"Really,” returned I, feeling unpleasantly like a confi-
dence-operator in the act of entrapping his victim, "I don t
5 8
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
know whether I have or not. There is something in your
appearance that is very familiar to me; and yet I can’t give
you your name.”
“You can, perhaps, give me yours?” was his quiet answer.
“With pleasure!” said I; and I mentioned it.
“Ah!” he said; “the novelist? I have read—indeed, I have
reviewed—your writings; but that was over fifty years—I
would say they could hardly have been yours. You are too
young a man.”
“I should be surprised if I were not older than you,” said
I, with a smile. He certainly could not have been over forty.
“Your impression is a natural one,” he replied; “But the
circumstances happen to be peculiar. I was born in 1809.”
“In 1849, you mean!” exclaimed I.
He shook his head. “Oddly enough,” he remarked, “you
have named the year in which (according to the general
belief) I died. I need hardly add,” he continued, with a
faint smile, “that the belief is a mistaken one. I did not die,
and I am not an insubstantial specter. And yet, perhaps, I
am hardly justified in calling myself eighty-two years old.
The truth is, sir—though this is a m atter to which, for rea-
sons you will appreciate, I am not accustomed to refer—
the truth is, I have been the subject of a very unusual expe-
rience, and, what is more, of one which I had myself in
some sort foreshadowed. It is possible you may have hap-
pened to read a little fancy of mine called ‘The Premature
Burial’—”
“Pardon me for interrupting you,” said I at this point,
“but I think I must be misinterpreting your meaning. The
only story called ‘The Premature Burial’ that I am ac-
quainted with was written by—”
“By Edgar Allan Poe. And that, sir, is my name.”
At this juncture the widow brought in my lunch, and this
diversion, together with the extremity of my stupefaction,
which had an outwardly composing effect, prevented my
saying anything for several moments. If I were describing
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
5 9
an imaginary incident, I should say that my first impulse
was to regard the man as a lunatic; for between the altema-
tives of believing either him or myself insane, I would
naturally select the least distressing. Edgar Allan Poe was
dead and buried forty-two years ago; that was certain.
This man was alive and in the flesh, and was not more than
forty years of age. And yet he asserted he was the great
author. Of course he must be out of his mind.
I am not aware of being a particularly credulous man;
but the simple truth is that, in the face of the above consid-
erations, I believed on the spot that Edgar Allan Poe sat
before me. In the first place, the manner with which he
made the statement was convincing. His voice was quiet,
distinct, and grave, his countenance serious, and his glance
direct. He was not mad, nor was he jesting; he was a gentle-
man, making a statement to another. But he was also Poe
in every contour of his face and line of his figure. I now
understood how I had come to think that I had seen him
before. There was in my possession an engraving from a
daguerreotype of the poet, taken, I believe, about 1846. I
had often studied this portrait, which had a singular fas-
cination for me, and I had completely familiarized myself
with it. The man before me did not merely bear a resem-
blance to the picture; he was the original of it. I should have
known it without his assistance, but that one does not
spontaneously invite a miracle.
“It is a great pleasure to me to meet you, Mr. Poe,” I said,
at length. “I suppose I needn’t add that it is an unexpected
one.”
“My return to this life was as unexpected to myself as it
could have been to any one else,” was his reply. “I ought,
perhaps, to say that you are the first person to whom I have
spoken of the affair, and that I should not like it to go further.
I have taken the name of Arnold, which was that of
my mother’s family. It is my intention, for obvious reasons,
to preserve the incognito. I am not disposed to let my new
60
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
life be disturbed by constant efforts to establish my iden-
tity, or to become the cynosure of fools should the attem pt
succeed. I have laid out a course of existence for myself,
and I purpose to pursue it, quietly and unobtrusively, so
long as destiny may permit.”
“And when—that is—how long is it since your new career
began?” I inquired.
“It is about a week since I obtained a position as private
secretary to a gentleman in the banking business here,” he
replied. “My handwriting attracted him—as it did my friend
Kennedy when, in 1833, I competed for a literary prize
offered by the Saturday Visiter. An interview satisfied him
as to my other qualifications, and he engaged me at a
salary which—according to my ideas—is a generous one.
