Naklonio sam se na ukazanoj časti; neodoljiv osećaj sjaja, parfema i muzike, zajedno sa neočekivanom ekscentričnošću njegovog obraćanja i ponašanja, sprečio me je da rečima izrazim zahvalnost za ono što sam mogao protumačiti kao kompliment.

"Ovde" — nastavio je, ustavši i oslonivši se na moju ruku, dok me je vodio oko odaje — "ovde su slike od Grka do Sambija i od Sambija do današnjih dana. Mnoge su, kao što vidite, izabrane uz malu razliku mišljenja na osnovu Vrline. Međutim, sve tapiserije su podesne za sobu kao što je ova. Ovde je, takođe, jedno chef-d' oeuvre nepoznatog velikana — a ovde nezavršena dela ljudi slavljenih u njihovo doba, a čija imena je pronicljivost akademija ostavila tišini i meni. Šta mislite" — rekao je, okrenuvši se iznenada, kao što je i govorio — "šta mislite o ovoj Madoni dela Pieta?"

",Pa to je Gvidovo" — rekoh oduševljeno, jer sam pažljivo razgledao njenu neprevaziđenu lepotu. — "Ona je Gvidova! Kako ste je mogli dobiti, ona je nesumnjivo u slikarstvu isto što i Venera u vajarstvu."

"Ha!" — rekao je zamišljeno — "Venera, divna Venera? Medičijeva Venera? Ona sa malom glavom i pozlaćenom kosom? Deo leve ruke (ovde se njegov glas toliko spustio da se jedva čuo) i cela desna su restaurisane, a u koketeriji te desne ruke leži, mislim, suština sve njene privlačnosti. Dajte mi Kanovu. Apolo je, takođe, kopija — u to nema sumnje — i ja sam slepa budala koja ne može da vidi hvale vredno nadahnuće Apola. Ne mogu, ne mogu, a da više ne volim Antinousa. Zar to ne beše Sokrat, koji je rekao da mu je vajar pronašao kip u mermernom bloku? Onda Mikelanđelo uopšte nije originalan u svom kupletu:

Non ha l'ottimo artista alcun concetto
Che'un marmo solo in se non circumseriva."

Već je primećeno, ili je trebalo da bude, da smo se u maniru pravih džentlmena uvek svesno razlikovali od vulgarnih, a da uopšte nismo mogli precizno odrediti u čemu se ta razlika sastoji. Dozvoljavajući da se primedba, u svojoj punoj snazi, primeni na spoljašnje ponašanje mog poznanika, osetio sam, u tom jutru punom događaja, još puniju primenljivost te primedbe na njegov moralni karakter i temperament. Ne mogu bolje odrediti tu naročitost njegovog duha, koja ga je, izgleda, tako esencijalno odvajala od svih drugih ljudi, nego je nazvati navikom snažnog i neprestanog mišljenja, koja ga je prožimala čak i za vreme neke njegove najobičnije radnje, — koja se nametala čak i u trenucima njegovog traćenja vremena — koja se sama preplitala sa bleskovima njegove radosti — kao guje koje se previjaju izvan pogleda maski što se cere u frizovima oko hramova Persepolisa.

Nisam, međutim, mogao da se uzdržim, a da ne zapazim: pomešan ton lakomislenosti i svečanosti sa kojim je on brzo prelazio preko stvari od manje važnosti, izvesnu atmosferu strepnje — stepen nervoznog miropomazanja u delovanju i govoru — bučnu ustreptalost ponašanja koje mi se svaki put pojavljivalo neobjašnjivo, a u nekim slučajevima me čak i ispunjavalo nespokojstvom. Često je, takođe, zastajući u sredini rečenice, čiji je početak očigledno zaboravio, izgledalo kao da sa najdubljom pažnjom osluškuje korake očekivanog posetioca, ili zvuke koji mora da su postojali samo u njegovoj mašti.

Za vreme jednog od ovih sanjarenja, ili pauza očigledne apstrakcije, okrećući stranice "Orfeja", divne tragedije pesnika i naučnika Politiana (prve italijanske tragedije), koja je ležala na otomanu blizu mene, otkrio sam pasus podvučen olovkom. Bio je to deo pri kraju trećeg čina — pasus srceparajućeg uzbuđenja — pasus koji, mada uprljan grehom, nijedan čovek neće pročitati bez drhtaja neobičnog osećanja, nijedna žena bez uzdaha. Cela strana je bila umrljana svežim suzama, a na susednom međulistu nalazili su se sledeći redovi na engleskom, ispisani rukom, tako različito od rukopisa mog poznanika da sam ga na jedvite jade na kraju prepoznao kao njegov:

Bila si mi sve, ljubavi,
Zbog čega moja duša vene —
Zeleno ostrvo u moru, ljubavi,
Svetilište i izvor ispod stene,
Sve u rajskom cvetu i u plodu;
Svi cvetovi bili su za mene.

Ah, suviše sjajan san da traje;
Ah, zvezdana nado što se nebu digne
Samo da što niže padne!
Budućnost svojim glasom vikne
"Napred"! — preko istorije gadne
(smućen!) duh moj lebdeć ni da dvigne
Nem, i namere mu jadne!

Jer, avaj! Avaj! meni
Sjaj života netom minu.
"Nikad više — nikad više — nikad više",
(Ove reči nosi more što se peni
Sa obale na pučinu),
Ni behari neće cvati munjom raspaljeni
Ni pogođen soko leteti u visinu!

Sad svi moji sati ushićeni jesu;
I svi moji noćni sni
Kud tvoji tamni pogledi su,
I korak tvoj kud jezdi
U tom večnom plesu
Gde potok talijanski vri.

Avaj! Zbog vremena prokletog
Preko valova te nosi
Do zločina preko svega svetog
I ljubavi što prkosi —
Od mene, i od našeg neba tmurnog,
gde žalosna vrba suzu roni!

Malo me je iznenadila činjenica da su ovi redovi bili napisani na engleskom — jeziku za koji nisam verovao da ga njihov autor zna. Bio sam vrlo svestan širine njegovog obrazovanja i jedinstvenog zadovoljstva koje je imao da ga prikriva da bih bio zapanjen bilo kakvim sličnim otkrićem, ali moram priznati da me je mesto nastanka ovih stihova umnogome začudilo. Originalno je pisalo London, a zatim vrlo pažljivo izbrisano, ali ne dovoljno da bi se reč sakrila od ispitivačkog oka. Rekoh, ovo mi je dalo povoda za ne malo čuđenja, jer sam se dobro sećao prethodnog razgovora sa svojim prijateljem, kad sam se naročito raspitivao da li je on u bilo koje vreme sreo u Londonu Marčesu Afroditu (koja je u tom gradu stanovala nekoliko godina pre svoje udaje), a njegov odgovor mi, ako ne grešim, jasno stavio do znanja da nikad nije posetio prestonicu Velike Britanije. Ovde mogu pomenuti da sam više nego jednom čuo (naravno, ne verujući u glasine koje govore o tolikim neverovatnoćama) da osoba o kojoj govorim nije bila samo rođenjem već i obrazovanjem Englez.

***

"Postoji jedna slika" — rekao je, a da nije primetio da sam pročitao zabelešku u tragediji — „postoji još uvek jedna slika koju niste videli." Povukavši draperiju, otkrio je u punoj veličini portret Marčese Afrodite.

Ljudska umetnost ne bi mogia dati više u opisu njene nadljudske lepote. Ista eterična figura koja je prethodne večeri stajala ispred mene na stepenicama Duždeve palate, stajala je još jednom preda mnom. A u izrazu lica, koje je potpuno zračilo osmehom, još uvek se skrivala (neshvatljiva anomalija) grčevita nijansa melanholije, koja se uvek nalazi neodvojiva od savršenstva lepote. Njena desna ruka ležala je previjena preko grudi. Levom rukom je pokazivala nadole prema čudno oblikovanoj vazi. Jedno malo, bajno stopalo, jedino vidljivo, jedva je dodirivalo zemlju — i jedva vidljivo u blistavoj atmosferi koja je okruživala i čuvala njenu lepotu, širio se par najnežnije zamišljenih krila. Pogled mi je sa slike pao na figuru mog prijatelja i snažne reči Čepmenovog "Bisi Demboa" su mi instinktivno zatreperile preko usana:

"On je uspravan kao rimski kip! I stajaće tako dok ga smrt ne učini mramornim!"

"Dođite" — rekao je najzad, okrenuvši se prema stolu bogato išaranim teškim srebrom, na kome je bilo nekoliko fantastično obojenih pehara, zajedno sa dve ogromne etrurske vaze, oblikovane na isti neobičan način kao ona u prednjem planu portreta, i ispunjenih onim što sam pretpostavljao da je Johanizberger. "Dođite!" — rekao je naglo — "hajde da pijemo! Rano je — ali hajde da pijemo. Zaista je rano" — nastavio je zamišljeno, kao heruvim sa teškim zlatnim čekićem, tako glasno da je soba odzvanjala u prvom satu posle izlaska Sunca. "Stvarno je rano, ali ko mari! Pijmo. Prinesimo žrtvu ovom svečanom Suncu, koje ove kitnjaste lampe i kadionice tako vatreno žele da potčine!" Nateravši me da nazdravim čašom, popio je na iskap, jedan za drugim, nekoliko pehara vina.

"Sanjati" — nastavio je, povrativši ton svog nepovezanog govora, dok je prema bogatoj svetlosti kadionice podizao jednu od veličanstvenih vaza — "sanjati je bio posao mog života. Zbog toga sam se, kao što vidite, okružio senkama snova. Da li sam mogao stvoriti nešto bolje u srcu Venecije? Istina je da ste oko sebe videli mešavinu arhitektonskih ukrasa. Čednost Jonije je uvređena staromodnim zamislima, a egipatske sfinge su razvučene po zlatnim tepisima. Ipak, ovaj efekat ne odgovara samo onima koji su plašljivi. Pristojnost mesta, a naročito vremena, je ono strašilo koje je odvratilo čovečanstvo od razmišljanja o veličanstvenosti. Jednom sam i sam bio dekorater; ali ta sublimacija gluposti je zasitila moju dušu. Sada sve ovo služi jednom cilju. Kao ova arabeskna kadionica, moja se duša muči u vatri, a delirijum ove scene samo me priprema za razuzdanije vizije te zemlje stvarnih snova, kuda sada žurno odlazim." Zastao je naglo, spustio glavu na grudi, kao da je osluškivao zvuk koji ja nisam mogao čuti. Na kraju je, ispuživši se, izgovorio reči biskupa od Čičestera:

"Čekaj me tamo. Neću propustiti da te sretnem u onoj udolini."

