by Louis Bayard
I heard Patsy’s voice, slurry with sleep.
“Are you going to tell me, Gus?”
“Tell you what?”
“About your little investigation. Are you going to tell me, or will I have to . . . ?”
Catching me off guard, she swung a leg over me. Gave me just the softest pulse and waited for me to pulse back.
“Maybe I forgot to mention,” I said. “I’m an old man.”
“Not so old,” she said.
Which was the very thing Poe had said to me, I remembered. Not so old.
“So what have you found out, Gus?”
She fell back on her side, gave herself a nice scratch on the belly.
Strictly speaking, I wasn’t to tell her anything. Total discretion, that had been my vow to Thayer and Hitchcock. But having already broken one vow—abstinence—made it much easier for me to break another. Without any more encouragement, then, I started talking about the markings by the icehouse and the visit to Professor Pawpaw and Poe’s encounters with the mysterious Cadet Marquis.
“Artemus,” she murmured.
“You know him?”
“Oh, certainly. Glorious look to him. He’d almost have to die young, wouldn’t he? You wouldn’t want him to age even a fraction.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t—”
She looked at me sharply. “You’re about to embarrass yourself, aren’t you, Gus?”
“No.”
“Good.” She nodded firmly. “Can’t say I would’ve picked him for the violent sort. Always very cool.”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe he’s not our man, there’s just—there’s a quality to him. To his whole family.”
“Explain yourself.”
“I came across his mother and father yesterday in the midst of a very private talk, and they acted—oh, it sounds childish, they acted like people who were guilty of something.”
“All families are guilty,” said Patsy. “Of something.”
And in that moment, I thought of my father. To be specific, I thought of the birch he used to take to my hide at regular intervals. Never more than five strokes at a time—never a need for more. The sound was all it took: the screaming whistle, always more shocking than the blow. To this day, the memory of it can set me sweating.
“You’re right,” I admitted. “But some families are guiltier than others.”
I did manage some rest that night. And the next evening, back at Mr. Cozzens’ hotel, I fell asleep the moment my head touched the pillow. Only to be awoken again at ten minutes before midnight by a soft rap on my door.
“Come in, Mr. Poe,” I called.
There was no one else it could be. He opened the door with great care and stood there, framed in the blackness, loath to take even a step into the room.
“Here,” he said, setting another sheaf of foolscap on the floor. “My latest installment.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I look forward to reading it.”
He might have nodded, there was no way of telling, for he carried no candle, and my lantern was out.
“Mr. Poe, I hope you’re not . . . I’m a bit worried, you see, that your studies are being neglected.”
“No,” he said. “They’re just beginning.”
A long pause.
“And how are you sleeping?” he asked me finally.
“Better, thank you.”
“Ah, you’re a lucky man, then. I can’t seem to sleep at all.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
Another pause, even longer than the one before.
“Good night, then, Mr. Landor.”
“Good night.”
Even in the dark, I recognized the symptoms. Love. Love had carved out the heart of Cadet Fourth Classman Edgar A. Poe.
Report of Edgar A. Poe to Augustus Landor
November 14th
It may hardly be conceived, Mr. Landor, with what fervor I anticipated my Sunday-afternoon tea with the Marquis household. My last encounter with Artemus had left me more than ever persuaded that seeing him embosomed in the comforts of hearth and home would go further toward determining his guilt or innocence than any other trial. And should he fail to incriminate himself in his boyhood domicile, I had every hope of snatching clues from those near relations whose unwitting utterances might bear more fruit than they themselves knew.
The family residence is situated among the stone houses that line the western rim of the Plain—“Professors’ Row,” so runs the bucolic sobriquet. There is nothing to distinguish the Marquis home from its neighbors— nothing, I should say, but the sampler on the front door which bears the inscription “Welcome Sons of Columbia.” I was admitted not, as I should have expected, by the housemaid but by Dr. Marquis himself. Whether or not he knew of the uses I had lately made of his name, I cannot say, but any qualms I might have experienced at the sight of his rubicund complexion were at once allayed by the air of abiding concern with which he inquired about my vertigo. Upon being apprised that I had made a full and complete recovery, he smiled in the most indulgent manner and expostulated, “Ah! Do you see, Mr. Poe, what a little knocking about will do?”
