Edgar Allan Poe and the London Monster

by Karen Lee Street

  “What do you think?”

  I could not help but grimace. “Very highly decorated. Louis XVI?”

  Dupin smiled. “Indeed. The curator appreciates glitter and pomp. Or perhaps she is simply aware that most of her customers do.”

  This seemed to be the case. The sofas and ottomans were crowded with well-dressed people engaged in noisy conversation. At the room’s periphery, silent observers contemplated the music. Dupin’s interest in the gaudy salon puzzled me. He had never been a passionate connoisseur of the musical recital and his taste in interior design coincided with mine.

  “The orchestra is very accomplished and the surroundings are certainly vivid, but I would not go so far as to describe it as an astonishing display.”

  Dupin appeared momentarily bemused, then said: “Look around you, sir, look around you. Once again your emotions are getting the better of your faculties of observation. Avoid the decorations. Look at the spectators.’’

  I stifled my instinct to rebut his criticism and did his bidding. My eyes focused on the men and women who, despite the orchestra’s best endeavors to retain their attention, were in voluble discussion. I could not perceive what it was that Dupin found worthy of observation. And then I looked to the quieter spectators and observed something highly peculiar. Unlike their garrulous counterparts, they were silent and utterly still. I strode over to the nearest figure—a dark-haired woman in a bold red dress. She had a regal bearing and imperious demeanor. To my consternation, I noted that her dramatic pose had been sustained for an impossible length of time.

  “Maria Malibran, the opera singer. She was extremely popular here in London—and your New York.”

  A chill came upon me as I observed Maria Malibran’s pallid complexion. It was as if she had been kissed by death, but had returned from the grave. Her forehead was high and very pale, her hair black as a raven’s wing, her eyes strangely glassy. Her mouth was open as if in song, which tightened her lips and offered a glimpse of her teeth, which I found deeply disturbing. The veracity of her expression made it difficult for me to accept that this doppelganger had never sung a note, had never drawn breath. Indeed, I thought I could detect her scent—a hint of lilies and spice—and could feel her breath upon me as her green eyes gazed into mine.

  “Maria Malibran had the misfortune of dying in the bloom of youth. Or one might argue that her early demise was fortunate as she makes a very comely memento mori.”

  I thought of my mother, an actress known for her captivating voice, who faded from life at just twenty-three years of age. I thought of my maternal grandmother, also an actress and singer, who departed this world before I was born. And I thought of my wife with her beautiful voice and fragile constitution.

  The woman before me seemed to draw breath as if preparing for song. I waited for her voice to align with the music, to captivate me. The lulling melody of the orchestra embraced me and words sprang from the music. I heard the voice of my Morella who, when the finger of Death was upon her bosom, declared, “I am dying, yet shall I live.” I thought of the daughter who takes breath after the death of her mother and strangely takes on her countenance and character though the years. Morella! She was before me, perfectly preserved. And in her pale features I saw my mothers, both gone, my mysterious grandmother and my delicate, gentle wife. From her waxen lips I heard their voices entwined in song and my skin prickled with icy kisses.

  “Poe!” Dupin’s sharp voice brought me back to myself. I tore my eyes away from the dark-haired siren and turned to face him. By his side stood an ancient crone of four score years or more—I felt the blood seep from my face. Why had this witch, this creature of nightmares, cursed the songstress and turned her to stone? The crone’s glinting eyes held mine tight. I watched in horror as her dry lips parted.

  “Our opera singer is as feted in death as she was in life. Many people come here to see her.” Her cracked voice dropped to a confiding tone. “And on nights when the moon is full, Madame Malibran’s voice has been heard coming from these very halls, singing an aria.”

  Dupin intervened. “Allow me to introduce my friend and colleague Edgar Poe.”

  The crone lifted her palsied hand toward me. As I took it in mine, I wondered how her wizened flesh still pulsed with life, unlike the beauty next to us.

  “This is the renowned Madame Tussaud,” Dupin continued.

  I bowed my head toward her chilly hand, but could not bring myself to touch my lips to the flesh.

  “Enchanté, Madame.”

  “As you will know, she is the creator of this grand collection.”