U sledećem trenu, priznavši snagu vina, bacio se punom dužinom na otoman.

Čuo se brzi korak na stepenicama i ubrzo je sledilo glasno kucanje na vratima. Požurio sam da preduhitrim drugo uznemiravanje, kada je u sobu grunuo paž kuće Mentoni i promrmljao nepovezane reči, glasom zagušenim od uzbuđenja: "Moja gospodarica! — moja gospodarica! — otrovana — otrovala se! O, divna — o, prekrasna Afrodita!"

Zbunjen, poleteo sam prema otomanu i pokušao da probudim zaspalog i da ga obavestim o ovoj strašnoj vesti. Ali udovi su mu bili ukrućeni — usne modre — njegove do skora zračeće oči behu uperene u smrt. Zateturao sam se nazad prema stolu — ruka mi je pala na ispijen i zaprljan pehar — i svest o potpunoj i užasnoj istini je iznenada blesnula u mojoj glavi.

ĆUTANJE

BAJKA

Planinski vrhovi dremaju; doline, vrleti i pećine ćute.

Alkman

"Slušaj me" — reče đavo, spuštajući ruku na moju glavu. "Predeo o kome ti govorim je sumorna oblast u Libiji, na obalama reke Zeir. A tamo niti mira, nit ćutanja ima.

"Vode reke imaju šafranovu i bolešljivu boju; i ne teku ka moru, već večito, pod crvenim okom Sunca, trepere hučnim i grčevitim tokom. Na obe strane muljevitog rečnog korita, miljama daleko, prostire se bleda pustinja džinovskih lokvanja. U toj samoći, oni uzdišu jedan drugome, i pružaju prema nebu svoje duge vratove, i njišu se tamo-amo svojim večitim glavama. Neko nerazgovetno mrmljanje izbija iz njih, kao survavanje podzemne vode. I uzdišu jedan drugome.

"Ali postoji granica njihovom carstvu — granica mračne, užasne, guste šume. Tu je, kao talasi oko Hebrida, nisko žbunje, neprestano u pokretu. A na celom nebu nema ni daška vetra. Visoko, prastaro drveće večno se njiše tamo-amo uz moćan zvuk lomljave i treska. I sa njihovih vrhova, kap po kap, pada večna rosa. A pri korenju leži čudno, otrovno cveće, previjajući se u uznemirenom dremežu. Iznad, uz šušteći i glasan zvuk, sivi oblaci lete večito prema zapadu, dok se ne skotrljaju, kao vodopad, preko vatrenog zida horizonta. A na celom nebu nema ni daška vetra. I na obalama reke Zeir, niti mira, nit ćutanja ima.

"Bila je noć, i padala je kiša; i dok je padala, bila je kiša, a pošto je pala, beše krv. Stajao sam u močvari, usred visokih lokvanja, kiša mi je kvasila glavu — lokvanji su uzdisali jedan drugome u sve-čanosti svoje samoće.

"I, iznenada, kroz tanku, jezovitu izmaglicu pojavi se tamnocrveni Mesec. Pogled mi pade na ogromnu sivu stenu, što je stajala na obali reke i bila obasjana svetlošću Meseca. Stena beše siva, i sablasna, i visoka — i stena beše siva. Na prednjoj strani nalazili su se znaci urezani u kamen, i prođoh kroz mnoštvo lokvanja dok ne dođoh do same obale, ne bih li pročitao slova na steni. Ali ih nisam mogao odogonet-nuti. Vraćao sam se natrag prema močvari kada je Mesec zasjao intenzivnije. Okrenuo sam se i pogledao stenu i slova — i slova behu: SAMOĆA.

"Pogledah nagore; na vrhu stene stajao je čovek; sakrio sam se među lokvanje ne bih li otkrio njegove postupke. Čovek je bio visok i snažan; od ramena do stopala je bio prekriven starorimskom togom. Konture te osobe bile su nejasne, ali crte njegovog lica bile su crte božanstva; jer plašt noći i izmaglice, i Meseca, i rose ostaviše nepokrivene crte njegovog lica. Njegova obrva beše uzdignuta od mišljenja, njegovo oko divlje od brige; iz bora na njegovom licu pročitao sam priču tuge, i umora, i gađenja prema čovečanstvu, i žudnju za samoćom.

"Čovek je seo na stenu, naslonio glavu na ruku i gledao pustoš. Gledao je nadole prema niskom, nemirnom žbunju, pa zatim više, u visoko prastaro drveće i još više prema nebu koje je šumilo i tamnocrvenom Mesecu. Ležao sam u blizini, u zaklonu od lokvanja i posmatrao postupke čoveka. Čovek je drhtao u samoći; — noć je izmicala, ali on je sedeo na steni.

"I čovek skrenu svoju pažnju s neba i pogleda sumornu reku Zeir, njene žute, jezovite vode i ble-do mnoštvo lokvanja. Slušao je uzdahe lokvanja i mrmljanje koje je iz njih dolazilo. Ležao sam u blizini, u zaklonu, i posmatrao postupke čoveka. Čovek je drhtao u samoći; — noć je izmicala, ali on je sedeo na steni.

"Tada sam se spustio prema zabitim mestima močvare, gacajući između divljih lokvanja i dozivao nilske konje koji su živeli u muljevitim dubinama močvara. Nilski konji su čuli moj poziv i dođoše sa vodenim bikovima pod stenu, i rikahu glasno i strašno pod Mesecom. Ležao sam blizu, u skloništu, i posmatrao postupke čoveka. Čovek je drhtao u samoći; — noć je izmicala, ali on je sedeo na steni.

"Tada prokleh prirodu kletvom haosa; strahovita oluja se skupljala na nebu, gde, pre toga, nije bilo ni daška vetra. Nebo je postalo modro od besa oluje — kiša je šibala čovekovu glavu — potekle su bujice reke — reka se u agoniji penila — lokvanji su vrištali u svojim ležištima — šuma se mrvila pod vetrom — grmljavina se kotrljala — munje sevale — stena se ljuljala iz osnove. Ležao sam blizu, u zaklonu, i posmatrao postupke čoveka. Čovek je drhtao u samoći; — noć je izmicala, ali on je stajao na steni.

"Tada sam se razljutio i prokleh kletvom ćutanja reku, i lokvanje, i vetar, i šumu, i nebo, i grmljavinu, i uzdahe lokvanja. I smiriše se. Mesec je prestao da se tetura po svojoj putanji na nebu — grmljavina je zamrla — i munje nisu sevale — i oblaci su visili nepokretni — i vode su se vratile na pređašnji nivo i tu ostale — i drveće je prestalo da se njiše — lokvanji nisu više uzdisali — između njih se više nije čulo mrmljanje, nit je kroz celu beskrajnu pustinju bilo i senke zvuka. Pogledao sam slova na steni, promenila su se; — slova behu ĆUTANJE.

"I pogled mi pade na lice čoveka, a njegovo lice je bilo bledo od užasa. I, munjevito, podiže glavu sa ruke, uspravi se na steni i osluškivaše. Ali nikakvog zvuka nije bilo kroz celu, beskrajnu pustinju, a slova na steni behu ĆUTANJE. Čovek se stresao, okrenuo glavu i pobegao tako daleko, i žurno, da ga više nisam video."

Ima divnih priča u knjigama Maga, u melanholičnim knjigama ukoričenim čelikom. U njima, kažem, ima slavnih istorija nebesa, i zemlje, i moćnog mora — priča o duhovima koji vladaju morima, zemljom i božanskim nebom. Mnogo je znanja bilo u izrekama koje su sibile kazivale; svetih, svetih stvari koje su stari čuli od bledih listova što su drhtali oko Dodone — ali ovu bajku, o tome kako je živeo Alah, koju mi je đavo ispričao, sedeći pored mene u hladovini groba, smatram najčudnijom od svih! I pošto je đavo završio svoju priču, pao je nazad u šupljinu groba i smejao se. A ja se ne mogah smejati zajedno sa đavolom. I pošto se nisam smejao, on me prokle. Ris koji oduvek živi u grobu izađe zbog toga napolje i leže pored nogu đavoljih, netremice posmatrajući njegovo lice.

LIGEJA

I tu leži volja koja ne umire. Ko zna tajne volje i njene snage? Jer Bog nije ništa drugo do velika volja koja prožima sve stvari po prirodi svoje namere. Čovek se ne prepušta anđelima niti smrti potpuno, sem kroz slabost svoje nejake volje.

Džozef Glenvil

Nikako se ne mogu setiti kako, kada, čak ni gde sam tačno prvi put upoznao ledi Ligeju. Od tada je proteklo mnogo godina i mnoge patnje su mi oslabile sećanje. Ili se, možda, sada ne mogu setiti tih činjenica zato što je, u stvari, karakter moje voljene, njeno retko obrazovanje, njen jedinstveni mada spokojni izraz lepote, uzbudljiva i opčinjujuća rečitost njenog melodičnog jezika, utirao put u moje srce koracima tako pouzdanim i tako skriveno postupnim da su ostali neprimećeni i nepoznati. Verujem da sam je prvi put i najčešće sretao u jednom ogromnom, starom i trulom gradu blizu Rajne. Potpuno sam siguran da mi je govorila o svojoj porodici. Ne može se sumnjati u to da je ona poticala iz vrlo velikih davnina. Ligeja! Ligeja! Zakopan u proučavanju prirode, koje je više nego sve drugo prilagođeno oslabljenim utiscima spoljašnjeg sveta, ta sama slatka reč — Ligeja — donosi mi pred oči sliku one koje više nema. I sada, dok ovo pišem, sinu mi saznanje da nikad nisam znao prezime one koja je bila moja prijateljica i zaručnica i koja je postala učesnik u mojim proučavanjima i, na kraju, žena mog srca. Da li je to što nikad nisam istraživao tu stvar bila razigrana optužba na račun moje Ligeje? Ili je bila provera jačine moje ljubavi? Ili sopstveni kapric — neobuzdana romantična žrtva na svetilištu najstrastvenije privrženosti. Nejasno se prisećam samog upoznavanja — nije ni čudo što sam potpuno zaboravio okolnosti koje su ga prouzrokovale ili pratile. I, ako je ikada duh nazvan Romansa, ako je ikada, iznurena i nejasno krilata Aštofeta idolatrijskog Egipta vladala, kao što kažu, ukletim brakovima, onda je sigurno vladala mojim.