Outside of office-hours I am master of my own time. I do
not go into society, and I see no one. I spend my time in
reading, and I am well content. I was just glancing over this
little jeu desprit by Mr. Andrew Lang. He writes well. He
has treated me with great consideration. But I am amused
to learn, from his le tte r / as he calls it, that the animosi-
ties aroused by my critical divagations, a generation and a
half ago, are not forgotten, nor forgiven, yet.”
“Mr. Lang is an Englishman, and perhaps exaggerates
the American sentiment on that subject,” I said. “For my
own part, I have always found your genius recognized as
unique and unapproachable. But did I understand you to
say that it is only a week since you returned to this world?”
“No: that event took place some three months ago, as
near as I can recollect,” he answered. “To be frank, my
impressions as to the details of my resuscitation are a trifle
hazy. As you may be aware—I was not myself aware of it
until quite recently—I was interred in the graveyard of
Westminster Church, in Baltimore. The place was not
marked, and, fortunately for me, my coffin was placed in
a sort of vault. I presume some alterations were being made;
at all events, my first sensation was of a draught of cold air;
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
61
I supposed I was sleeping by an open window, and I en-
deavored to draw the blanket around me. Gradually—I can
hardly tell how—I began obscurely to realize my position.
I was not agitated; probably my nerves were in a state of
insensibility from my long torpor. I have often, since I es-
caped from my tomb, felt a deeper thrill of horror at
my
position than I did at the moment. My coffin had decayed
sufficiently to enable me to leave it without much difficulty.
Some stones had been removed from the sides of the vault,
and I emerged through the aperture. I was, as yet, scarcely
alive, and had no more strength than an infant. It was
night: I heard the clock of the church strike midnight as I
lifted myself into the open air. Under the wall of the church
I found, rolled up, a rough coat and a pair of overalls,
doubtless the property of a workman. I appropriated them,
for my own garments were dropping to pieces. In the
pocket of the coat was a piece of bread, which I ate, and it
gave me a little vigor. But I was greatly emaciated, and my
mind was bewildered. I believe I spent that night in the
station-house, and the following day I was removed to a
hospital, where I remained two weeks, slowly recovering
the use of my faculties. Of course I did not soon realize the
lapse of time, and the questions I asked and the remarks
I let fall doubtless led the attendants to suppose me de-
mented. But,״ he added, breaking off, “I must apologize for
my loquacity. This is the first time I have spoken of this
subject. I dislike even to dwell upon it in thought. And my
further experiences are commonplace, and would not in-
terest you.״
“I have never before listened to so interesting a narrative:
it surpasses even your own published romances,״ I said. “But
is it not your intention, Mr. Poe, to re-enter the literary
profession?״
“I think not,״ he replied. “I have never found it remu-
nerative. And the art must have advanced so far since my
time that I should have no chance in the competition. Be-
62
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF HOE
sides, all the men of my generation are gone, and the sense
of loneliness, and of vanished associations, would render
the experiment too painful.”
“As regards the question of remuneration—do you happen
to recollect what was paid you for your story of ‘The Mur-
ders in the Rue M orgue?”
“I could not say, precisely, but it might be forty or fifty
dollars.”
“And it contains upward of twelve thousand words. Well,
Mr. Poe, I saw your original manuscript of the story in the
collection of a friend of mine the other day, and I am confi-
dent he would have refused a thousand dollars for it. I am
willing to guarantee that you could sell anything you chose
to write at the rate of a dollar a word. If fact, if I were your
agent, I would agree to pay you that, and to make a hand-
some commission for myself besides.”
“You fairly astonish me,” said Poe, in his low voice. “Lit-
erature must indeed have taken a step forward since my
day. Writers, then, are among the wealthiest classes of the
community?”
“No, I can hardly say that,” I returned. “There are so
many of us, you see, that we somewhat interfere with one
another's profits. Besides, we have suffered from the lack
of an international copyright law, subjecting us to the
rivalry of stolen English books at nominal prices—”
“Is it possible,” exclaimed Poe, “that no such law yet
exists? Is the situation unchanged since 1842, when Dickens
was over here, co-operating with W ebster and Clay? I was
hardly prepared to learn this I”
“I am glad to be able to tell you that a measure was
actually passed on the last day of the recent session of
Congress,” said I. “It is true that most of the members were
absent, and that nearly all of those present were asleep:
nevertheless, the vote was favorable, and the law is ex-
pected to go into effect next July. So we may look forward
to better days. But, in any case, such a question would have
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
63
no application to you. Apart from the extraordinary sensa-
tion that would be caused by your reappearance, you are
still as far above the level of average writers as you were
in the forties. I doubt if any living man could rival your
prose style. I am certain none of us have a tithe of your
genius. As to your poetry, there you stand alone, and you
always will. Another *Raven/ or *To Helen’—”
**I should hardly care,״ said Poe, with a wave of his hand,
“to attem pt that vein again. There can be no enduring
merit in such verses. They were constructed on a poetical
theory which I now perceive to have been fallacious. The
true music of poetry should lie, not in its sound to the ear,
but in its sense to the mind. It should be a rational pursuit,
not a passion. I should be more inclined to try my hand at a
blank-verse drama, in the style of my Politian. Or perhaps
a prose comedy of contemporary life would be better yet.”
