Authors: John MacLachlan Gray
Not Quite Dead (42 page)
“Dear little Virginia was too young to see what I could see—that which would appear, for profit, in his dreadful stories. All those haunted dreams of incest come to life. His worship of the infantile. His morbid craving for the abnormal and the grotesque. Oh, it was all perfectly apparent, right from the start.
“Just think of it, Doctor: the ward of a rich man, having managed to get himself disowned, sponging off this pathetic group! As an alternative to any concession to duty, don’t you see, it was not for Edgar to show obedience to his stepfather, or secure a paying job. Edgar was too important for any of it.
“I watched it happen, sir. My own father helped him publish his verse in
The Yankee
. I saw what he was, yet I could do nothing. I saw with my own eyes as he made love to Mary Newman, and I heard him propose to Mary Devereaux—dear God, little Virginia delivered love notes between them!
“Then, most grotesque of all, came the marriage.
“Edgar had recently returned from army duties. His stepfather was recently dead, immune to begging letters forever. Where was Edgar to turn now? Where to sink his proboscis and suck out a living while remaining so haughtily above life itself?
“Heaven knows when Eddie and Aunt Maria dreamed up this dreadful alliance, between a man of twenty-six and a girl barely thirteen—and first cousins, to boot. I suspect it was earlier than any of us can stomach.
“And what of Aunt Maria, her own mother? How could she consent
to a match between little Virginia and a man of Eddie’s age and dissipated habits? Would not any alternative be an improvement over life in an incestuous hive? To a husband who would contribute not even his company—unless he were ill, or in the throes of overindulgence?
“Not for Aunt Maria. Where my aunt was concerned, Edgar was the prince of poetry. His sensitivity, his talent, his poetic affectations had blinded her to everything else. The only person in that house who was genuinely in love with anyone was Aunt Maria.
“Edgar had a way with women, don’t you see? He could subject them to his will.
“When it came to begging for money on his behalf, nobody could outdo Aunt Maria. Only editors, it seems, found the strength to resist her pleas—and even they shed tears over it.
“And what are we to think of my little Virginia, sir? Hostage for life, to a parasite who called himself a poet.
“To be sure, sir, at the wedding there was no white dress for little Virginia, no veil, not a penny spent so that she might experience a momentary, fragile glory as a bride.
“And who was to give Virginia away? Why Aunt Maria Clemm, of course—dear, long-suffering Aunt Maria! To this day, when I lay eyes on the woman I want to wring her wretched neck.
“Is my tale grotesque enough for you, sir? Does it not make your skin crawl as though with lice? Well, count on Edgar to exploit it again and again—tale after tale about incestuous brides, women buried alive in tombs, suffering amputation, wasting away …
“Yet who was the sufferer? Who inspired tears of pity? Why, Edgar Poe, of course. No matter what misery he brought down upon others, it was Edgar whose suffering mattered most.” Neilson Poe grimaced at the sour taste of his whiskey.
“I sympathize with you utterly, Mr. Poe,” I said. And yet it was not until the
Collected Tales
that you came to truly hate him. It was as though he had put between two covers all the cruelty and depravity he had visited upon poor little Virginia, into a single parcel, to be sold, for money.
“Why stop at that? Could he not have made a dollar or two by selling her blood-spattered handkerchiefs, swatches of her shroud, her bones and teeth? …”
Neilson Poe wept. “Stop. I beg you, stop. How did you know this?”
“Because in my own way I shared your sentiments. We have something in common, don’t you see?”
Neilson Poe drained his glass, and wiped his gaunt cheek with his linen napkin. “You have seen through me at any rate, sir. You have cut me to the quick.”
“So did your letter, sir. And the woman in the morgue. And when I saw the teeth I literally fainted dead away.”
“I don’t understand you, sir.”
I took a large drink myself. As I might have mentioned, there are aspects to my tale that will not enhance my reputation.
“As I said, we have something in common, Mr. Poe,” I said. “There were other clippings, you see. Eddie received other letters. I wrote them. I wrote them myself.”
EPILOGUE
D
r. William Chivers returned to Baltimore. He resigned his position at Washington College Hospital, then moved to Richmond, Virginia, there to establish a modest private practice while writing his memoirs. At that time he became engaged to Mrs. Elmira Shelton. They remained engaged until his death.
Inspector Shadduck became Philadelphia’s first police marshal, following the Act of Consolidation in 1854.
Finn Devlin fled north with Miss Genoux. There he joined the radical group known as the Fenian Brotherhood, whose aim was to take Canada hostage and thereby force England to grant independence to Ireland. In 1866, the Fenians launched a series of raids on Canadian territory. One was at Pigeon Hill, on the Quebec-Vermont border.
The Fenians plundered nearby St. Armand and Slab City, and, it was said, “insulted and abused” the population. On hearing that Canadian reinforcements were approaching, they began a disorganized retreat to the United States. The last two hundred stragglers were charged by a troop of cavalry, who managed to capture sixteen prisoners.
Finn Devlin was one of them. The last public words ever heard from him were, “Men of Ireland, I am ashamed of you.”
Edgar Allan Poe returned to England, where he wrote under a variety of pseudonyms. Miss Genoux returned to France, and was never heard from again.
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