The excellent Mrs. Marquis was previously unknown to me, though I have heard sundry aspersions cast against her character, to the effect that she is of a highly unsettled and high-strung disposition. Against this judgment I must interpose my own observations, which found in her nothing that was neurotic and much that was enchanting. Upon making my acquaintance, she was, from the start, wreathed in smiles. It was a source of amazement to me that a plebe could prompt such a dentate effluence, and I was all the more amazed to learn from her that Artemus had spoken of me in terms reserved only for those of Highest Genius.
Two others of Artemus’ class were also present for this occasion. One of these was George Washington Upton, the distinguished cadet captain from Virginia. The other—and how my heart sank at the sight!—was the belligerent Ballinger. Recalling, however, my duties to God and country, I resolved to put out of mind his shabby behavior and craven assault, and greeted him with nothing but fellow feeling. Soon a wonder came to light! This Ballinger had either undergone a marked change of heart or, more likely, had been instructed to show me a more fitting deference. I will say only that his conversation was easy and courteous and in keeping with a gentleman’s upbringing.
The dismal fare purveyed by Mr. Cozzens in the cadet mess had left me in a state of high anticipation regarding the Marquis victuals. In this respect, I was not to be disappointed. The hoe cakes and waffle cakes were of the first order, and the pears, I was delighted to ascertain, were liberally spiked with brandy. Dr. Marquis proved himself to be the most congenial of Hosts and derived a particular enjoyment from showing us his bust of Galen, as well as some of the more curious and intriguing monographs which bear his authorial imprint. Miss Marquis—Miss Lea Marquis, that is, Artemus’ sister—performed on the pianoforte with a becoming fluency and sang a selection of those sentimental ditties which have laid waste to our modern culture—sang them, nevertheless, to charming effect. (It must be admitted that her voice, a natural contralto, was stretched rather too high by the prevailing keys. Her performance of “From Greenland’s Icy Mountains,” for instance, would have been the more exquisite for being transposed down a fourth or even a fifth.) Artemus had demanded that I sit beside him during his sister’s recital, and at punctual intervals, he darted inquiring looks in my direction to assure himself of my admiration. Indeed, that admiration was mitigated only by the necessity of hearkening to his ongoing commentary: “Wonderful, isn’t she? . . . Natural musician, you know. Playing since she was three. . . . Oh, that was a pretty run, wasn’t it?”
Eyes and ears far less attentive than mine might have perceived all there was to know about the nature of a young man’s attachment to his older sister. And by certain signs he was given during the recital’s interludes, by certain smiles that were vouchsafed for his eyes alone, it became apparent that his affection was wholly reciprocated
, and that there indeed existed between them a sympathy—a sibling rapport—such as I have never been blessed to know (raised as I was in a household separate entire from those in which my brother and sister were reared).
You, Mr. Landor, have doubtless experienced sufficient of these afternoon entertainments to know that when one performer has done, another is more often than not called up to plug the breach. So it was that upon the conclusion of Miss Marquis’ performance and at the vociferous urging of her mother and brother, I was exhorted to favor the assembled guests with a sample of my own humble verse. I confess that I had half expected such an eventuality and had taken the liberty of preparing a brief selection, composed during last summer’s encampment and titled “ To Helen.” It is not my prerogative here to share with you the entire text (nor do I suppose it to be anything you desire, O great Poetical-Inimical!). I pause only to remark that it is my own favorite among my efforts in the lyrical line, that the Woman of the title is likened variously to Nicean barks, Greece, Rome, Naiads, etc., etc., and that upon reaching the closing lines—“Ah! Psyche, from the regions which/Are Holy Land!”—my labors were remunerated with the sound of a pervasive and well-nigh percussive sigh.
