Edgar Allan Poe and the Jewel of Peru

by Karen Lee Street

  3

  We were seated near the back of the Walnut Street Theater, not an ideal position, but the stage was visible enough. Sissy drank in the ambience: the shimmer of golden embellishments under gaslight, the luxuriant scarlet stage curtain and the audience itself—Philadelphians in their best attire, giddy with anticipation of the night’s entertainment. My wife was not dressed in the most recent fashions or bedecked in costly jewels, but she had cunningly altered a champagne-colored silk dress from three seasons ago by adding lace to the sleeves and bodice and a flounce, embroidered with scarlet roses, to the hem. In my eyes she outshone all around us.

  When at last the show commenced, my assumptions regarding its quality were quickly proved accurate. The Vengeful Specter was written by one of the company and had recently debuted in Richmond, where it was highly popular with audiences but derided by critics. It featured the usual characters one might expect from a melodrama of its ilk: the saintly maiden, her elderly father, the dastardly villain and the hero. It began in an unsurprising manner: the villain robbed the maiden’s father of both his life savings and his reputation, but pledged to restore the fellow’s good name in exchange for the saintly maiden’s hand in marriage. The elderly father refused the odious demand and consequently was taken away to prison, where he confided his plight to a young and handsome debtor before mysteriously expiring that very first night in his cell. He was not content to remain in the grave, however, and reappeared as the vengeful specter of the title to plague the villain with his silent, accusing presence. Sadly, his ghostly efforts were ineffectual as the villain persuaded the saintly maiden to marry him by promising to clear her father’s name (an obvious hoax if ever there were one). Just as the two were about to be joined in holy matrimony, the hero (conveniently released from prison) arrived at the church under the guidance of the insipid specter and shot the would-be groom dead. Surprisingly, the wedding guests were overjoyed by the groom’s violent demise and joined in the chorus of a lively little song, performed by the saintly maiden herself, who married the hero moments later. All but the villain lived happily ever after, any traces of cold-blooded murder swept under the carpet. It was utter drivel, but my wife extinguished my whispered commentary of the play’s flaws with a ferocious frown and muttered, “Hush now.”

  When the maiden stepped out onto the stage for a curtain call, Sissy clapped along with the crowd and said to me: “The story might be ridiculous, but Mrs. Reynolds is utterly convincing, just as reviews from Richmond said.”

  It was clear from the actress’s extravagant modesty in accepting the rapturous applause that she fully cherished her own histrionic talents.

  “I cannot deny that Mrs. Reynolds is a talented performer and rises far above the play itself, but it would be in her interests to find a better dramatic vehicle if she wishes to rival Mrs. Burke and Mrs. French.”

  “You are being too harsh, my dear. We might agree that justice triumphed far too conveniently, but the happy ending has had the desired effect on the audience. The playwright did his job well enough.”

  “I cannot argue with you, for the chatter shows me that you are correct,” I murmured. “Alas, we are the only ones here able to distinguish Art from mere entertainment.”

  “Do not be so certain of that,” Sissy countered. “A night of undemanding entertainment is a very fine remedy for a long, cold winter spent locked up indoors. I cannot be the only one who was in need of a light divertissement.”

  When the applause finally died down, we stood and followed the crowd from the theater into a foyer, where admirers were clustered, waiting for the actress to bestow her presence upon them. I made my way toward the theater door, but Sissy clutched at my arm.

  “I would like to congratulate Mrs. Reynolds,” she said.

  “Truly?”

  “Her talents gave me an enjoyable evening. Consider how your mother must have appreciated praise from her audiences.”

  Sissy did not wait for my response and joined the mob of disciples. I reluctantly followed, swayed by my wife’s words rather than any wish to meet the Fair Maiden. As Virginia well knew, it was a pleasure for me when I attended the theater to imagine my own mother on the stage, where she had spent most of her short life, from her debut at only nine years old until her untimely death at twenty-four, when I was but an infant.