  Dupin’s gallantry overshadowed veracity, but politeness required that I draw a thick veil over the truth. I nodded in deference to her age and her mysterious collection of creatures of which I knew nothing.

  “Of course. Madame Tussaud’s extraordinary collection is very well known, even in Philadelphia.”

  Madame puffed with pride. “I am pleased to hear that, sir. Most pleased.” Her words were carefully enunciated, her accent very French. She turned her gaze to my companion. “What brings you to this city? It is rare for you to leave Paris.”

  “A mystery, Madame, a mystery.”

  “There are many mysteries in London, my dear Chevalier. And many are depicted in my salon.” Her eyes shifted to me and a shrewd smile creased her face.

  “We look forward to investigating those,” Dupin responded. “But first I must ask, for your ears are privy to much information, most particularly regarding any French citizen here in London. Have you heard anything of Monsieur Valdemar’s presence in the country?”

  Madame frowned slightly. “Ah, the elusive Monsieur Valdemar who seems able to vanish into the air itself.”

  Dupin grimaced. “Your allusion is more apt than you might have intended. I have certain information that indicates he may be in London very soon, but we had an encounter with a balloon aeronaut, which leads me to wonder if he has already arrived.”

  Madame shook her head. “I cannot say, Auguste. I am acquainted with the man only by reputation, but would certainly find a way to inform you of his whereabouts if I were aware of them.”

  “We are staying at Brown’s Genteel Inn should you hear anything at all.”

  Madame nodded. “I am, of course, terribly offended that you failed to inform me in advance of your sojourn to this city, but I cannot help but forgive you.” She smiled and continued before Dupin could protest. “There is a clandestine event in nine days’ time that you may find informative. I can tell you no more than that as I have pledged my complete discretion. If you will be in London on that date, I will ensure that you gain access.”

  Dupin’s face lit up with what might only be described as vengeful hope. “Thank you, Madame. I will indeed be here in London and of course would never compromise you.” He bowed slightly and pressed her hand to his lips.

  Madame smiled at his gallantry. “Monsieur Poe has waited so patiently while we have been exceedingly impolite. You must let me guide you around my exhibition. Few of my visitors have your capacity to truly understand the importance of my work.”

  “You flatter me—and us—with your kind offer,” Dupin said. “It is time to introduce Mr. Poe to the true horrors of the Terror and only your instruction will do the tale justice.”

  Madame looked moved by Dupin’s cryptic declaration. “I would be honored to bear witness. Let us go, good sirs, and mingle with the mighty.”

  “Indeed, Madame. With the mighty.” Dupin offered his arm. They made their way toward a doorway to another chamber, her small, crooked frame in stark contrast to his tall, erect one. I followed them across the threshold into a world of pomp and pageantry, of kings and queens. Henry VIII, Mary Queen of Scots, Elizabeth I, Charles I, William IV, George IV and Victoria stood before me. The tableaux were impressive in their opulence. And there stood Cromwell, the cuckoo within the nest.

  “The Golden Chamber,” Madame said proudly. “A history of monarchy. I have worked to capture with p
recision the details of each monarch’s attire. Physical details can give much insight into a subject’s character. Look here. These are the original coronation robes of King George IV.” She lowered her voice. “Eighteen thousand pounds to make, and I purchased them for three hundred pounds.”

  “Madame has an eye for detail and a head for business,” Dupin observed.

  “You would do well to learn from my example, Chevalier. As you will have noticed, I am not one to follow the vagaries of fashion. My clothing is practical, well-made and will see me to the grave.” She indicated her plain brown skirt, white high-necked blouse, woolen wrap and bonnet. “But you will forgive me for observing that while you are meticulously groomed, your clothing is of a style favored in Paris more than a decade ago. This of course causes me to make assumptions.”

  I flushed to wonder what conclusions the gimlet-eyed creature had drawn based on my own lack of dandified attire.

  Surprisingly, Dupin seemed to take no offense. “Your eyes miss nothing. Suffice to say that your observations are correct, but I fear it is too late for me to acquire your business acumen and so my wardrobe must suffer and, no doubt, see me to the grave also.”

