The Man Who Called Himself Poe

by Sam Moskowitz

  n o ted for his literary criticism under th e p e n n am e o f Janus W eath e

  cock, w h o e n d e d his life in T asm ania w h ere h e w as sen ten ced

  p en a l servitud e for forgery.

  Manuscript Found in a Drawer

  By Charles Norman

  As usual, after dinner in Thornton’s house, we talke

  about his hobby, a mild word for what amounted to an 01

  session. Also, I knew him too well not to guess that 1:

  had found another treasure, and I waited for him to displa

  it. Thornton was a collector. First editions were all vei

  well, he would say—when you couldn’t get hold of tl:

  original manuscripts. He was that kind of collector. No

  1 4 0

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  from the table beside him—we were having coffee in his

  library—he took a blue leather slipcase and extracted several

  pieces of paper.

  "Read this,״ he said; "it won’t take long.״

  I found myself holding five sheets of notepaper with an

  unfamiliar watermark, all of them closely written over in

  an old-fashioned copperplate hand as clear as print. There

  was a lamp behind my chair; I leaned back and began to

  read, noticing, as I did so, that Thornton was watching

  me intently.

  "My name is Roger Desforth, of Richmond, Virginia [the

  little manuscript, for such it was, began]. It is my hope

  that this account of my last day on earth will fall into the

  hands of the American minister, or other countryman of

  mine. As I am a bachelor, and without near kin, it is my

  wish that the proceeds from my goods and other posses-

  sions—including those on this side of the Atlantic, if they

  prove salvageable—should go to Edgar Allan Poe, Esquire,

  residing at present in my native city, as a slight token of my

  esteem. I have already instructed my banker, in a separate

  communication, that the money I have left on deposit with

  him likewise should go to Mr. Poe. I am happy in the

  thought that I may be of some use to him in the further-

  ance of his career. Even at this moment I can recall how his

  large, luminous eyes flashed as he talked to me about his

  approaching marriage and the prospects which he had both

  as a writer and editor, for he had in mind a periodical of

  his own. He was planning a trip north, to put his affairs

  in order, with a stopover, if I recall correctly, in Baltimore.

  "I had once or twice submitted a few trifles to him—in

  his capacity as editor—which he professed to admire; but

  in spite of such encouragement it was soon clear to me, at

  least, that my true bent did not lie in the direction of author-

  ship. His interest in my effusions—which were, I know,

  greatly influenced by his own wonderful style—sprang

  from their bizarre settings. So it is for his perusal that I

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  14

  set down my last story, conscious it is of a kind he himse'

  excelled in. Little did I dream that I would ever find myse’

  an actor in one of them; but such is the case. As I do nc

  know how much time is vouchsafed me—for time is rur

  ning out—l will perforce be brief.

  “I have been all my life a restless wanderer, forever i

  quest of the antiquities which were my passion as we

  as my livelihood and, I dare say, I was a good enough of

  server and reporter. But that was all. I ceased to write fc

  publication, and our acquaintance came to an end. I wer

  abroad, then returned to Richmond; and it was there that

  saw him again, in the autumn of this year. He was now er

  gaged, to a widow whom he had known in his youth as

  learned from him, and who happened to be related to som

  distant cousins of mine. How he found time from his round

  of social calls, in her company, to give me the benefit c

  his advice concerning my next Continental tour, I cannc

  say. I learned, however, for the first time, that he had sper

  some years in Europe himself, in many out-of-the-way place

  as well as its famous capitals; and, indeed, I might hav

  known, even before he told me this, that his foreign tale

  were assuredly the work of an observer on the spot.

  “Thus, it is due to him that I am here; although, e

  course, I hold him entirely blameless for the dénouemen

  For it was from him that I heard about this city of ui

  touched treasures, to which he directed my steps. I was a

  ears; and, so great was my excitement, generated by h:

  inimitable descriptions, that I hurried here at once. I quickl

  found an apartment, much of it bare, which I deemed forti

  nate; for after a first survey I foresaw that I would need a

  the room possible for acquisitions. W hat I—and he—coul

  not foresee was how my sojourn here would end.

  “I had spent the afternoon, as usual, in the shops (

  dealers, and had come, as night was falling, to the foot (

  that narrow and crooked street upon whose summit Ú

  medieval cathedral, long unused and partly in ruins, ove

  1 4 2

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  looked the quarter. I had seen much to covet. One purchase

  I had made—a Spanish dagger whose scabbard was orna-

  mented with jewels and whose blade flashed brighter than

  any stone. In my mind I saw it resting, amid its own glitters,

  on a cabinet which is a little carved masterpiece—smooth,

  glowing, and monumentally solid—which stands beside me

  as I write and in which I plan to deposit this record.

  “Despite this anticipated pleasure, the proper display of

  my purchase, which is the true reward of all acquisitions,

  I was still reluctant to return to my lodgings; and thus it

  was that without deliberation, I began the steep ascent,

  pausing from time to time to regard the massive pile above

  me—the nimble, obscene gargoyles leering with round evil

  eyes of stone, the rectangular shadows on the slopes of roof,

  the broken buttresses beneath. I arrived at the entrance.