“Hang it!” cried Artemus. “Didn’t I tell you the Beast was a prodigy?”
The response of his sister was altogether more subdued, and as I already felt a deep solicitousness for her on Artemus’ account, I made a point of seeking her out in private to ascertain if by chance my little offering had offended. She at once put me at my ease with a smile and an unequivocal shake of her head.
“No, Mr. Poe, it was lovely. I’m only a little sad thinking upon poor Helen.”
“Poor Helen?” I echoed. “How poor?”
“Why, standing up in that window niche, day and night. How statuelike, didn’t you say? How tiresome, you mean. Oh, dear, now it is I who have offended you. I do apologize. I was only thinking that a healthy girl like Helen should want to come out of her window niche now and again. Walk in the woods and chat with friends and go to a ball, even, if she feels up to it.”
I answered that Helen—the Helen of my vision, that is—had no need of walking about, nor of dancing, for she had something far more precious: Immortality, as conferred upon her by Eros.
“Oh,” she said, smiling gently, “I can’t think of any woman who wishes to be immortal. A good joke might be all she desires. Or a single caress. . . .” No sooner had she spoken than a small tincture of red began to irrigate her marble cheek. Biting her lip, she hurried down a less fraught avenue of conversation and came at length to—well, to myself, Mr. Landor. She had been moderately intrigued, it seems, by my allusions to “a perfumed sea” and a “weary, way-worn wanderer” and inquired whether she might infer from these phrases that I had myself traveled and seen much. Her powers of logic, I answered, were unassailable. I then limned for her in general terms my sojourns at sea and my peregrinations across the European continent, culminating in St. Petersburg, where I became embroiled in covert difficulties of so complex a nature that I had to be extricated at the eleventh hour through the exertions of the American consul. (Ballinger, happening to pass by at this juncture, asked me if the Empress Catherine herself had served as my advocate. His tone was sardonic, and I was left to conclude that his reformation in regard to me was, at best, piecemeal.) Miss Marquis heard my narrative with an air of perfect openness and unstinting encouragement, interrupting only to query me further surrounding this or that particular detail, and through it all, she evinced such a pure and abiding interest in my paltry affairs that—well, Mr. Landor, I had forgot what a beguiling thing it is to place one’s deeds in the safekeeping of a young woman. It is, I rather think, one of the world’s least reckoned wonders.
But I see I have not yet taken pains to describe this Miss Marquis. Was it Bacon, Lord Verulam, who said, “There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion”? Miss Marquis would bear out the truth of that sagacious remark. Her mouth, to take but one part, is irregularly formed—a short upper lip, a soft, voluptuous under—and yet it composes a triumph of sweetness. Her nose has perhaps too perceptible a tendency toward the aquiline, and yet its luxurious smoothness and harmoniously curved nostrils rival the graceful medallions of the Hebrews. Her cheeks are over-ruddy, yes, but her brow is lofty and pale, and her brown tresses are glossy, luxuriant, and naturally curling.
As I am enjoined by you to practice strict and scrupulous honesty in all matters, I should add that most observers would consider her a shade past her full bloom. In addition, there is about her person a lingering tristesse, which (if I do not presume too far) bespeaks the thwarting of Hope and the blighting of Promise. And yet how this sadness becomes her, Mr. Landor! I would not trade it for a thousand of those giddy effusions which are the province of so-called marriageable girls. Indeed, I find it scarcely to be fathomed that when so many insipid females are dragged straight from their fathers’ mansions to the altar, a pearl such as this should rest unclaimed in the seabed of her girlhood home. It is true, then, what the Poet says: “Full many a flower is born to blush unseen / And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
I do not believe that my interview with Miss Marquis lasted more than ten or fifteen minutes, and yet what a gamut of themes we traversed together! I have not the time to enumerate them all (could I even recollect them), for the eloquence of her low, musical language possessed a charm that surpassed mere disputation. Being a woman, she is not so steeped in the moral, physical, and mathematical science as a man, and yet she is every bit as fluent in French as myself and has, to my astonishment, some modest proficiency in the classical tongues. Having used Artemus’ telescope to her own profit, she was able also to discourse quite knowledgeably on a star of the sixth magnitude to be found near the large star in Lyra.