Postoji, međutim, jedna druga stvar o kojoj me sećanje ne vara. To je ličnost Ligeje. Rastom je bila visoka, vitka, a u svojim kasnijim danima čak i iznurena. Uzalud bih pokušavao da naslikam dostojanstvo i mirnu lakoću njenog držanja, ili neshvatljivu lepršavost i gipkost njenog koraka. Dolazila je i odlazila kao senka. Nikad nisam postajao svestan njenog ulaska u moj zatvoreni kabinet, izuzev kroz dragu muziku njenog tihog, slatkog glasa, kada bi položila svoju mramornu ruku na moje rame. Nijedna joj deva lepotom nije bila ravna. Lice joj je bilo zračenje opijumskog sna — vazdušasta i ushićujuća vizija, uzvišenija nego maštarije koje su lebdele oko pospanih duša deloskih kćeri. Ali ipak, crte joj nisu bile od onog pravilnog uzora, koji su nas pogrešno učili da obožavamo u klasičnim paganskim delima. "Ne postoji izuzetna lepota" — kaže Bekon, lord Verulamski, iskreno govoreći o svim oblicima i rodovima lepoga — "bez nečeg neobičnog u proporciji." Ipak, mada sam video da Ligejine crte nisu klasično pravilne — mada sam primetio da je njena ljupkost zaista "izuzetna" i da je postojalo mnogo "neobičnog" što ju je ispunjavalo, uzalud sam pokušavao da otkrijem nepravilnosti i uđem u trag moje percepcije tog "neobičnog". Ispitivao sam konturu visokog i bledog čela — bilo je bez greške — kako zaista hladno zvuči ta reč kada se primeni na tako božansku dostojanstvenost! — Koža je bila poput najčistije slonovače i nametala se širinom i mirnoćom nežnog ispupčenja predela iznad slepoočnica; a onda, oni vrani, blistavi, bujni i prirodno grguravi uvojci koji ističu punu snagu Homerovog epiteta "zumbulast". Posmatrao sam delikatni obris nosa — i nigde, osim na elegantnim hebrejskim medaljonima, nisam video slično savršenstvo. Postojala je ista raskošna gipkost površine, ista, jedva primetna tendencija orlovskosti, iste harmonično povijene nozdrve koje su govorile o slobodnom duhu. Posmatrao sam slatka usta. Tu je zaista bila pobeda svega nebeskog — veličanstveni potez kratke gornje usne — meka, čulna pospanost donje — rupice koje su zabavljale i boja koja je sama govorila — zubi, od kojih se odbijao svaki zračak nebeske svetlosti koja bi pala na njih pri prozračnom i spokojnom, no pre svega najradosnijem od svih osmeha. Pažljivo sam proučavao oblik brade i pronašao sam, takođe, grčku nežnost širine, mekoću i veličanstvenost, punoću i produhovljenost — konturu koju je, u snu, bog Apolon obelodanio Kleomenesu, atinskom sinu. A onda sam se zagledao u Ligejine ogromne oči.

Za oči nemamo obrasca u udaljenoj antici. Možda je tajna na koju aludira lord Verulamski ležala u očima moje ljubljene. Moram priznati da su one bile mnogo krupnije nego obične oči naše rase. Čak su bile krupnije od najkrupnijih očiju gazela plemena u dolini Nurdžehad. Ali samo u intervalima — u trenucima silnog uzbuđenja — ova čudnovatost je na Ligeji postajala više nego primetna. U takvim momentima je njena lepota — ili se samo tako pojavljivala u mojoj uspaljenoj mašti — bila lepota bića nad zemljom ili van nje — lepota legendarne turske hurije. Najblistavija crna je bila boja njenih zenica i daleko nad njima nalazile su se katranasto crne trepavice, neobično duge. Obrve, čiji je oblik bio pomalo nepravilan, imale su istu boju. "Neobičnost" koju sam, međutim, pronašao u njenim očima nije bila vezana za njihov oblik ili boju, ili savršenost crta, već mora da se pre svega odnosila na njihov izraz. Ah, reč bez značenja, iza njenog pukog zvuka sakrivamo svoje neznanje o toliko uzvišenom. Izraz Ligejinih očiju! Kako sam u dugim noćima razmišljao o njemu! Kako sam se samo kroz celu letnju noć borio da ga shvatim! Šta je bilo to — to nešto dublje od Demokritovog kladenca — što je ležalo duboko u zenicama moje voljene? Šta je to bilo? Bio sam obuzet strašću da to otkrijem. Te oči! Te ogromne, te sjajne, te božanske zenice! Postale su mi zvezde bliznakinje Lede, a ja njima najodaniji astrolog.

Ne postoji stvar, među mnogim nerazumljivim anomalijama psihologije, stravičnija od činjenice — koja, verujem, nije nikad zabeležena u školama — da se, u nastojanju da u sećanje prizovemo nešto davno zaboravljeno, često nalazimo na samoj ivici sećanja, ali bez mogućnosti da se na kraju setimo. Koliko često sam, u intenzivnom istraživanju Ligejinih očiju, osetio kako mi se približava tajna njenog izraza — osetio kako mi se približava — ali još uvek ne potpuno moja — da bi na kraju potpuno iščezla. I (čudna, najčudnija od svih zagonetaka) pronašao sam u najjednostavnijim likovima svemira krug analogija tom izrazu. Hoću reći da sam, pošto je Ligejina lepota prešla u moju dušu, prebivajući tu kao u svetilištu, da sam u mnogim bićima i stvarima materijalnog sveta nalazio isto osećanje kojim sam bio ispunjen dok su me njene ogromne i sjajne zenice posmatrale. Ipak, više ne bih mogao definisati to osećanje, niti ga analizovati, niti ga čak pouzdano razmatrati. Prepoznavao sam ga, dozvolite mi da ponovim, katkad gledajući puzavice što brzo rastu, katkad gledajući moljca, leptira, larvu; žuborenje potoka. Osećao sam ga u okeanu: u padanju meteora. Osećao sam ga u pogledima neobično starih ljudi. Postoji na nebu jedna ili dve zvezde (naročito jedna zvezda šeste veličine, dvostruka i promenljiva, u blizini ogromne zvezde u Liri) otkrivene teleskopom, pomoću kojih sam postao svestan tog osećanja. Ne retko su me izvesni zvuci žičanih instrumenata i delovi knjiga ispunjavali njime. Između bezbroj drugih primera, dobro se sećam jednog, iz dela Džozefa Glenvila, koji nikad nije (ko će znati — možda zbog njegove mirnoće) propustio da me inspiriše tim osećanjem: — ,,I tu leži volja koja ne umire. Ko zna tajne volje i njene snage? Jer Bog nije ništa drugo do velika volja, koja prožima sve stvari po prirodi svoje namere. Čovek se ne prepušta anđelima, niti smrti, potpuno, sem kroz slabost svoje nejake volje."

Dužina godina i kasnija razmišljanja onemogućili su me da zaista tragam za nekom udaljenom vezom između ovog pasusa engleskog moraliste i delića Ligejinog karaktera. Silina mišljenja, akcije ili govora, u njoj je, verovatno, bila rezultat, ili bar pokazatelj, ogromne volje koja je, za vreme našeg dugog odnosa, propustila da da drugi ili neposredniji dokaz svog postojanja. Od svih žena koje sam ikad poznavao, ona, spolja mirna, uvek spokojna Ligeja, bila je najneobuzdanija žrtva burnih krvopija surove strasti. Nisam mogao procenjivati takvu strast, osim po čudesnom razrogačenju tih očiju koje su me u isti mah ushićivale i užasavale — po skoro magičnoj melodiji, modulaciji, jasnoći i spokojnosti njenog tihog glasa — po silnoj energiji strasnih reči a koju je njen način izražavanja zbog kontrasta samo udvostručivao.

Govorio sam o Ligejinom obrazovanju: bilo je ogromno — kakvo nisam poznavao kod žene. Bila je veliki poznavalac klasičnih jezika i onoliko koliko sam ja mogao da procenim s obzirom na moje poznavanje evropskih jezika, nije nikad napravila neku pogrešku. Zaista, jesam li ikad uhvatio Ligeju da je pogrešila u vezi sa bilo kojom temom mnogohvaljenog akademskog znanja, koje je toliko hvaljeno uglavnom zato što je najviše nejasno i nerazumljivo? Kako mi se jedinstveno, kako mi se uzbudljivo, u ovom kasnom periodu, nametnula ta jedna stvar. Rekao sam da joj je znanje bilo takvo kakvo nisam poznavao ni kod jedne žene — ali gde živi čovek koji je uspešno prošao kroz sve široke oblasti morala, fizičkih i matematičkih nauka? Tada nisam video ono što sada jasno primećujem, da je Ligejina učenost bila ogromna, zaprepašćujuća; ali sam bio potpuno svestan njene beskrajne nadmoćnosti, da bi se, sa dečijim poverenjem, prepustio njenom vođstvu kroz haotičan svet metafizičkih istraživanja, kojima sam bio vrlo okupiran za vreme prvih godina našeg braka. Sa kako beskrajnim trijumfom sam, sa kako živim zadovoljstvom, sa kojom količinom svega onog što je eterično u nadi, osećao, dok se ona naginjala nada mnom zagnjurenim u proučavanja — malo tražena a još manje znana — kako se polako, ispred mene širi slatki vidik, po čijoj bih dugačkoj, prekrasnoj i nekročenoj stazi mogao doći do cilja jedne mudrosti, suviše božanski vredne da ne bi bila zabranjena!