“You are no doubt the best judge of what you would like
to do,” said I; **but it is my impression that a continuance of
your old manner would be expected by the public, and
might be more popular. Suppose, however, you begin with
a series of short stories, in the style of *The Gold-Bug’?”
Poe shook his head meditatively. “The short story,” said
he, “is not a satisfactory form of fiction. To properly gauge
the quality of a genius, we must see it in longer flights. If I
returned to the region of romance at all, it would be to
write a long novel, like Martin Chuzzlewit or The Last Days
of Pompeii. But, to tell the truth, fiction in any form has few
charms for me. I am more impressed by the realities of life
than by its fancies. I should like to write a treatise embody-
ing my ideas on the equitable division of land among its
inhabitants. Such a work, I think, would be useful, and
would constitute a reasonable basis for a reputation. W hat
you intimate concerning the present popularity of my short
tales and poems is, I confess, a disappointment to me. It
seems to show a regrettable frivolity in the human mind.
Perhaps, had my readers, like myself, passed forty years in
6 4
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
the tomb, they would be disposed to modify their point of
view.״
I thought this not improbable, but, as the contingency
was never likely to occur, I wished that Mr. Poe had shown
a greater willingness to accommodate himself to actual
circumstances. I began to perceive, moreover, that although
the great writer's prolonged absence from the activities of
the world had wrought no noticeable change in his personal
appearance, it had had a singularly disenchanting effect on
his mind. All traces of his weird imagination seemed to have
died out of him. He was contentedly filling the position of
amanuensis to a prosperous banker, and his thoughts were
running on political economy. The amazing experience of
which he had been the subject, instead of stimulating tran-
scendental speculations in h
is soul, was merely a disagree-
able matter, about which he did not care to think. I even
suspected that he felt irritated with himself for having been
the hero of so unique and sensational an occurrence. His
love of fame was gone; to spare himself a little temporary
annoyance he was satisfied to conceal his identity and live
unknown and unsought. Could it be that the qualities
which gave Poe his renown were but a transient ebullition
of youthful spirits, having no deep roots in his nature? Was
this the real man that sat here chatting with me, and was
the other, whom the world knew and honored, but an arti-
ficial role that he deliberately played, with no sincere and
hearty purpose?
“The more I reflect upon it,״ said he, breaking in upon
my speculations, “the more reluctant I feel to embark again
on the uncertain sea of literature. W hat is really worth
having in this life? Surely nothing save the sense of reason-
able security against vicissitudes, the certainty of bodily
support and comfort from day to day, the feeling that, one
is performing a useful, if humble, work in the world, the
freedom from the agitations of passion, the hopes and de-
spairs of ambitioni I was never happy in my former exist
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
65
ence; I am happy now. Why should I tem pt a renewal of
those old doubts and emotions? Our experience is given to
us, we may suppose, as a lesson. We act foolishly, and we are
taught the folly of our actions. Few of us are granted the
opportunity to profit by our instruction. That opportunity
has been vouchsafed to me, and I should be remiss in my
duty did I venture to disregard it. No, my dear sir, I shall
never resume the pen. I am conscious of no impulse to
do so, and I will not act against my nature.״
*'Mr. Poe,״ I said, looking him in the face, “are you not
making a virtue of necessity? Is it not because you feel the
decay in you of the powers you once possessed that you
profess to care no longer to use them? Are you not conceal-
ing the loss of your genius by pretending to be indifferent
to the honor that genius commands?״
I had hoped that this attack would have the effect of
rousing him from his apathy. If any sparks of the old fire
yet lingered in him, surely they would burst into flame now!
The Man Who Called Himself Poe Page 9