More than any of her intellectual acquisitions, however, what most confounded and beguiled me was her natural intelligence, which had the effect of cutting straight to the heart of any subject, no matter its abstruse-ness. I well remember with what lucidity she heard me out on the subject of Cosmology. At her prompting, I told her that the universe was, in my opinion, an eternal “revenant” returning to fullness from Material Nihility, swelling into existence and then subsiding into nothingness, this cycle being repeated ad infinitum. So, too, the Soul: a residue of diffused godhead, undergoing its own eternal cycle of cosmic annihilation and rebirth.
To any other woman, Mr. Landor, I might have conceived my speculations to be thoroughly repugnant. In Miss Marquis, however, I could find no trace of revulsion and much to testify to amusement. The very wryness of her expression seemed to imply that I had just executed the most complicated and dangerous gymnastic maneuver—and done it for no better reason than that I had been dared.
“You must take care now, Mr. Poe. All that diffusion will end by diffusing you. And then, of course, if you wish to flirt with . . . material nihility, is it? . . . why, then, you must also flirt with spiritual nihility.”
“Oh, Private Poe never flirts!”
It is a measure of our mutual engrossment that we so utterly failed to remark Artemus’ presence until he so brusquely announced it. Then again, I consider it more than possible that Artemus had every intention of startling—stole toward us on cat’s feet for that very purpose—for having delivered himself of his jape, he pinioned Lea’s arms behind her, as though to take her captive, and with the point of his chin gently jabbed her shoulder.
“Speak then, sister. What do you think of my little protégé?”
Frowning, she prised herself from his grip. “I think,” she said, “that Mr. Poe is beyond being anyone’s protégé.” Artemus’ face fairly collapsed with dismay—he had not expected to be chided—but with her exquisite aversion to causing harm, Miss Marquis at once absolved him of his crime with a peal of laughter.
“He is certainly not to be corrupted by the likes of you,” she blurted.
This remark had the effect of leaving both of t
hem bound hand to foot in Laughter’s chain. Their hilarity was, in truth, of such an expansive and consuming nature that I gave up any suspicions of being its butt and joined my own quieter laugh to theirs. Nevertheless, I was not so disarmed by Thalia’s wiles that I failed to keep my wits about me, nor did I fail to discern that Lea ceased to laugh well in advance of her brother, and that through her eyes pierced a look—entirely missed by Artemus in his prostration to Comedy—of the deepest penetration. In that moment, I believe, she was peering into Artemus’ very soul, to see what lay brushed across its canvas. What comfort or desolation she found there, none but a metaphysician could say. I can report only that her merriment did not return in the same abundance as before.
Fate provided me with no further occasion to speak with Miss Marquis. Artemus had challenged me to a game of chess (a pastime normally forbidden by the Academy), and Miss Marquis had been inveigled by Ballinger and Upton into a private concert, which was soon drowned out by those Cadets’ strenuously unmusical vocal accompaniments. Dr. Marquis meanwhile took up his pipe and contemplated us benignly from the ramparts of his rocking chair, as Mrs. Marquis contented herself with rather desultory needlepoint—which exercise she shortly broke off in a passion, declaring herself afflicted with the most frightful Migraine and requesting leave to sequester herself in her bedchamber. When her husband made to stay her departure with the gentlest of remonstrances, she cried, “I don’t see why you should care, Daniel—I don’t see why anybody should care,” and at once fled the room.