Kako je tek porazna morala biti žalost sa kojom sam, posle nekoliko godina, gledao kako moja velika očekivanja dobijaju krila i odleću! Bez Ligeje sam bio samo dete koje je pipkalo izgubljeno u mraku. Njeno prisustvo, samo njeno čitanje je jasno osvetlilo mnoge zagonetke transcendentalnosti u koju smo bili utonuli. Čeznući za jarkim sjajem njenih očiju, slova koja behu svetlucava i zlatna postajala su mutnija od saturnijanskog olova. A sada su te oči sve ređe i ređe sjale preko stranica nad kojima sam bio udubljen. Ligeja je obolela. Divlje oči su plamtele sa i suviše — i suviše sjajnim zračenjem; bledi prsti su postali providni, kao voštana boja groba, plave vene na visokom čelu su oticale i naglo tonule sa menom najnežnijih osećanja. Video sam da mora umreti — u duši sam se beznadežno borio sa ljutitim Azraelom. A borbe moje strastvene žene, na moje veliko čuđenje, bile su čak energičnije nego moje. Bilo je u njenoj strogoj prirodi mnogo toga što mi je govorilo da će joj smrt doći bez užasa — ali nije bilo tako. Reči su nemoćne da stvore bilo kakvu sliku o žestini otpora koji je ona pružala dok se rvala sa Senkom. Sa bolom sam ječao zbog tog žalosnog prizora. Tešio bih je — urazumio bih je; ali prema jačini njene strahovite žudnje za životom — za životom — za samim životom — uteha i razum su bili jednaki najvećoj gluposti. Ali njeno mirno držanje je bilo uzdrmano tek u poslednjem trenutku usred najgrčevitijih previjanja njenog oštrog duha. Njen glas je postajao nežniji — postajao tiši — ali ne želim da se zadržavam na neobičnom značenju mirno izgovorenih reči. Mozak mi se kovitlao dok sam, omađijan, slušao melodiju nadzemaljske žudnje i nade koje smrtno biće nikad pre nije poznavalo.

Uopšte nije trebalo da sumnjam u to da me je volela; i mogao sam lako postati svestan da u srcu kao što je njeno ljubav vlada neuobičajenom strašću. Ali sam tek sa smrću bio potpuno zadivljen snagom njenih osećanja. U dugim časovima, držeći me za ruke, izlivala bi pred mene nabujalu sadržinu srca čija je više nego strasna naklonost dostizala do idolatrije. Zbog čega sam zaslužio da budem blagosloven takvim priznanjima? Zbog čega sam zaslužio da budem tako proklet oduzimanjem moje ljubljene u časovima kad ih je činila? Ali ne mogu podneti da se ovim opširno bavim. Dozvolite mi jedino da kažem da sam u Ligejinom više nego ženskom odavanju ljubavi, na žalost, potpuno nezasluženo, potpuno bezvredno podarenoj meni, na kraju prepoznao načelo njene čežnje, toliko pomamne, iskrene žudnje za životom koji ju je sada tako brzo napuštao. Tu pomamnu žudnju — tu nezasitu vatrenost volje za životom — samo za životom — nemam snage da predstavim — jer nema reči koja je u stanju da je izrazi.

Duboko u noći kada je otišla, zahtevala je, prizivajući me zapovednički rukom, da joj ponovim izvesne stihove koje je sama, pre nekoliko dana, sastavila. Poslušao sam je. To behu ovi:

Gle! slavne li noći
Na kraju godina samotnih!
Mnogo je anđela krilatih, što su hteli doći,
Pod velom i suzama natopljeni,
U pozorište da vide
Igru strahova i nada silnih,
Dok svirači snažno izduvavaju
Muziku svetova davnih.

Mimeza, ko božanstvo sa visina samo,
Mrmori tiho sebi u bradu,
I leti tamo-amo —
Obične lutke, oni što banu pa se iskradu
Po naredbi velikih, bezličnih stvari
Od pozornice prave paradu
I krilima svojim od kondora stvaraju
Nesrećnu nakaradu!

Ta nemoguća drama! — uveren budi
Zaboravljena neće biti!
Sa svojim prividom gonjenim večno od ljudi
Što ga nikad neće dohvatiti
Kružeći istim putem, a uvek
Na isto mesto dolaziti,
I sa još mnogo ludila i mnogo greha
I užasa u čitavoj ovoj uroti.

Ali gle! sred igre što se odvija,
Stvorenje neko puzeći upada!
Krvavi stvor što se otud svija
Ulazi na scenu sada!
Uvija se! — vija! — u smrtnim trzajima
I igra joj plenom pada,
Serafini jecaju kraj zmijskog zuba
Što u ljudsku krv ubada.

Napolju — napolju su svetla — svi napolje sada!
I na drhtave prilike
Zavesa, pokrov mrtvih pada,
Uz olujne hučne slike,
I anđeli bezbojni i bledi
Uspravni i otkriveni, slažu se bez replike
Da je drama tragedija — "čovek",
A herojsko ime pobedniku, crvu pripada.

"O, Bože!" — upola je kriknula Ligeja, skočivši na noge i grčevitim pokretom raširivši ruke uvis, kada sam završio ove stihove. — "O, Bože! O, sveti Oče! — moraju li ove stvari biti tako neumitne? Zar neće ovaj Osvajač jednom biti pokoren? Zar nismo deo i komad Tebe? Ko zna tajne volje i njene snage? Jer Bog nije ništa drugo sem velika volja koja prožima sve stvari po prirodi svoje namere. Čovek se ne prepušta anđelima niti smrti potpuno, sem kroz slabost svoje nejake volje."

I tada, kao da je iscrpena uzbuđenjem, dozvolila je da joj bele ruke padnu i svečano se vratila svojoj samrtničkoj postelji. I dok je disala svoje poslednje udisaje, sa njenih usana je, izmešano sa njima, dolazilo tiho mrmljanje. Prislonio sam uvo uz njih i ponovo prepoznao završne reči Glenvilovog pasusa: — "Čovek se ne prepušta anđelima niti smrti potpuno, sem kroz slabost svoje nejake volje."

Umrla je; i nisam mogao duže, tugom zdrobljen u samu prašinu, podneti usamljenu pustoš boravka u tmurnom i trulom gradu pored Rajne. Nije mi nedostajalo ono što svet naziva bogatstvom. Ligeja mi je donela mnogo više, mnogo više nego što obično pripadne većini smrtnika. Zbog toga sam posle nekoliko meseci iznurujućeg i besciljnog traganja kupio i restaurirao jednu opatiju, koju neću imenovati, a koja se nalazi u jednom od najdivljijih i najpustijih delova lepe Engleske. Mračna i sumorna veličanstvenost zgrade, surovost okoline, mnogo melanholičnih i vremenom počastvovanih sećanja vezanih za obe te stvari, imali su mnogo srodnog sa osećanjima krajnje napuštenosti koja su me dovela u ovaj udaljeni i nedruštveni deo zemlje. Ipak, mada je spoljašnjost opatije, zajedno sa zelenim ruševinama oko nje, pretrpela male promene, zahtevao sam, sa dečjom perverznošću i možda sa bojažljivom nadom da ću se osloboditi svoje tuge, da se u njenoj unutrašnjosti izradi više nego kraljevska raskoš. Za takve ludorije sam još u detinjstvu pokazivao sklonosti, i sada su mi se vraćale u nekoj vrsti opčinjenosti tugom. Na žalost, osećam koliko se mnogo, čak početne ludosti moglo otkriti u prekrasnim i fantastičnim draperijama, u svečanim egipatskim rezbarijama, u čudnim karnišama i nameštaju, u bedlamskim šarama ćilimova od ćubastog zlata! Postao sam pravi rob u mrežama opijuma, i moji radovi i moji nalozi primili su boje mojih snova. Ali ne smem se zadržavati da bih podrobnije opisao ove bezumnosti. Dozvolite mi da jedino govorim o toj jednoj sobi, kuda sam, u trenutku mentalnog otuđenja, sa oltara doveo, kao nevestu — kao naslednicu nezaboravljene Ligeje — plavokosu i plavooku ledi Rovenu Trevanjon od Tremjena.

Ne postoji u toj svadbenoj sobi ni delić arhitekture ili dekoracije koji sada nije jasno ispred mene. Gde su bile ohole duše nevestine porodice kada su, zbog žeđi za zlatom, dozvolile tako voljenoj devojci i kćeri da pređe prag odaje tako nakićene? Već sam rekao da se do u sitnica sećam detalja sobe — mada sam žalosno zaboravan kad su u pitanju važnije teme — jer tu, u fantastičnom izlaganju, nije bilo sistema, nije bilo odnosa, pomoću kojeg bi ih zadržao u sećanju. Soba koja je ležala u visokoj kuli utvrđene opatije bila je petougaonog oblika i vrlo prostrana. Obuhvatajući čitavu južnu stranu petougla tu, se nalazio jedan jedini prozor — komad nesalomljivog venecijanskog stakla — jedino okno, obojeno olovnom bojom, tako da su zraci, bilo Sunca, bilo Meseca, prolazeći kroz njega, osvetljavali jezivim sjajem unutrašnje predmete. Iznad gornjeg dela ovog ogromnog prozora pružala se vreža od starodrevne loze, koja se ispela uz masivne zidove kule. Tavanica od tamne hrastovine bila je prekomerno visoka, zasvođena i savršeno isprepletena najdivljijim i najgrotesknijim uzorcima polugotičkih, poludruidskih izmišljotina. U udubljenju na samom centru ovih melanholičnih svodova, na zlatnom lancu dugih karika, visila je ogromna kadionica od istog metala sa saracenskim šarama i mnogo rupica, vešto izrađenih, tako da su kroz njih prolazili, unutra i napolje, kao obdareni zmijskom vitalnošću, neprestani mlazevi obojenih plamenova.

