often said, in her homely way, "Edgar could never love me as I do him, _because he is so far above me_."

About the middle of August Mrs. Shelton's interested neighbors observed that the poet's visits to her suddenly ceased; and then followed a report that the engagement was broken, and that a bitter estrangement existed between the two. Mr. Woodbury, Poe's biographer, doubts this, and declares that, "We have no evidence that such was the case;" but we, who were on the spot, as it were, and had opportunity of judging, _knew_ that the report was true. Miss Van Lew, the famous "war postmistress" of Richmond, once said to me as, standing on the porch of her house, she pointed out Mrs. Shelton's residence: "I used at first to often see Mr.

Poe enter there, but never during the latter part of his stay in Richmond. It seemed to be known about here that the engagement was off.... Gossip had it that Mrs. Shelton discarded him because persuaded by friends that he was after her money. All her relatives are said to be opposed to the match."

From Poe's own confidential statement to Mr. John Mackenzie, who had first suggested the match with Mrs. Shelton, it appears that money considerations was really the cause of the trouble. Mrs. Shelton had the reputation of being a thorough business woman and very careful and cautious with regard to her money. Poe was at this time canva.s.sing in the interests of the _Stylus_, in which he received great encouragement from his friends, but when he applied to Mrs. Shelton it is certain that she failed to respond as he desired. She had no faith in the success of his plan, neither any sympathy with its purpose. Also, in discussing arrangements for their marriage, she announced her intention of keeping entire control of her property. Poe himself broke their engagement. Next there arose a difficulty concerning certain letters which the lady desired to have returned to her and which he declined to give up, except on condition of receiving his own. Possibly each feared that these letters might some time fall into the hands of Poe's biographers. If they were written during his courts.h.i.+p of Mrs. Whitman, and when still uncertain of the result, he appears to have been keeping Mrs. Shelton in reserve.

Mrs. Shelton, during a few days' absence of Poe at the country home of Mr. John Mackenzie, came to Duncan Lodge and appealed to Mrs. Mackenzie to influence Poe in returning her letters. I saw her on this occasion--a tall, rather masculine-looking woman, who drew her veil over her face as she pa.s.sed us on the porch, though I caught a glimpse of large, shadowy, light blue eyes which must once have been handsome. We heard no more of her until some time about the middle of September, when suddenly Poe's visits to her were resumed, though in a very quiet manner. It seems certain that the engagement was then renewed, and that Mrs. Shelton must have promised to a.s.sist Poe in his literary enterprise; for from that time he was enthusiastic in regard to the _Stylus_ and what he termed its "a.s.sured success." He even commenced arranging a _Table of Contents_ for the first number of the magazine; and Mrs. Mackenzie told me how he one morning spent an hour in her room taking from her information, notes and _data_ for an article which he intended to appear in one of its earliest numbers. He was in high spirits, and declared that he had never felt in better health. This was after an attack of serious illness, due to his a.s.sociation with dissipated companions. Tempted as he was on every side and wherever he went in the city, it was not strange that he had not always the strength of will to resist; and twice during this visit to Richmond he was subject to attacks somewhat similar to those which he had known at Fordham, and through which he was now kindly nursed by his friends at Duncan Lodge.

Poe gave but one public lecture on this visit to Richmond--that on "The Poetic Principle"--and of this most exaggerated accounts have been given by several writers, even to the present day, they representing it to have been a great financial success. One recent lecturer remarks upon the strangeness of the fate when, just as the hitherto impecunious poet was "about returning home with five thousand and five hundred dollars in his pocket, he should have been robbed of it all." The truth of the matter is that but two hundred and fifty tickets were printed, the price being fifty cents each, and, as Dr. William Gibbon Carter informed me, there were by actual count not more than one hundred persons present at the lecture, some being holders of complimentary tickets. Another account says there were but sixty present, but that they were of the very _elite_ of the city. Considering that from the proceeds of the lecture all expenses of hall rent had to be paid, we cannot wonder at Poe's writing to Mrs. Clemm, "My poor, poor Muddie, I am yet unable to send you a single dollar."