Poe (15 page)

Poe knew as much himself, and in the summer of 1845
Graham's Magazine
published his “The Imp of the Perverse.” It was a narrative of rueful contemplation in
which the narrator muses upon the human capacity to act in a contrary manner “for the reason that we should
not.”
To do that which is forbidden—to do that which goes against all our instincts of self-love and self-preservation—therein lies the power of the imp. Never to stay long in any employment; to be drawn towards young women who were dying; to quarrel continually with friends; to drink excessively, even when told that the indulgence would kill him. Therein dwells the imp.

• • •

James Russell Lowell, a young poet of considerable gifts, visited the Poe household during this spring and summer of 1845. Some months before, Lowell had written a long and favourable criticism of Poe's work for
Graham's Magazine,
in which he gave the opinion that “we know of none who has displayed more varied and more striking abilities.” It was the first long article about Poe that had not been deliberately engineered by Poe himself. There had been a correspondence between the two writers, and Lowell already considered Poe to be a “dear friend.” But their encounter was not altogether a success. Poe was “a little tipsy, as if he were recovering from a fit of drunkenness.” He seemed to Lowell to be in an unhappy and sarcastic mood. His manner was “rather formal, even pompous.” He was not at his best. Lowell noticed, too, that Poe's ailing wife had an “anxious expression.” (Five years later Maria Clemm wrote to apologise to
Lowell, informing him that “the day you saw him in New York he was not himself.”) But then Poe attacked Lowell's poetry in print, and even accused him of plagiarising material from Wordsworth. Lowell retaliated by suggesting that Poe was bereft of “that element of manhood which, for want of a better name, we call character.” Poe was weak, in other words.

But what was his character, in the most general sense? He has alternately been described as ambitious and unworldly, jealous and restrained, childlike and theatrical, fearful and vicious, self-confident and wayward, defiant and self-pitying. He was all of these, and more. One acquaintance described him as “unstable as water,” and another as a “characterless character.” To one who became his enemy he was “the merest shell of a man.”

Like the salamander he could only live in fire. But the fire was often started by himself. He stumbled from one passionate outburst to the next. He hardly seemed to know himself at all, but relied upon the power of impassioned words to create his identity. He would sometimes tear at himself, heaping misery upon himself, estranging others even while realising that it was wrong to do so. He moved from disaster to calamity and back again. His entire life was a series of mistakes and setbacks, of disappointed hopes and thwarted ambitions. He proceeded as if he were the only one in the world—hence the spitefulness of his criticism. He drew attention to his solitary state in defiance and celebration, even as he lamented it in his letters. Thus,
at the centre of his work, was anger against the world. He had a heart always about to break.

There was a curious incident in the summer of 1845 that justified the bad opinions that some held of him. A young poet, R.H. Stoddard, had submitted a poem for the
Broadway Journal.
Having received no reply, he sought out Poe at his lodgings. Poe then assured him that the poem would appear in the next number of the periodical, but it did not. Instead there was a notice: “To the author of the lines on the ‘Grecian Flute.’ We fear that we have mislaid the poem.” Then, in the following month, another “notice” appeared, to Stoddard's astonishment, remarking that “we doubt the originality of the ‘Grecian Flute,’ for the reason that it is too good at some points to be so bad at others.” This is the authentic Poe tone. In dismay Stoddard visited the offices of the
Journal,
to encounter Poe “irascible, surly and in his cups.” Poe stared up “wildly” at the unfortunate young poet, and then accused him of plagiarism. “You never wrote the Ode to which I lately referred.” He abused Stoddard and, in the young man's words, threatened him “with condign personal chastisement”—that is, a thrashing—and ordered him to leave the office.

In this period Poe was professing himself once more to be depressed and “dreadfully unwell, and fear that I shall be very seriously ill.” The household had been regularly moving lodgings—from Greenwich Street to East Broadway and from East Broadway to Amity Street near
Washington Square. But now Poe resolved to return to the countryside, in order to regain his health and his composure, and as a result wished to give up his post on the
Broadway Journal.
He was trying to sell his “interest” in the newspaper. His partner, Charles Frederick Briggs, was not unhappy to see him leave. Poe's drinking had made him unreliable. “I shall haul down Poe's name,” he wrote. “He has lately got into his old habits and I fear will injure himself irretrievably.” But then Poe changed his mind. He had told Thomas Dunn English that the “comparative failure” of
t
he
Journal
was a consequence of “the fact that he had it not all in his own hands.” He is reported to have said, “Give me the entire control, and it will be the great literary journal of the future.” So he had transferred his hopes for an ideal literary magazine to the
Broadway Journal
itself.