Volume I


Contents

Edgar Allan Poe, An Appreciation
Life of Poe, by James Russell Lowell
Death of Poe, by N. P. Willis
The Unparalled Adventures of One Hans Pfall
The Gold Bug
Four Beasts in One
The Murders in the Rue Morgue
The Mystery of Marie Rogêt
The Balloon Hoax
MS. Found in a Bottle
The Oval Portrait

Edgar Allan Poe, An Appreciation


Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore−− Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy
burden bore
Of "never−−never more!"
THIS stanza from "The Raven" was recommended by James Russell Lowell as an inscription upon the
Baltimore monument which marks the resting place of Edgar Allan Poe, the most interesting and original
figure in American letters. And, to signify that peculiar musical quality of Poe's genius which inthralls every
reader, Mr. Lowell suggested this additional verse, from the "Haunted Palace":
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling ever more,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
Born in poverty at Boston, January 19 1809, dying under painful circumstances at Baltimore, October 7, 1849,
his whole literary career of scarcely fifteen years a pitiful struggle for mere subsistence, his memory
malignantly misrepresented by his earliest biographer, Griswold, how completely has truth at last routed
falsehood and how magnificently has Poe come into his own, For "The Raven," first published in 1845, and,
within a few months, read, recited and parodied wherever the English language was spoken, the half−starved
poet received $10! Less than a year later his brother poet, N. P. Willis, issued this touching appeal to the
admirers of genius on behalf of the neglected author, his dying wife and her devoted mother, then living under
very straitened circumstances in a little cottage at Fordham, N. Y.:
"Here is one of the finest scholars, one of the most original men of genius, and one of the most industrious of
the literary profession of our country, whose temporary suspension of labor, from bodily illness, drops him
immediately to a level with the common objects of public charity. There is no intermediate stopping−place, no
respectful shelter, where, with the delicacy due to genius and culture, be might secure aid, till, with returning
health, he would resume his labors, and his unmortified sense of independence."
And this was the tribute paid by the American public to the master who had given to it such tales of conjuring
charm, of witchery and mystery as "The Fall of the House of Usher" and "Ligea; such fascinating hoaxes as
"The Unparalleled Adventure of Hans Pfaall," "MSS. Found in a Bottle," "A Descent Into a Maelstrom" and
"The Balloon Hoax"; such tales of conscience as "William Wilson," "The Black Cat" and "The Tell−tale
Heart," wherein the retributions of remorse are portrayed with an awful fidelity; such tales of natural beauty as
"The Island of the Fay" and "The Domain of Arnheim"; such marvellous studies in ratiocination as the
"Gold−bug," "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," "The Purloined Letter" and "The Mystery of Marie Roget,"
6
the latter, a recital of fact, demonstrating the author's wonderful capability of correctly analyzing the mysteries
of the human mind; such tales of illusion and banter as "The Premature Burial" and "The System of Dr. Tarr
and Professor Fether"; such bits of extravaganza as "The Devil in the Belfry" and "The Angel of the Odd";
such tales of adventure as "The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym"; such papers of keen criticism and review as
won for Poe the enthusiastic admiration of Charles Dickens, although they made him many enemies among
the over−puffed minor American writers so mercilessly exposed by him; such poems of beauty and melody as
"The Bells," "The Haunted Palace," "Tamerlane," "The City in the Sea" and "The Raven." What delight for
the jaded senses of the reader is this enchanted domain of wonder−pieces! What an atmosphere of beauty,
music, color! What resources of imagination, construction, analysis and absolute art! One might almost
sympathize with Sarah Helen Whitman, who, confessing to a half faith in the old superstition of the
significance of anagrams, found, in the transposed letters of Edgar Poe's name, the words "a God−peer." His
mind, she says, was indeed a "Haunted Palace," echoing to the footfalls of angels and demons.
"No man," Poe himself wrote, "has recorded, no man has dared to record, the wonders of his inner life."
In these twentieth century days −of lavish recognition−artistic, popular and material−of genius, what rewards
might not a Poe claim!
Edgar's father, a son of General David Poe, the American
revolutionary patriot and friend of Lafayette, had married Mrs. Hopkins, an English actress, and, the match
meeting with parental disapproval, had himself taken to the stage as a profession. Notwithstanding Mrs. Poe's
beauty and talent the young couple had a sorry struggle for existence. When Edgar, at the age of two years,
was orphaned, the family was in the utmost destitution. Apparently the future poet was to be cast upon the
world homeless and
friendless. But fate decreed that a few glimmers of sunshine were to illumine his life, for the little fellow was
adopted by John Allan, a wealthy merchant of Richmond, Va. A brother and sister, the remaining children,
were cared for by others.
In his new home Edgar found all the luxury and advantages money could provide. He was petted, spoiled and
shown off to strangers. In Mrs. Allan he found all the affection a childless wife could bestow. Mr. Allan took
much pride in the captivating, precocious lad. At the age of five the boy recited, with fine effect, passages of
English poetry to the visitors at the Allan house.
From his eighth to his thirteenth year he attended the Manor House school, at Stoke−Newington, a suburb of
London. It was the Rev. Dr. Bransby, head of the school, whom Poe so quaintly portrayed in "William
Wilson." Returning to Richmond in 1820 Edgar was sent to the school of Professor Joseph H. Clarke. He
proved an apt pupil. Years afterward Professor Clarke thus wrote:
"While the other boys wrote mere mechanical verses, Poe wrote genuine poetry; the boy was a born poet. As a
scholar he was ambitious to excel. He was remarkable for self−respect, without haughtiness. He had a
sensitive and tender heart and would do anything for a friend. His nature was entirely free from selfishness."
At the age of seventeen Poe entered the University of Virginia at Charlottesville. He left that institution after
one session. Official records prove that he was not expelled. On the contrary, he gained a creditable record as
a student, although it is admitted that he contracted debts and had "an ungovernable passion for
card−playing." These debts may have led to his quarrel with Mr. Allan which eventually compelled him to
make his own way in the world.
Early in 1827 Poe made his first literary venture. He induced Calvin Thomas, a poor and youthful printer, to
publish a small volume of his verses under the title "Tamerlane and Other Poems." In 1829 we find Poe in
Baltimore with another manuscript volume of verses, which was soon published. Its title was "Al Aaraaf,
Tamerlane and Other Poems." Neither of these ventures seems to have attracted much attention.
7
Soon after Mrs. Allan's death, which occurred in 1829, Poe, through the aid of Mr. Allan, secured admission
to the United States Military Academy at West Point. Any glamour which may have attached to cadet life in
Poe's eyes was speedily lost, for discipline at West Point was never so severe nor were the accommodations
ever so poor. Poe's bent was more and more toward literature. Life at the academy daily became increasingly
distasteful. Soon he began to purposely neglect his studies and to disregard his duties, his aim being to secure
his dismissal from the United States service. In this he succeeded. On March 7, 1831, Poe found himself free.
Mr. Allan's second marriage had thrown the lad on his own resources. His literary career was to begin.
Poe's first genuine victory was won in 1833, when .he was the successful competitor for a prize of $100
offered by a Baltimore periodical for the best prose story. "A MSS. Found in a Bottle" was the winning tale.
Poe had submitted six stories in a volume. "Our only difficulty," says Mr. Latrobe, one of the judges, "was in
selecting from the rich contents of the volume."
During the fifteen years of his literary life Poe was connected with various newspapers and magazines in
Richmond, Philadelphia and New York. He was faithful, punctual, industrious, thorough. N. P. Willis, who
for some time employed Poe as critic and sub−editor on the "Evening Mirror," wrote thus:
"With the highest admiration for Poe's genius, and a willingness to let it alone for more than ordinary
irregularity, we were led by common report to expect a very capricious attention to his duties, and
occasionally a scene of violence and difficulty. Time went on, however, and he was invariably punctual and
industrious. We saw but one presentiment of the man−a quiet, patient, industrious and most gentlemanly
person.
"We heard, from one who knew him well (what should be stated in all mention of his lamentable
irregularities), that with a single glass of wine his whole nature was reversed, the demon became 'uppermost,
and, though none of the usual signs of in
Poe's first genuine victory was won in 1833, when he was the successful competitor for a prize of $100
offered by a Baltimore periodical for the best prose story. "A MSS. Found in a Bottle" was the winning tale.
Poe had submitted six stories in a volume. "Our only difficulty," says Mr. Latrobe, one of the judges, "was in
selecting from the rich contents of the volume."
During the fifteen years of his literary life Poe was connected with various newspapers and magazines in
Richmond, Philadelphia and New York. He was faithful, punctual, industrious, thorough. N. P. Willis, who
for some time employed Poe as critic and sub−editor on the "Evening Mirror," wrote thus:
"With the highest admiration for Poe's genius, and a willingness to let it alone for more than ordinary
irregularity, we were led by common report to expect a very capricious attention to his duties, and
occasionally a scene of violence and difficulty. Time went on, however, and he was invariably punctual and
industrious. We saw but one presentiment of the man−a quiet, patient, industrious and most gentlemanly
person;
"We heard, from one who knew him well (what should be stated in all mention of his lamentable
irregularities), that with a single glass of wine his whole nature was reversed, the demon became uppermost,
and, though none of the usual signs of intoxication were visible, his will was palpably insane. In this reversed
character, we repeat, it was never our chance to meet him."
On September 22, 1835, Poe married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, in Baltimore. She had barely turned thirteen
years, Poe himself was but twentysix. He then was a resident of Richmond and a regular contributor to the
"Southern Literary Messenger." It was not until a year later that the bride and her widowed mother followed
him thither.
8
Poe's devotion to his cbild−wife was one of the most beautiful features of his life. Many of his famous poetic
productions were inspired by her beauty and charm. Consumption had marked her for its victim, and the
constant efforts of husband and mother were to secure for her all the comfort and happiness their slender
means permitted. Virginia died January 30, 1847, when but twenty−five years of age. A friend of the family
pictures the death−bed scene−mother and husband trying to impart warmth to her by chafing her hands and
her feet, while her pet cat was suffered to nestle upon her bosom for the sake of added warmth.
These verses from "Annabel Lee," written by Poe in 1849, the last year of his life, tell of his sorrow at the loss
of his child−wife:
I was a child and she was a child,
In a kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than loveI
and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago;
In this kingdom by the sea.
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high−born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea,
Poe was connected at various times and in various capacities with the "Southern Literary Messenger" in
Richmond, Va.; "Graham's Magazine" and the "Gentleman's Magazine" in Philadelphia.; the "Evening
Mirror," the "Broadway journal," and "Godey's Lady's Book" in New York. Everywhere Poe's life was one of
unremitting toil. No tales and poems were ever produced at a greater cost of brain and spirit.
Poe's initial salary with the "Southern Literary Messenger," to which he contributed the first drafts of a
number of his best−known tales, was $10 a week! Two years later his salary was but $600 a year. Even in
1844, when his literary reputation was established securely, he wrote to a friend expressing his pleasure
because a magazine to which he was to contribute had agreed to pay him $20 monthly for two pages of
criticism.
Those were discouraging times in American literature, but Poe never lost faith. He was finally to triumph
wherever pre−eminent talents win admirers. His genius has had no better description than in this stanza from
William Winter's poem, read at the dedication exercises of the Actors' Monument to Poe, May 4, 1885, in
New York:
He was the voice of beauty and of woe,
Passion and mystery and the dread unknown;
Pure as the mountains of perpetual snow,
Cold as the icy winds that round them moan,
Dark as the eaves wherein earth's thunders groan,
Wild as the tempests of the upper sky,
Sweet as the faint, far−off celestial tone of angel
9
whispers, fluttering from on high,
And tender as love's tear when youth and beauty die.
In the two and a half score years that have elapsed since Poe's death he has come fully into his own. For a
while Griswold's malignant misrepresentations colored the public estimate of Poe as man and as writer. But,
thanks to J. H. Ingram, W. F. Gill, Eugene Didier, Sarah Helen Whitman and others these scandals have been
dispelled and Poe is seen as he actually was−not as a man without failings, it is true, but as the finest and most
original genius in American letters. As the years go on his fame increases. His works have been translated into
many foreign languages. His is a household name in France and England−in fact, the latter nation has often
uttered the reproach that Poe's own country has been slow to appreciate him. But that reproach, if it ever was
warranted, certainly is untrue.