  A momentary feeling of caution —or was it presentiment P—

  made me hesitate. It passed. But it was with an ever in-

  creasing sense of my aloneness that I pushed back a

  sepultural door, and found myself, when my eyes had be-

  come accustomed to the gloom, within a vast hollow op-

  pressive with emptiness.

  “I looked up. The rose-red glow faded from the splinters

  of stained glass; darkness, sudden and deep, was massed

  outside; and, just as suddenly, I was confounded by utter

  darkness within. I felt, on the instant, an imperative need

  to be out of the place. Groping my way back to the door,

  I grasped the latch—and found myself unable to open it!

  Terror seized me. But this, too, passed. I grew calm. I had

  spent many a night, in my wanderings, in stranger lodgings

  than this one—if, indeed, the ruined cathedral was to prove

  my lodging for the night; besides, I told myself, I had upon

  me a curio of inestimable value —the Spanish dagger.

  “At that moment I perceived, at the far end of the na
ve,

  a light that wavered, advancing toward me. It was a torch.

  My first feeling was one of immense relief and gratitude;

  but my second, and that which I perm itted to guide me,

  THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  143

  was one of caution. After all, I thought, I am alone, a for-

  eigner, in a deserted building, in a deserted quarter of a

  half-forgotten city crumbling into ruin. I crouched low.

  “Slowly, in the wavering torchlight, a procession loomed.

  In a swirl of shadows I saw the robes that denoted a secret

  order. And now, in the center of that robed band, I made

  out a solitary figure whose eyes, peering wildly to left and

  right, held terror and anguish—the expression of one who

  had betrayed— who was being punished! The procession

  passed me. The patter of sandals on stone ceased.

  “Surely, I thought, I must be dreaming; or is it some fan-

  tastic revel that I have read about and now am recollecting?

  But the pounding of my heart, my painful breathing, the

  rigor which had seized my limbs, all told me it was real.

  “A bell began to toll, and startled bats swooped with

  crackling wings. I looked at the band. In the fight of the

  torch I saw where the wall gaped. It was a vertical cavity—

  an upright coffin of stone! I had one last glimpse of a terri-

  fied face; and then, swiftly, efficiently, the wall was sealed!

  The band formed itself once more, and started back

  whence it had come, preceded by the torchbearer.

  “An uncontrollable urge to flee from this place of doom

  and death—to flee at once— at all costs— seized me. As the

  last robed figure shuffled past, I rose, and stepped cautiously,

  followed on tiptoe. Where the altar had been was an open-

  ing, and in that opening a flight of stairs. All descended in

  single file, and I followed. I had gone down eight or nine

  steps when I heard a dull thud overhead and felt a gust of

  air go by. Someone was behind me— someone whose hand

  had closed the trap door! I drew the dagger from its sheath

  and waited. But no one came. I then groped my way along

  a damp and narrow passage, fervently praying that it would

  lead to an exit under the stars. The naked dagger stayed in

  my hand.

  “In this manner I went along for perhaps five minutes,

  when I became aware of a freshness in the atmosphere. It

  1 4 4

  THE M AN W H0 CALLED HIMSELF POE

  was the freshness of night, of the open air! Suddenly I was

  no longer in the subterranean passageway, but in a dark

  street of steep stone stairs in the quarter near my lodgings.

  There was no sign of the robed band. The torch had

  been snuffed out like a candle. I fled home, pursued by

  terror.

  “It is now almost midnight, and I am alone—that is to say,

  I had supposed myself alone—in my apartment. I am

  writing by the light of a lamp in my favorite room, which

  is filled with the treasures I have gathered. There are five

  other rooms, most of them mere repositories for crated

  pieces. Although it is October, and the night is chilly, I feel

  oppressed to suffocation.

  “A few moments after my arrival I placed the dagger in

  its jeweled scabbard on my prized cabinet. Feeling the

  need of a cigar, I made my way to the study in which I

  keep my smoking paraphernalia, scooped up a handful of

  thin Havanas, and returned to this room.

  “I am not given to hallucinations. My death will sub-

  stantiate the assertion I am going to make. When I returned,

  the dagger was gone! The jeweled scabbard lies where I

  placed it—but it is empty of its blade!

  “I have just looked about me, but have seen nothing—

  only the smoke from my cigar drifting past the lamp to the

  curtained window.

  “The curtain is stirring.

  “Midnight, October 7, 1849.”

  Such was the ending of the extraordinary document

  which had found its way into Thornton’s collection. I

  looked up and handed it over, unable to say a word. It was

  Thornton who broke the silence.

  “Poor Poe!” he exclaimed. “Do you realize the signifi-

  cance of the date?” He was holding out the last sheet of

  Desforth’s manuscript. I must have looked blank, for he

  went on: “Why, October 7, 1849—that was the day Poe

  died.”