  “Mrs. Reynolds, your performance was magnificent.” A booming voice drew my attention to the throng of admirers, now dominated by a tall man holding a basket of red roses so large it was ostentatious rather than elegant, not unlike his appearance. He had a quantity of tawny hair, and his clothing was dandified, cut with too much flair and set off with a deep-purple silk waistcoat embroidered in a fashion more suitable for a Chinese emperor’s robes. “We Friends of the theater lobbied heavily to bring you to Philadelphia and the show did not disappoint.” The man bestowed the floral basket on the actress, who was quite obscured by it.

  “Thank you, sir.” Mrs. Reynold’s voice cut through the babble of the crowd. “Mrs. Laird, would you put these in my room,” she directed. The flowers were whisked away and a figure dressed entirely in bright green was revealed.

  “You were wonderful, Mrs. Reynolds,” an admirer exclaimed.

  “Extraordinary,” others chorused.

  “How kind. Pleasing the audience makes it all worthwhile,” the actress said with great sincerity, as she deftly turned her back on the man who had presented the flowers. His haughty, thin-lipped smile shifted to an offended scowl as the lady directed her full attention to the platitudes that rained down upon her. He stood there awkwardly for a few moments, then strode off, his ornate silver walking stick tapping out his anger on the floor. There seemed to be a story hidden in the awkward exchange I had witnessed; I wondered what it was.

  “Congratulations, Mrs. Reynolds.” It was my wife’s clear, soft voice. I moved forward through the thinning crowd to join her and to see better the object of her praise. What immediately struck me was that the thick white theater paint covering Mrs. Reynolds’s face made it a ghoulish mask at close quarters; but I was startled from my idle scrutiny when I noticed that the actress’s kohl-lined violet-colored eyes were fixed upon me.

  “Thank you. How kind, Mrs. Poe,” the lady said to my wife, her eyes never leaving my face. Sissy was startled by her words, but did her best to hide it. “And how are you, Mr. Poe? It has been a long while since we last met.” Mrs. Reynolds offered the ghost of a mocking curtsey and in that instant I understood at last who she really was.

  “Mrs. Fontaine?” I stammered. “I am sorry that—”

  “I am afraid you are mistaken,” the lady said haughtily. “It is Mrs. Reynolds. Much has altered since we met in London.”

  “Yes, I see,” I responded, while I did not see at all. “My wife and I greatly admired your performance,” I added, hoping to steer the conversation away from London and the nefarious things that had occurred there under the direction of the lady’s paramour.

  “Thank you. The play was written by my husband, George Reynolds. Did you enjoy it?” The note of challenge in her voice tempted me to discard tact for honesty, but my wife intervened.

  “The play enraptured your audience, of course. I have rarely heard such lengthy applause,” she said with an earnest and pleasing smile.

  The lady I knew as Mrs. Fontaine, the inamorata of my greatest enemy, George Rhynwick Williams, turned to look at Sissy, as if seeing her for the very first time. “That is not quite what I asked, Mrs. Poe, but thank you for the admirably delicate answer. My husband has a certain skill—quite recently discovered in this fine new world—for penning melodramas that tug the heartstrings, and our collaborations have been highly successful. The critics have not always been so kind, but they are not the ones who pay for our suppers.” She smiled, and the effect upon the paint that coated her face was startling, the smooth surface erupting into an array of crevasses that added twenty years to her age. The lady then staggered slightly and appeared to become faint; I
hurriedly gripped her elbow to steady her. “I really must sit down for a moment,” she murmured.

  “Of course,” my wife said. “You must be exceedingly weary, and we are making you more so.”

  Mrs. Reynolds shook her head as if to clear it, then returned her gaze to mine. “Please join me in my dressing room—both of you. Some tea will set me right, and there are a few things that must be said.” She did not wait for my response but merely retreated back into the room from which she had emerged, and I followed after my eager wife, not without some trepidation.

  The small dressing room had been cleverly transformed into a place of refuge specific to “Mrs. Reynolds, Thespian and Undisputed Queen of the Theater Boards”, as one theater bill affixed to the wall put it. Other notices had illustrations of the lady in dramatic poses and elaborate costumes. A mirror was hung on the wall under a gas lamp and above a table upon which stood a very large chest filled with the concoctions that comprise an actress’s toilette. Mrs. Reynolds took a seat in front of the mirror, and I jumped as a small, rotund lady of middling years emerged from the shadows.