In the summer of 1845, too, there appeared a volume of twelve stories by Poe.
Tales
was published by the New York firm of Wiley and Putnam, and included “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” and “The Black Cat.” If it was an attempt to capitalise on the fame Poe had achieved with “The Raven,” it succeeded in part. The small volume was praised by the
American Review
as “one of the most original and peculiar ever published in the United States,” and by
Graham's Magazine
as “among the most original and characteristic compositions in American letters.” Of all the books published in Poe's lifetime, it was the most successful. Four months after publication, according
to his own estimate, it had sold approximately fifteen hundred copies, thus earning Poe a royalty of over one hundred dollars. It was not munificent, but it was gratefully received.

• • •

In July he made an unexpected trip to Providence, Rhode Island, for which he had to borrow ten dollars from a friend. It was a secret journey, which he could not finance with the help of Maria Clemm. Poe had in mind a form of assignation.

In one of his drunken fits he had divulged that he was involved “in the damnedst amour.” His wife, of course, was not to be told. The lady in question was Mrs. Frances Osgood, a literary “blue-stocking” (or “blue,” as the race was known), who composed verses and tales for New York periodicals. Poe had praised “Fanny” Osgood in his lecture on American poets, and eventually met her in the drawing room of the Astor Hotel in New York. She recalled the meeting at a later date with all the enhanced recollection of hindsight. “With his proud and beautiful head erect,” she said, “his dark eyes flashing with the elective light of feeling and thought, a peculiar, an inimitable blend of sweetness and hauteur in his expression and manner, he greeted me calmly, gravely, almost coldly …”

The coldness must soon have vanished, however. They exchanged verses, and Poe printed several of her poems in the
Broadway Journal.
It was a highly public and publicised romance, if romance it was. It is more likely to
have been a fussy and excitable literary friendship, lent added fervour by Poe's desperate need for the comfort and protection of women. They exchanged letters as well as verses, but the correspondence has since been lost. Poe's poems to her were not necessarily inspired by passionate devotion. One poem, “To F———S O———D,” had in fact been written for Virginia eleven years before; another tribute, “To F,” had been written in 1835 at which stage it was composed “To Mary.” He was not averse to recycling his emotions.

Frances Osgood's New York publisher recalled that “when she was with my family, Poe called every day and generally spent the evening remaining invariably until midnight.” She was often present at the literary parties to which Poe was now a frequent visitor. Another writer recalled “the child-like face of Fannie Osgood suffused with tears under his [Poe's] wizard spell.” Thomas Dunn English also described “little Mrs. Osgood doing the infantile act… her face upturned to Poe.” She clearly had an advanced case of literary hero-worship, a form of adoration that Poe did his best to maintain. He courted her a little too ardently, however, and Mrs. Osgood described at a later date how “I went to Albany, and afterwards to Boston and Providence to avoid him.” She added that “he followed me to each of these places and wrote to me, imploring me to love him.” It sounds very much like a long pursued affair except for the fact that Mrs. Osgood's husband, the painter Samuel Osgood, was well aware of their association. Possibly it was an innocent, or unthreatening,
dalliance. Adultery was not then generally acceptable, even in New York.

• • •

When Fanny Osgood visited the Poe household in New York, she found him working on a series of papers entitled “The Literati of New York.” He always wrote on narrow strips of paper, pasted into long rolls, and on this occasion he showed the various lengths of them to Fanny. His wife was present at the time. “Come, Virginia,” Mrs. Osgood remembered him saying, “help me!” Together they unrolled each piece until “at last they came to one which seemed interminable. Virginia laughingly ran to one corner of the room with one end and her husband to the opposite with the other.” Mrs. Osgood asked about whom this effusion was written. “Hear her,” he said, “just as if that little vain heart didn't tell her it's herself!” It is a mawkish episode, not relieved by the fact that Poe did indeed compose rather nauseous tributes to Mrs. Osgood's poetry. He had no steadiness in critical matters. He was swayed by private passion and personal rivalry. The fact that Fanny Osgood visited husband and wife, however, reinforces the impression that Fanny and Poe were not engaged in any sexual relationship. It seems that Mrs. Poe even asked Mrs. Osgood to continue her correspondence with Poe, on the grounds that their friendship helped to keep him sober. He found comfort in Fanny Osgood.