W. H. R.

Edgar Allan Poe, by James Russell Lowell


THE situation of American literature is anomalous. It has no centre, or, if it have, it is like that of the sphere of
Hermes. It is, divided into many systems, each revolving round its several suns, and often presenting to the
rest only the faint glimmer of a
milk−and−water way. Our capital city, unlike London or Paris, is not a great central heart from which life and
vigor radiate to the extremities, but resembles more an isolated umbilicus stuck down as near a's may be to the
centre of the land, and seeming rather to tell a legend of former usefulness than to serve any present need.
Boston, New York, Philadelphia, each has its literature almost more distinct than those of the different
dialects of Germany; and the Young Queen of the West has also one of her own, of which some articulate
rumor barely has reached us dwellers by the Atlantic.
Perhaps there is no task more difficult than the just criticism of contemporary literature. It is even more
grateful to give praise where it is needed than where it is deserved, and friendship so often seduces the iron
stylus of justice into a vague flourish, that she writes what seems rather like an epitaph than a criticism. Yet if
praise be given as an alms, we could not drop so poisonous a one into any man's hat. The critic's ink may
suffer equally from too large an infusion of nutgalls or of sugar. But it is easier to be generous than to be just,
and we might readily put faith in that fabulous direction to the hiding place of truth, did we judge from the
amount of water which we usually find mixed with it.
Remarkable experiences are usually confined to the inner life of imaginative men, but Mr. Poe's biography
displays a vicissitude and peculiarity of interest such as is rarely met with. The offspring of a romantic
marriage, and left an orphan at an early age, he was adopted by Mr. Allan, a wealthy Virginian, whose barren
marriage−bed seemed the warranty of a large estate to the young poet.
Having received a classical education in England, he returned home and entered the University of Virginia,
where, after an extravagant course, followed by reformation at the last extremity, he was graduated with the
highest honors of his class. Then came a boyish attempt to join the fortunes of the insurgent Greeks, which
ended at St. Petersburg, where he got into difficulties through want of a passport, from which he was rescued
by the American consul and sent home. He now entered the military academy at West Point, from which he
obtained a dismissal on hearing of the birth of a son to his adopted father, by a second marriage, an event
which cut off his expectations as an heir. The death of Mr. Allan, in whose will his name was not mentioned,
soon after relieved him of all doubt in this regard, and he committed himself at once to authorship for a
support. Previously to this, however, he had published (in 1827) a small volume of poems, which soon ran
10
through three editions, and excited high expectations of its author's future distinction in the minds of many
competent judges.
That no certain augury can be drawn from a poet's earliest lispings there are instances enough to prove.
Shakespeare's first poems, though brimful of vigor and youth and picturesqueness, give but a very faint
promise of the directness, condensation and overflowing moral of his maturer works. Perhaps, however,
Shakespeare is hardly a case in point, his "Venus and Adonis" having been published, we believe, in his
twenty−sixth year. Milton's Latin verses show tenderness, a fine eye for nature, and a delicate appreciation of
classic models, .but give no hint of the author of a new style in poetry. Pope's youthful pieces have all the
sing−song, wholly unrelieved by the glittering malignity and eloquent irreligion of his later productions.
Collins' callow namby−pamby died and gave no sign of the vigorous and original genius which he afterward
displayed. We have never thought that the world lost more in the "marvellous boy," Chatterton, than a very
ingenious imitator of obscure and antiquated dulness. Where he becomes original (as it is called), the interest
of ingenuity ceases and he becomes stupid. Kirke White's promises were indorsed by the respectable name of
Mr. Southey, but surely with no authority from Apollo. They have the merit of a traditional piety, which to
our mind, if uttered at all, had been less objectionable in the retired closet of a diary, and in the sober raiment
of prose. They do not clutch hold of the memory with
the drowning pertinacity of Watts; neither have they the interest of his occasional simple, lucky beauty. Burns
having fortunately been rescued by his humble station from the contaminating society of the "Best models,"
wrote well and naturally from the first. Had he been unfortunate enough to have had an educated taste, we
should have had a series of poems from which, as from his letters, we could sift here and there a kernel from
the mass of chaff. Coleridge's youthful efforts give no promise whatever of that poetical genius which
produced at once the wildest, tenderest, most original and most purely imaginative poems of modem times.
Byron's "Hours of Idleness" would never find a reader except from an intrepid and indefatigable curiosity. In
Wordsworth's first preludings there is but a dim foreboding of the creator of an era. From Southey's early
poems, a safer augury might have been drawn. They show the patient
investigator, the close student of history, and the unwearied explorer of the beauties of predecessors, but they
give no assurances of a man who should add aught to stock of household words, or to the rarer and more
sacred delights of the fireside or the arbor. The earliest specimens of Shelley's poetic mind already, also, give
tokens of that ethereal sublimation in which the spirit seems to soar above the regions of words, but leaves its
body, the verse, to be entombed, without hope of resurrection, in a mass of them. Cowley is generally
instanced as a wonder of precocity. But his early insipidities show only a capacity for rhyming and for the
metrical arrangement of certain conventional combinations of words, a capacity wholly dependent on a
delicate physical organization, and an unhappy memory. An early poem is only remarkable when it displays
an effort of reason, and the rudest verses in which we can trace some conception of the ends of poetry, are
worth all the miracles of smooth juvenile versification. A school−boy, one would say, might acquire the
regular see−saw of Pope merely by an association with the motion of the play−ground tilt.
Mr. Poe's early productions show that he could see through the verse to the spirit beneath, and that he already
had a feeling that all the life and grace of the one must depend on and be modulated by the will of the other.
We call them the most remarkable boyish poems that we have ever read. We know of none that can compare
with them for maturity of purpose, and a nice understanding of the effects of language and metre. Such pieces
are only valuable when they display what we can only express by the contradictory phrase of _innate
experience. _We copy one of the shorter poems, written when the author was only fourteen. There is a little
dimness in the filling up, but the grace and symmetry of the outline are such as few poets ever attain. There is
a smack of ambrosia about it.