  “Are you ready for me now, my dear?” the lady asked.

  “Give us a moment, Mrs. Laird.”

  “Your engagement is in one hour, and we must allow thirty minutes to repaint,” the woman argued. “Let me remove the paint and arrange your hair while you speak to your admirers.”

  “Very well,” Mrs. Reynolds said with irritation. “Do what you must.”

  Mrs. Laird nodded and stationed herself by the table. She tipped various potions onto soft sponges and began the apparently laborious process of removing the white cream from the actress’s face.

  “Forgive the inelegance, but I wish to unburden myself while you are before me, Mr. Poe.”

  My wife gave me a sideward glance, but said nothing.

  “And do sit. There are two chairs just there—bring them closer.”

  I did as the lady bid, and we positioned ourselves so she was able to peer at our reflections in the mirror.

  “I shall come straight to the point as it is unlikely we’ll meet again without my husband present, and I will not repeat what I will tell you in front of him.”

  If Mrs. Laird had any interest in what was to be revealed, she did not show it, but kept rubbing steadily at her mistress’s face, removing the thick white mask.

  “Please, I am more than interested to hear what you have to say,” I offered.

  “I have told my husband it is time to lay the past to rest. The bitterness was consuming him and, through that, eroding our bond. We now have the life we wished for and my feeling is that the business between your families is finished.”

  Certainly I had every desire for that to be the case, but I did not believe her husband felt the same. Was the lady not cognizant of the hideous package he had left on my doorstep?

  “You are aware of the injustices committed,” she said, “and surely you cannot fault his actions—our actions—for they are negligible when compared to what George and his father were forced to endure.”

  She spoke those astonishing words as if they were an inarguable truth, and such was my shock that I was rendered mute. Sissy was equally quiet and carefully concealed her bewilderment.

  “If this war between you continues, all that we hold dear will be destroyed,” the actress declared, and for once I had little doubt that her words were true.

  Mrs. Laird removed the last of the face paint, and I saw Mrs. Reynolds’s unembellished face with a sense of horror I did my best to hide. Her unadorned skin was the color of rancid butter and had the texture of a child’s worn-out leather boot. When Mrs. Laird removed her mistress’s luxuriant wig to reveal a recessed hairline and gray locks that were considerably thinned, my shock was palpable, and must have been visible, judging by the jab I felt in my side from Sissy’s elbow.

  Mrs. Reynolds flinched when she saw her own reflection. “These past three years have not been as kind to my looks as they have to my career, Mr. Poe. I do my best to conceal that fact from my admirers and trust you will aid me in my efforts.”

  “Of course.” I could not think of another thing to say.

  “Hold still, my darling,” Mrs. Laird said as she began to smooth fresh white paint over her mistress’s face, throat and décolletage. I watched, fascinated, as the lotion settled over her features like a layer of white enamel, obscuring much of the ravaged palette beneath it.

  “Then let us pledge that while we are both on this earth, our husbands will not further shame us with enmity and the desire for revenge.” Mrs. Reynolds’s violet eyes were fixed on Sissy.

  “Any quarrels between your husband and mine are forgotten, I assure you, Mrs. Reynolds. Fate has brought us together today to make that clear.” My wife’s expression was perfectly composed as if she understood all that the lady was saying, which truly was not possible. “I give you my word.” Sissy took the hand of my enemy’s wife into her own. “And I wish you better health.”

  “And I, you,” Mrs. Reynolds said in return.

  The two women exchanged an inscrutable look that seemed to penetrate each other’s soul, then my wife squeezed the actress’s hand before standing up and making her way from the little dressing room, her face heavy with compassion. As Mrs. Laird began the delicate task of drawing blue veins onto Mrs. Reynolds’s snow-white skin, I wrenched my gaze away from her macabre artistry and murmured “Farewell”, then hurried after my wife.