It is significant that, in one character portrait of her,
Poe described her “hair black and glossy: eyes a clear, luminous gray, large, and with singular capacity for expression.” This might be a description of one of the doomed women of his tales. It might almost be a description of his mother. Four years later, Fanny Osgood did indeed die of consumption. Could he have already noticed the signs of it upon her—he was preternaturally sensitive to such things—and thus have been drawn to her?

Margaret Fuller, the most dispassionate and most intelligent of his observers, believed that his love affairs were in truth part of a “passionate illusion, which he amused himself by inducing, than of sympathy.” She believed that he had no friends, and that he was “shrouded in an assumed character.” It is possible that he was indeed playing a part, taking on a Byronic aspect for the sake of his female admirers, but was at the same time desperate and unbalanced. He became the part, living it with an intensity that belied its artificial nature.

• • •

Throughout the summer of 1845 he was working sporadically upon a book of poems.
The Raven and Other Poems
would be the first such collection since 1831. It was a significant publication, therefore, not least because he believed that he would earn five hundred dollars from its sales. His hopes were, as always, unfulfilled. He chose some thirty poems for the collection, among them such early works as “Tamerlane” and “Al Aaraaf.” In a preface
he declared that “events not to be controlled have prevented me from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has been not a purpose, but a passion.” Unfortunately, the critics were not as well disposed towards the poems as to the tales. And the volume did not sell. It would be the last collection of Poe's poetry in his lifetime.

He professed to be abstaining from alcohol, or “the ashes” as he called it, but by the autumn he was drinking again. He was always prone to spectacular miscalculations about the effect of his behaviour, and a reading in Boston proved to be what one critic has described as the beginning of his “downfall.” He had been invited to read at the event, in order to celebrate a new series of lectures in the Boston Lyceum. He was called upon to recite a new work at the end of a lecture by a Massachusetts politician, Caleb Cushing, but spent “some fifteen minutes with an apology for not delivering, as is usual in such cases, a didactic poem.” Poe did not write didactic poems; for him poetry and didacticism were antithetical. Poetry was concerned with the pursuit of the “beautiful” only—what was for him “supernal beauty” or “the beauty above.”

This was the stirring message he delivered to the Bostonians. One Harvard student, present at the occasion, recalled that “he stood with a sort of shrinking before the audience and then began in a thin, tremulous, hardly musical voice, an apology for his poem, and a deprecation of
the expected criticism of a Boston audience.” The student also noticed his “look of oversensitiveness which when uncontrolled may prove more debasing than coarseness.” Poe was, in other words, nervous and expecting the worst from a difficult group. Then he proceeded to recite “Al Aaraaf,” a poem that he had written sixteen years previously. Some of his auditors grew restive under the strain of understanding this juvenile performance, and so Poe was prevailed upon to read “The Raven” at the close of the proceedings. Members of the audience, however, were already leaving with much noisy vacating of seats.

It was not a particularly glorious night, but then Poe, over “a bottle of champagne,” compounded the offence by revealing to some Bostonian writers and journalists that “Al Aaraaf” was indeed a poem of his youth. They were not pleased by the intelligence, assuming it to be an insult both to Boston and to the Lyceum. The editor of the
Boston Evening Transcript,
Cornelia Wells Walter, disclosed that the poem had been composed
“before its author was twelve years old.”
Poe, in one of his flights of fancy, may even have stated this improbable fact. Miss Walter continued in a vein of thinly concealed sarcasm, “a poem delivered before a literary association of adults, as written by a boy! Only think of it! Poh! Poh!” He retaliated in kind. “Well, upon the whole we must forgive her,” he wrote, “—and do. Say no more about it, you little darling!” The last expression was considered to be unwholesome.