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  145

  Of course I knew the date; but I let Thornton rattle on.

  'I n Baltimore,״ he emphasized. "After being found drunk

  and insensible—and broke—in the street. He had made

  only a few hundred dollars from all his writing, and died

  penniless at the age of forty.״

  "What if he had not gone to Baltimore?״ I could not help

  asking.

  "Ah!״ Thornton exclaimed, struck with the thought. "He

  would have married Mrs. Shelton, and written a great deal

  more, and died rich. Desforth had plenty of money to leave.

  It went, partly, to those distant cousins of his, and partly

  to Mrs. Shelton.״

  "What about Desforth?״ I inquired eagerly. "And how

  did you get hold of his manuscript?״

  Thornton shrugged.

  "A dealer in Richmond wrote me about it,״ he said. "You

  see, Mrs. Shelton and the others died before the things from

  Europe came. So, all this time—about a hundred years—

  Roger Desforth’s possessions reposed in a warehouse. They

  were finally auctioned off—all but that piece, in which

  the manuscript was found.״

  He was pointing to a magnificent cabinet which—I real-

  ized with a start—I had not seen there before. As I gazed at

  it in fascination not unmixed with a feeling of premonitory

  horror, I heard him say: "That reminds me—there is still

  another memento.״ He opened a drawer in the cabinet and

  held up for my inspection a little dagger in a jeweled

  scabbard.

  "After all,” he remarked, "Desforth had paid for it; so it,

  too, was shipped across—after the police took it from his

  back.”

  THE DARK BROTHERHOOD

  O f all th e m odern writers o f th e strange and th e terrible, n o n e seem

  m ore akin in their w ritin g and in certain a sp ects o f their lives to

  E d g a r A llan P oe than d oes th e late H ow ard P hillips L ovecraft. P o e

  w as L o v ecra ft’s first lo v e, and certain o f his early tales sh am elessly

  e v id e n c e im itation, n one m ore o b v io u sly than “T h e O utsid er,” a title

  n o w alm ost sym b olic o f th e life o f its author.

  T o P oe w as p aid th e L ovecraftian com p lim en t: “P en etratin g to

  ev ery festerin g horror in th e g a ily p a in ted m ock ery ca lled ex isten ce,

  and in th e solem n m asq u erad e c a lle d h u m an th o u g h t and fe e lin g ,

  th at vision had p o w er to project itse lf in b lack ly m a g ica l crystallisa-

  tions and transm utations: till there b lo o m ed in th e sterile A m erica o f

  the thirties and th e forties such a m oon -n ou rish ed garden o f gorgeous

  p oi
son fu n g i as n ot e v e n th e n eth er slopes o f Saturn m igh t b o a st.”

  “T h e D ark B rotherhood” is actu ally w ritten b y A u g u st W . D er-

  leth from a fragm en t o f a story id ea w h ich H . P. L o v ecra ft o b ta in ed

  from a dream and n o ted b efore it w h isk ed a w a y from m em ory. E dgar

  A llan P o e ’s role in this story q u ite e v id e n tly d erives from D e r le th ’s

  p o em “P rovid en ce: T w o G en tlem en M e e t at M id n ig h t,” in w h ich the

  sh ade o f P o e is conjured from an old P rovid en ce graveyard w h ere

  o n ce P o e w alk ed . T h e p o em is in clu d ed elsew h e re in this volu m e.

  “T h e D ark B rotherhood” is th e title story o f a book e d ited and

  p u b lish ed b y A u gu st W . D erleth u nd er th e im print o f Arkham H o u se,

  co m p o sed o f L o v ecra ft m arginalia, com m en tary, and b ibliograp h y.

  P rob ably no m an alive has d o n e m ore to rescu e and p reserve in hard

  covers th e b e st tales in th e supernatural tradition w ritten to d a y than

  has A u g u st W . D erleth . In 1969, A u gu st D er leth w ill h a v e sp en t

  thirty years op eratin g Arkham H o u se as a h ob b y. E x c e p t for him ,

  m an y fine stories and e v e n a fe w o u tstan d in g authors w o u ld h a v e

  b e e n d o o m ed to p u lp ob livion .

  THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE

  147

  The Dark Brotherhood

  By H . P. Lovecraft and August W. Derleth

  It is probable that the facts in regard to the mysteri-

  ous destruction by fire of an abandoned house on a knoll

  along the shore of the Seekonk in a little-habited dis-

  trict between the Washington and Red Bridges will

  never be entirely known. The police have been beset by

  the usual number of cranks, purporting to offer informa-

  tion about the matter, none more insistent than Arthur

  Phillips, the descendant of an old East Side family, long

  resident on Angell Street, a somewhat confused but ear-

  nest young man who prepared an account of certain

  events he alleges led to the fire. Though the police have

  interviewed all persons concerned and mentioned in Mr.

  Phillips’ account, no corroboration—save for a statement

  from a librarian at the Athenaeum, attesting only to the

  fact that Mr. Phillips did once meet Miss Rose Dexter