  4

  We debated the merits of the play during our journey home, but did not speak of the actress herself. When we were in the parlor, cups of mulled cider in hand to banish the night’s chill, Sissy fixed her eyes upon me and waited. I had thought hard about what I might say during the coach ride and decided I would not sully the truth, but equally I would not reveal the whole of it.

  “I met Mrs. Reynolds and her husband in London, where they went by the names Mrs. Rowena Fontaine and Mr. George Williams. I believe that she was married to another at the time, but she had an understanding with Williams.”

  Sissy pursed her lips as she contemplated this. “You mean that they were lovers and were deceiving her husband?”

  “Yes,” I agreed, happy to cast a tarnished patina on them. “She wore a brooch that was a painted replica of his eye and he wore one that was a facsimile of hers to declare their alliance. I do not know why they have changed their names. Perhaps Mr. Fontaine is still alive, and they absconded to these shores or felt the shadow of divorce would interfere with their chance of success in the theater.”

  Sissy nodded at this. “But it’s quite the coincidence that Mrs. Fontaine arrived in Philadelphia just after you returned home from London.” She took a sip of her drink, eyes never leaving mine. “And the portrait of her that Mr. Street exhibited at the Artists’ Fund Hall—how odd for her or her paramour to commission such a work when so recently in the city.”

  It was over three years since we had seen the portrait of Mrs. Fontaine at that exhibition, and I’d hoped Sissy had forgotten about it, for I did not wish to worry her with the truth of Mrs. Fontaine and George Williams—that they had done their best to murder me in London.

  “It does seem odd, dearest, but do remember that Mr. Street claims to have a nose for the talent of others and declared it an honor to paint my portrait as he knew my artistry would stand the test of time. I would wager his nose sniffed out the lady’s vanity, as well as her fragrant talent, when she first arrived in this city and offered to capture her likeness for a nominal fee.”

  Sissy smiled as she gazed up at the portrait of me she had hung upon the parlor wall. In protest, I had positioned my chair under the thing so I would not need to look at it. I had steadfastly refused Robert Street’s entreaties to let him paint me for posterity (and a fee), but then he offered to do the job gratis and I could not refuse my wife when she asked for the portrait as a birthday gift. It was a competent work, but there was something in the expression I did not much care for, and the notion to depict
a pen clutched in my fingers, hovering over a sheet of paper, seemed far too obvious.

  “Well, I remember his striking portrait very well,” Sissy declared, turning back to me. “Indeed, I believe that image of Mrs. Reynolds was reproduced for The Vengeful Specter playbills.”

  “The lady must take bittersweet pleasure in that painting now, for it captured her beauty before it was so mightily diminished. I believe the paint she wears must contain some noxious element. Arsenic, perhaps. And that green costume is probably colored with arsenic dye. Truly vanity is the vengeful specter that haunts the lady’s decline.”

  “It is very sad,” my wife said. “I believe she knows her health is severely compromised and wishes to banish all vengeful specters as a way to make peace within herself.”

  “You are both astute and kind.”

  “But I am none the wiser as to why there is enmity between you and Mrs. Reynolds’s husband.” Sissy’s gaze was a challenge; I would not be able to dance away from her question any longer.

  “George Williams thinks my grandparents were responsible for his father’s confinement at Newgate prison for six years and believes that, as their descendent, I too am guilty for their perceived crimes.”

  “‘The son shall not suffer for the iniquity of the father, nor the father suffer for the iniquity of the son. The righteousness of the righteous shall be upon himself, and the wickedness of the wicked shall be upon himself,’” Sissy recited.

  “A truer thing has rarely been said, but I fear Williams is thoroughly embittered. I can only hope that in taking on a new identity, he has also adopted a new character. Or that his wife successfully persuades him to.”

  “I believe she will,” Sissy murmured, “from my very heart. Death has whispered to her, and she does not want the time she has left to be tainted or wasted. Surely that is why her performances are so compelling. She lets her spirit fly when on the stage so she may be remembered for her best gifts not her lowest thoughts.”