TO HELEN

Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicean barks of yore,
11
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, way−worn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo! in yon brilliant window−niche
How statue−like I see thee stand!
The agate lamp within thy hand,
Ah ! Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land !
It is the tendency of_ _the young poet that impresses us. Here is no "withering scorn," no heart "blighted" ere
it has safely got into its teens, none of the drawing−room sansculottism which Byron had brought into vogue.
All is limpid and serene, with a pleasant dash of the Greek Helicon in it. The melody of the whole, too, is
remarkable. It is not of that kind which can be demonstrated arithmetically upon the tips of the fingers. It is of
that finer sort which the inner ear alone can estimate. It seems simple, like a Greek column, because of its
perfection. In a poem named "Ligeia," under which title he intended to personify the music of nature,, our
boy−poet gives us the following exquisite picture:
Ligeia ! Ligeia !
My beautiful one,
Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
Say, is it thy will,
On the breezes to toss,
Or, capriciously still,
Like the lone albatross,
Incumbent on night,
As she on the air,
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?
John Neal, himself a man of genius, and whose lyre has been too long capriciously silent, appreciated the high
merit of these and similar passages, and drew a proud horoscope for their author.
Mr. Poe had that indescribable something which men have agreed to call genius. No man could ever tell us
precisely what it is, and yet there is none who is not inevitably aware of its presence and its power. Let talent
writhe and contort itself as it may, it has no such magnetism. Larger of bone and sinew it may be, but the
wings are wanting. Talent sticks fast to earth, and its most perfect works have still one− foot of clay. Genius
claims kindred with the very workings of Nature herself, so that a sunset shall seem like a quotation from
Dante, and if Shakespeare be read in the very presence of the sea itself, his verses shall but seem nobler for
the sublime criticism of ocean. Talent may make friends for itself, but only genius can give to its creations the
divine power of winning love and veneration. Enthusiasm cannot cling to what itself is unenthusiastic, nor
will he ever have disciples who has not himself impulsive zeal enough to be a disciple. Great wits are allied to
madness only inasmuch as they are possessed and carried away by their demon, While talent keeps him, as
Paracelsus did, securely prisoned in the pommel of his sword. To the eye of genius, the veil of the spiritual
world is ever rent asunder that it may perceive the ministers of good and evil who throng continually around
12
it. No man of mere talent ever flung his inkstand at the devil.
When we say that Mr. Poe had genius, we do not mean to say that he has produced evidence of the highest.
But to say that he possesses it at all is to say that he needs only zeal, industry, and a reverence for the trust
reposed in him, to achieve the proudest triumphs and the greenest laurels. If we may believe the Longinuses;
and Aristotles of our newspapers, we have quite too many geniuses of the loftiest order to render a place
among them at all desirable, whether for its hardness of attainment or its seclusion. The highest peak of our
Parnassus is, according to these gentlemen, by far the most thickly settled portion of the country, a
circumstance which must make it an uncomfortable residence for individuals of a poetical temperament, if
love of solitude be, as immemorial tradition asserts, a necessary part of their idiosyncrasy.
Mr. Poe has two of the prime qualities of genius, a faculty of vigorous yet minute analysis, and a wonderful
fecundity of
imagination. The first of these faculties is as needful to the artist in words, as a knowledge of anatomy is to
the artist in colors or in stone. This enables him to conceive truly, to maintain a proper relation of parts, and to
draw a correct outline, while the second groups, fills up and colors. Both of these Mr. Poe has displayed with
singular distinctness in his prose works, the last predominating in his earlier tales, and the first in his later
ones. In judging of the merit of an author, and assigning him his niche among our household gods, we have a
right to regard him from our own point of view, and to measure him by our own standard. But, in estimating
the amount of power displayed in his works, we must be governed by his own design, and placing them by the
side of his own ideal, find how much is wanting. We differ from Mr. Poe in his opinions of the objects of art.
He esteems that object to be the creation of Beauty, and perhaps it is only in the definition of that word that
we disagree with him. But in what we shall say of his writings, we shall take his own standard as our guide.
The temple of the god of song is equally. accessible from every side, and there is room enough in it for all
who bring offerings, or seek in oracle.
In his tales, Mr. Poe has chosen to exhibit his power chiefly in that dim region which stretches from the very
utmost limits of the probable into the weird confines of superstition and unreality. He combines in a very
remarkable manner two faculties which are seldom found united; a power of influencing the mind of the
reader by the impalpable shadows of mystery, and a minuteness of detail which does not leave a pin or a
button unnoticed. Both are, in truth, the natural results of the predominating quality of his mind, to which we
have before alluded, analysis. It is this which distinguishes the artist. His mind at once reaches forward to the
effect to be produced. Having resolved to bring about certain emotions in the reader, he makes all subordinate
parts tend strictly to the common centre. Even his mystery is mathematical to his own mind. To him X is a
known quantity all along. In any picture that he paints he understands the chemical properties of all his colors.
However vague some of his figures may seem, however formless the shadows, to him the outline is as clear
and distinct as that of a geometrical diagram. For this reason Mr. Poe has no sympathy with Mysticism. The
Mystic dwells in the mystery, is enveloped with it; it colors all his thoughts; it affects his optic nerve
especially, and the commonest things get a rainbow edging from it. Mr. Poe, on the other hand, is a spectator
ab extra. He analyzes, he dissects, he watches
"with an eye serene,
The very pulse of the machine,"
for such it practically is to him, with wheels and cogs and piston−rods, all working to produce a certain end.
This analyzing tendency of his mind balances the poetical, and by giving him the patience to be minute,
enables him to throw a wonderful reality into his most unreal fancies. A monomania he paints with great
power. He loves to dissect one of these cancers of the mind, and to trace all the subtle ramifications of its
roots. In raising images of horror, also, he has strange success, conveying to us sometimes by a dusky hint
some terrible doubt which is the secret of all horror. He leaves to imagination the task of finishing the picture,
13
a task to which only she is competent.
"For much imaginary work was there;
Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind,
That for Achilles' image stood his spear
Grasped in an armed hand; himself behind
Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind."
Besides the merit of conception, Mr. Poe's writings have also that of form.
His style is highly finished, graceful and truly classical. It would be hard to find a living author who had
displayed such varied powers. As an example of his style we would refer to one of his tales, "The House of
Usher," in the first volume of his "Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque." It has a singular charm for us, and
we think that no one could read it without being strongly moved by its serene and sombre beauty. Had its
author written nothing else, it would alone have been enough to stamp him as a man of genius, and the master
of a classic style. In this tale occurs, perhaps, the most beautiful of his poems.
The great masters of imagination have seldom resorted to the vague and the unreal as sources of effect. They
have not used dread and horror alone, but only in combination with other qualities, as means of subjugating
the fancies of their readers. The loftiest muse has ever a household and fireside charm about her. Mr. Poe's
secret lies mainly in the skill with which he has employed the strange
fascination of mystery and terror. In this his success is so great and striking as to deserve the name of art, not
artifice. We cannot call his materials the noblest or purest, but we must concede to him the highest merit of
construction.
As a critic, Mr. Poe was aesthetically deficient. Unerring in his analysis of dictions, metres and plots, he
seemed wanting in the faculty of perceiving the profounder ethics of art. His criticisms are, however,
distinguished for scientific precision and coherence of logic. They have the exactness, and at the same time,
the coldness of mathematical demonstrations. Yet they stand in strikingly refreshing contrast with the vague
generalisms and sharp personalities of the day. If deficient in warmth, they are also without the heat of
partisanship. They are especially valuable as illustrating the great truth, too generally overlooked, that analytic
power is a subordinate quality of the critic.
On the whole, it may be considered certain that Mr. Poe has attained an individual eminence in our literature
which he will keep. He has given proof of power and originality. He has done that which could only be done
once with success or safety, and the imitation or repetition of which would produce weariness.