  Madame nodded benignly. “I am most fortunate. These figures are like my children to me—precious. You may not prosper from your Art as I have, but that does not tarnish the value of your skills. Remember that, dear Auguste. Now come, follow me. You and Mr. Poe will find the Adjoining Room of particular interest, I am certain.”

  Madame moved with more speed than I had assumed her capable of. I followed Dupin like his shadow, and fear followed me. Each tableau in the next chamber was constructed by the hand of Death, whether through the foul deed of murder, the justice of execution, or the two in terrifying combination.

  “The public calls this Bluebeard’s Chamber,” Madame said. She indicated the first tableau, which resembled the interior of a barn and featured a young woman who had been fatally shot by a young man. “The murder of Maria Martin by William Corder. A terrible story. Corder promised to marry Mademoiselle Martin after he got her with child, but she disappeared. Her stepmother repeatedly dreamed that the girl had been shot and buried under the barn. The premonitions were accurate. Corder was arrested, half-insane with guilt, as he believed he could hear the beating of his victim’s heart beneath the floorboards.”

  The grisly story made my own heart pound uncontrollably. Madame looked to me for comment. “The agony of guilt can drive a man to the edge of madness and beyond,” I offered.

  Dupin nodded his head in agreement. “And lead to a confession when the dead come back to haunt their murderers.” He indicated Corder’s face, which was terrifyingly realistic in its depiction of murderous fury. “Madame had the privilege of constructing Corder’s death mask after his hanging. Imagine how much her hands have learned about human character through these reconstructions. Consider how her work might advance the science of phrenology.”

  Somehow, I could not see this as a privilege. The thought of caressing the hanged man’s features into a mask of death was repugnant to me, despite the secrets that might be unlocked with phrenology.

  Madame indicated another tableau that featured two men of clear ill-repute. “William Burke and William Hare. Very famous.”

  “They made a habit of killing impoverished men living on the streets and selling their bodies to Edinburgh Hospital,” Dupin added. He indicated the craniums of the murderers before us. “Note the over-development of the fourth, fifth and seventh brain sub-organs. It seems certain that a combative character mixed with a destructive nature might tend toward violent murder. And if the subject is also inclined toward covetousness, we may deduce through simple ratiocination that the motive for murder is money.”

  “We might also venture that the twenty-fourth and thirty-first sub-organs are under-developed or faulty, resulting in a lack of compassion for their fellow man and little reverence for God,” I suggested.

  A bitter look came over Dupin’s face. “Yes, in my experience that would seem accurate. Most astute, Poe.”

  “I know little of phrenology,” Madame said. “But your words ring with truth as surely this must reveal.” She indicated the chamber’s main display—a guillotine surrounded by severed heads. “This is a working model of the guillotine used in Paris with the actual blade and lunette. It was a terrible time,” Madame murmured. “Crowds baying for blood. Innocents forced to kneel beneath her blade.”

  The display had an unfortunate effect upon my constitution, and I found it difficult to physically contain my horror. I expected Dupin to be unaffected by the gruesome tableau, but once again he surprised me. He was focused on a basket of severed heads that were arranged—most ghoulishly—like cabbages at market. Two heads at the apex of the heap secured his clearest attention: a man of perhaps thirty-five, solemn of expression, with dark hair, an aquiline nose and a determined chin; and a woman, very attractive, with ebony curls, porcelain skin, a small well-formed mouth and clear gray eyes that shone with intelligence—or so one might think if the eerie craniums had truly been fashioned by Nature herself. Their features were frozen at the moment of death, or perhaps at the soul’s abdication, and yet fear was entirely absent on either countenance. Dupin wore an odd expression as he gazed upon these peculiar memento mori—brooding, or indeed one might almost say pensive. This was not an emotion I had ever discerned upon Dupin’s face before. Objective, dismissive, impatient, arrogant, perhaps, but never one of the weaker emotions.

  “Que Dieu apaise leurs âmes,” Madame whispered and crossed herself. “Je n’ai pas pu les sauver, et il était de mon devoir de préserver leurs corps sinon leurs vies.”

  “Ils en auraient autant de reconnaissance que je n’en ai moi-même,” Dupin murmured.

  “Si cela vous réconforte, je suis satisfaite, Chevalier.”