Death of A. Poe, by N. P. Willis


THE ancient fable of two antagonistic spirits imprisoned in one body, equally powerful and having the
complete mastery by turns−of one man, that is to say, inhabited by both a devil and an angel seems to have
been realized, if all we hear is true, in the character of the extraordinary man whose name we have written
above. Our own impression of the nature of Edgar A. Poe, differs in some important degree, however, from
that which has been generally conveyed in the notices of his death. Let us, before telling what we personally
know of him, copy a graphic and highly finished portraiture, from the pen of Dr. Rufus W. Griswold, which
appeared in a recent number of the "Tribune:"{*1}
"Edgar Allen Poe is dead. He died in Baltimore on Sunday, October 7th. This announcement will startle
14
many, but few will be grieved by it. The poet was known, personally or by reputation, in all this country; he
had readers in England and in several of the states of Continental Europe; but he had few or no friends; and
the regrets for his death will be suggested principally by the consideration that in him literary art has lost one
of its most brilliant but erratic stars.
"His conversation was at times almost supramortal in its eloquence. His voice was modulated with astonishing
skill, and his large and variably expressive eyes looked repose or shot fiery tumult into theirs who listened,
while his own face glowed, or was changeless in pallor, as his imagination quickened his blood or drew it
back frozen to his heart. His imagery was from the worlds which no mortals can see but with the vision of
genius. Suddenly starting from a proposition, exactly and sharply defined, in terms of utmost simplicity and
clearness, he rejected the forms of customary logic, and by a crystalline process of accretion, built up his
ocular demonstrations in forms of gloomiest and ghastliest grandeur, or in those of the most airy and delicious
beauty, so minutely and distinctly, yet so rapidly, that the attention which was yielded to him was chained till
it stood among his wonderful creations, till he himself dissolved the spell, and brought his hearers back to
common and base existence, by vulgar fancies or exhibitions of the ignoblest passion.
"He was at all times a dreamer−dwelling in ideal realms−in heaven or hell−peopled with the creatures and the
accidents of his brain. He walked−the streets, in madness or melancholy, with lips moving in indistinct curses,
or with eyes upturned in passionate prayer (never for himself, for he felt, or professed to feel, that he was
already damned, but) for their happiness who at the moment were objects of his idolatry; or with his glances
introverted to a heart gnawed with anguish, and with a face shrouded in gloom, he would brave the wildest
storms, and all night, with drenched garments and arms beating the winds and rains, would speak as if the
spirits that at such times only could be evoked by him from the Aidenn, close by whose portals his disturbed
soul sought to forget the ills to which his constitution subjected him−−−close by the Aidenn where were those
he loved−the Aidenn which he might never see, but in fitful glimpses, as its gates opened to receive the less
fiery and more happy natures whose destiny to sin did not involve the doom of death.
"He seemed, except when some fitful pursuit subjugated his will and engrossed his faculties, always to bear
the memory of some
controlling sorrow. The remarkable poem of 'The Raven' was probably much more nearly than has been
supposed, even by those who were very intimate with him, a reflection and an echo of his own history. _He
_was that bird's
" ' unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore−− Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy
burden bore
Of 'Never−never more.'
"Every genuine author in a greater or less degree leaves in his works, whatever their design, traces of his
personal character: elements of his immortal being, in which the individual survives the person. While we
read the pages of the 'Fall of the House of Usher,' or of 'Mesmeric Revelations,' we see in the solemn and
stately gloom which invests one, and in the subtle metaphysical analysis of both, indications of the
idiosyncrasies of what was most remarkable and peculiar in the author's intellectual nature. But we see here
only the better phases of his nature, only the symbols of his juster action, for his harsh experience had
deprived him of all faith in man or woman. He had made up his mind upon the numberless complexities of the
social world, and the whole system with him was an imposture. This conviction gave a direction to his shrewd
and naturally unamiable character. Still, though he regarded society as composed altogether of villains, the
sharpness of his intellect was not of that kind which enabled him to cope with villany, while it
continually caused him by overshots to fail of the success of honesty. He was in many respects like Francis
Vivian in Bulwer's novel of 'The Caxtons.' Passion, in him, comprehended −many of the worst emotions
which militate against human happiness. You could not contradict him, but you raised quick choler; you could
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not speak of wealth, but his cheek paled with gnawing envy. The astonishing natural advantages of this poor
boy−−his beauty, his readiness, the daring spirit that breathed around him like a fiery atmosphere−−had raised
his constitutional self−confidence into an arrogance that turned his very claims to admiration into prejudices
against him. Irascible, envious−−bad enough, but not the worst, for these salient angles were all varnished
over with a cold, repellant cynicism, his passions vented themselves in sneers. There seemed to him no moral
susceptibility; and, what was more remarkable in a proud nature, little or nothing of the true point of honor.
He had, to a morbid excess, that, desire to rise which is vulgarly called ambition, but no wish for the esteem or
the love of his species; only the hard wish to succeed−not shine, not serve −succeed, that he might have the
right to despise a world which galled his self−conceit.
"We have suggested the influence of his aims and vicissitudes upon his literature. It was more conspicuous in
his later than in his earlier writings. Nearly all that he wrote in the last two or three years−including much of
his best poetry−was in some sense
biographical; in draperies of his imagination, those who had taken the trouble to trace his steps, could
perceive, but slightly concealed, the figure of himself."
Apropos of the disparaging portion of the above well−written sketch, let us truthfully say:
Some four or five years since, when editing a daily paper in this city, Mr. Poe was employed by us, for several
months, as critic and sub−editor. This was our first personal acquaintance with him. He resided with his wife
and mother at Fordham, a few miles out of town, but was at his desk in the office, from nine in the morning
till the evening paper went to press. With the highest admiration for his genius, and a willingness to let it
atone for more than ordinary irregularity, we were led by common report to expect a very capricious attention
to his duties, and occasionally a scene of violence and difficulty. Time went on, however, and he was
invariably punctual and industrious. With his pale, beautiful, and intellectual face, as a reminder of what
genius was in him, it was impossible, of course, not to treat him always with deferential courtesy, and, to our
occasional request that he would not probe too deep in a criticism, or that he would erase a passage colored
too highly with his resentments against society and mankind, he readily and courteously assented−far more
yielding than most men, we thought, on points so excusably sensitive. With a prospect of taking the lead in
another periodical, he, at last, voluntarily gave up his employment with us, and, through all this considerable
period, we had seen but one presentment of the man−a quiet, patient, industrious, and most gentlemanly
person, commanding the utmost respect and good feeling by his unvarying deportment and ability.
Residing as he did in the country, we never met Mr. Poe in hours of leisure; but he frequently called on us
afterward at our place of business, and we met him often in the street−invariably the same sad mannered,
winning and refined gentleman , such as we had always known him. It was by rumor only, up to the day of his
death, that we knew of any other development of manner or character. We heard, from one who knew him
well (what should be stated in all mention of his lamentable irregularities), that, with a single glass of wine,
his whole nature was reversed, the demon became uppermost, and, though none of the usual signs of
intoxication were visible, his will was palpably insane. Possessing his reasoning faculties in excited activity,
at such times, and seeking his acquaintances with his wonted look and memory, he easily seemed personating
only another phase of his natural character, and was accused, accordingly, of insulting arrogance and
bad−heartedness. In this reversed character, we repeat, it was never our chance to see him. We know it from
hearsay, and we mention it in connection with this sad infirmity of physical constitution; which puts it upon
very nearly the ground of a temporary and almost irresponsible insanity.
The arrogance, vanity, and depravity of heart, of which Mr. Poe was generally accused, seem to us referable
altogether to this reversed phase of his character. Under that degree of intoxication which only acted upon him
by demonizing his sense of truth and right, he doubtless said and did much that was wholly irreconcilable with
his better nature; but, when himself, and as we knew him only, his modesty and unaffected humility, as to his
own deservings, were a constant charm to his character. His letters, of which the constant application for
autographs has taken from us, we are sorry to confess, the greater portion, exhibited this quality very strongly.
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In one of the carelessly written notes of which we chance still to retain possession, for instance, he speaks of
"The Raven"−−that extraordinary poem which electrified the world of imaginative readers, and has become
the type of a school of poetry of its own−and, in evident earnest, attributes its success to the few words of
commendation with which we had prefaced it in this paper. −It will throw light on his sane character to give a
literal copy of the note:
"FORDHAM, April 20, 1849
"My DEAR WILLIS−−The poem which I inclose, and which I am so vain as to hope you will like, in some
respects, has been just published in a paper for which sheer necessity compels me to write, now and then. It
pays well as times go−but unquestionably it ought to pay ten prices; for whatever I send it I feel I am
consigning to the tomb of the Capulets. The verses accompanying this, may I beg you to take out of the tomb,
and bring them to light in the 'Home journal?' If you can oblige me so far as to copy them, I do not think it
will be necessary to say 'From the −−−−, that would be too bad; and, perhaps, 'From a late −−−− paper,' would
do.
"I have not forgotten how a 'good word in season' from you made 'The Raven,' and made 'Ulalume' (which
by−the−way, people have done me the honor of attributing to you), therefore, I would ask you (if I dared) to
say something of these lines if they please you.
"Truly yours ever,
"EDGAR A. POE."
In double proof of his earnest disposition to do the best for himself, and of the trustful and grateful nature
which has been denied him, we give another of the only three of his notes which we chance to retain :
"FORDHAM, January 22, 1848.
"My DEAR MR. WILLiS−I am about to make an effort at re−establishing myself in the literary world, and
feel that I may depend upon your aid.
"My general aim is to start a Magazine, to be called 'The Stylus,' but it would be useless to me, even when
established, if not entirely out of the control of a publisher. I mean, therefore, to get up a journal which shall
be my own at all points. With this end in view, I must get a list of at least five hundred subscribers to begin
with; nearly two hundred I have already. I propose, however, to go South and West, among my personal and
literary friends−−old college and West Point acquaintances −and see what I can do. In order to get the means
of taking the first step, I propose to lecture at the Society Library, on Thursday, the 3d of February, and, that
there may be no cause of squabbling_, my subject shall _not be literary at all. I have chosen a broad text: 'The
Universe.'
"Having thus given you the facts of the case, I leave all the rest to the suggestions of your own tact and
generosity. Gratefully, _most gratefully,
_"Your friend always,
"EDGAR A. POE.''
Brief and chance−taken as these letters are, we think they
sufficiently prove the existence of the very qualities denied to Mr. Poe−humility, willingness to persevere,
belief in another's friendship, and capability of cordial and grateful friendship! Such he assuredly was when
sane. Such only he has invariably seemed to us, in all we have happened personally to know of him, through a
17
friendship of five or six years. And so much easier is it to believe what we have seen and known, than what
we hear of only, that we remember him but with admiration and respect; these descriptions of him, when
morally insane, seeming to us like portraits, painted in sickness, of a man we have only known in health.
But there is another, more touching, and far more forcible evidence that there was goodness in Edgar A. Poe.
To reveal it we are obliged to venture upon the lifting of the veil which sacredly covers grief and refinement
in poverty; but we think it may be excused, if so we can brighten the memory of the poet, even were there not
a more needed and immediate service which it may render to the nearest link broken by his death.
Our first knowledge of Mr. Poe's removal to this city was by a call which we received from a lady who
introduced herself to us as the mother of his wife. She was in search of employment for him, and she excused
her errand by mentioning that he was ill, that her daughter was a confirmed invalid, and that their
circumstances were such as compelled her taking it upon herself. The countenance of this lady, made beautiful
and saintly with an evidently complete giving up of her life to privation and sorrowful tenderness, her gentle
and mournful voice urging its plea, her long−forgotten but habitually and unconsciously refined manners, and
her appealing and yet appreciative mention of the claims and abilities of her son, disclosed at once the
presence of one of those angels upon earth that women in adversity can be. It was a hard fate that she was
watching over. Mr. Poe wrote with fastidious difficulty, and in a style too much above the popular level to be
well paid. He was always in pecuniary difficulty, and, with his sick wife, frequently in want of the merest
necessaries of life. Winter after winter, for years, the most touching sight to us, in this whole city, has been
that tireless minister to genius, thinly and insufficiently clad, going from office to office with a poem, or an
article on some literary subject, to sell, sometimes simply pleading in a broken voice that he was ill, and
begging for him, mentioning nothing but that "he was ill," whatever might be the reason for his writing
nothing, and never, amid all her tears and recitals of distress, suffering one syllable to escape her lips that
could convey a doubt of him, or a complaint, or a lessening of pride in his genius and good intentions. Her
daughter died a year and a half since, but she did not desert him. She continued his ministering angel−−living
with him, caring for him, guarding him against exposure, and when he was carried away by temptation, amid
grief and the loneliness of feelings unreplied to, and awoke from his self abandonment prostrated in
destitution and suffering, begging for him still. If woman's devotion, born with a first love, and fed with
human passion, hallow its object, as it is allowed to do, what does not a devotion like this−pure, disinterested
and holy as the watch of an invisible spirit−say for him who inspired it?
We have a letter before us, written by this lady, Mrs. Clemm, on the morning in which she heard of the death
of this object of her untiring care. It is merely a request that we would call upon her, but we will copy a few of
its words−−sacred as its privacy is−−to warrant the truth of the picture we have drawn above, and add force to
the appeal we wish to make for her:
"I have this morning heard of the death of my darling Eddie. . . . Can you give me any circumstances or
particulars? . . . Oh! do not desert your poor friend in his bitter affliction! . . . Ask −Mr. −− to come, as I must
deliver a message to him from my poor Eddie. . . . I need not ask you to notice his death and to speak well of
him. I know you will. But say what an affectionate son he was to me, his poor desolate mother. . ."
To hedge round a grave with respect, what choice is there, between the relinquished wealth and honors of the
world, and the story of such a woman's unrewarded devotion! Risking what we do, in delicacy, by making it
public, we feel−−other reasons aside−−that it betters the world to make known that there are such
ministrations to its erring and gifted. What we have said will speak to some hearts. There are those who will
be glad to know how the lamp, whose light of poetry has beamed on their far−away recognition, was watched
over with care and pain, that they may send to her, who is more darkened than they by its extinction, some
token of their sympathy. She is destitute and alone. If any, far or near, will send to us what may aid and cheer
her through the remainder of her life, we will joyfully place it in her bands.