  Dupin nodded and presented Madame with a faint smile. “What is your opinion of the display, Poe?”

  “Most macabre,” I could not help but mutter.

  “Macabre? Perhaps. But it is history, my dear sir. This was the fate of French nobility during the Terror and almost the fate of Madame Tussaud. She was arrested on suspicion of royalist sympathies and imprisoned to await execution.”

  Madame nodded. I felt ashamed by my squeamishness when the display had such personal resonance for my companions.

  “Please, tell me more.”

  “I was admired as a waxworks artist in Paris and was invited to Versailles to give Louis XVl’s sister, Madame Elizabeth, lessons in the art of wax modeling. I lived there for a time, but returned to Paris after the storming of the Bastille. Then I was imprisoned. Thankfully, my talent saved me from execution.” Madame held up her gnarled hands. “I was commanded to make death masks of those they executed. Many of the victims were my friends.” She indicated the basket of severed heads.

  “It took much courage to deal with such a terrible situation,” I said.

  Madame Tussaud fixed her sharp eyes on mine. “It was a privilege, dear sir. A privilege to make my friends immortal.” She stared at the execution victims before her, a wistful look upon her face.

  “Madame, there is much to learn from your example. Some day, I hope, you will instruct me in the art of replicating the human form, which is far more complex than reconstructing human motive.”

  “Perhaps, dear Chevalier. If the Fates allow. But now I must leave you. Take your time and enjoy the manifestation of history. Come find me at my station before you leave.”

  “Thank you, Madame. The experience has been all the more vivid through your guardianship,” I said.

  She nodded like a queen and silence descended fell us when she left the room. Dupin’s eyes remained fixed upon the guillotine, his expression enigmatic. I had no doubt that my own face revealed my horror at the gruesome tableau. I could think of nothing to say and as the silence grew increasingly uncomfortable, Dupin indicated the door and said, “Shall we?” We made our way from the exhibition chambers to the hall
where Madame Tussaud now presided, taking money from more visitors to her macabre waxworks.

  “Gentlemen! You are leaving so soon?”

  “I am afraid so. It was an informative experience and now we must use what we have learned.” He smiled warmly at Madame, who beamed in return.

  “I am glad my menagerie has helped your investigation in some small way.” She looked to me for comment or, more accurately, for praise.

  I bowed and said, “Madame, I hope you won’t mind me saying that your collection is both disturbing and spectacular. The artistry is undeniable, but your chamber of horrors would make the bravest of hearts accelerate with fear.”

  Madame Tussaud’s face creased with a broad smile. “Chamber of horrors? Monsieur Poe, you have a gift for description. It will be the making of you, mark my words.” She turned to Dupin. “I hope to see you in nine days’ time, but if that proves impossible, please visit me again before I find my place in Heaven.”

  “Madame, Heaven will be impatient to receive you for many more years.”

  “Et lorsque le paradis m’accueillera, je raconterai à vos chers grand-parents quel homme exceptionnel vous êtes devenu.”

  “Et je leurs dirai avec quel grand art vous avez honoré leur mémoire.” Dupin leaned to kiss her wizened hand.

  For the briefest of moments, the rose of youth settled on her features, and I caught sight of the woman as she was in an early incarnation, but her rusted voice erased the illusion. “Ce fût un honneur pour moi.”

  My facility with the French language had diminished with limited use, but I grasped Madame Tussaud’s reference to Dupin’s grandparents. He rarely spoke of his forebears, and while I was, of course, aware that he descended from noble stock, only in that moment did I fathom that his grandparents had been victims of the Terror and were now immortalized in Madame Tussaud’s collection. Icy fingers gripped my chest as a vivid image of the basket of severed heads materialized before me. The solemn gentleman with noble expression, aquiline nose, dark hair, lofty forehead and the handsome, porcelain-skinned woman with delicate mouth and large gray eyes so full of clarity—combine their features and one would have the very double of Dupin. How could I have missed the ghastly truth behind the tableau? Madame Tussaud had indeed preserved the mortal images of her two dear friends, when their souls had not long been separated from their still warm bodies. I was ashamed to have missed the obvious hidden in plain sight, blinded by my emotions regarding my own family.