ALTHOUGH EMMELINE FOSTER DID NOT write in it every day, her journal was nonetheless closely penned and densely detailed about many aspects of her life, both momentous and mundane. A full reading would have to wait for sometime when I was fully conscious. Tonight, I decided, I would just skim the pages, pausing wherever her story particularly caught my interest. Given the rumors about her perhaps fatal infatuation with Edgar Allan Poe, I was, of course, most intrigued by any mention of the famous poet. I skipped the initial entry—the one where she’d pondered Poe’s solicitation of a poem for Graham’s—and began with the second.
18 February 1842
Dear Friend,
My Mother has sent me a line by Mrs. Thrall. Her headaches are worse and she sometimes suffers strange holes in her eyesight, and the physicians can do little to help. If only Mr. Lawrence would allow me to be of some Comfort to her! My dear Father knew just what little cossettings and attentions helped her through the sicknesses, and many were the dainties from the kitchen and roses from the conservatory that eased her days. I never shall forget the afternoon he wrapped Mother in the big India shawl and carried her to her bedroom balcony so she could view an Eagle as it took Flight above the river, sunlight glinting off its majestic wings. She so loved the Birds then, and my own dear Father made certain her infirmities did not deny her them. I fear that under her new husband’s care, she sees little of our Avian Friends. Oh—I must not think further on this! “That way lies madness,” as the Bard so astutely wrote. I have not yet heard from Mr. Poe about my Poem. I am too impatient, I know. He is a busy man. If Graham’s does not want “The Bird of the Dream,” I know Mrs. Hale will print it.
This old journal had plunged me into the middle of a tragic family tale: Emmeline’s father dead, and she forbidden—or so it seemed—to see her mother. But at least, I assured myself, before pity ran away with me, at least she had her poetry. From this entry, it sounded as if she’d sent a poem to Graham’s. I wondered again whether or not Poe ever published it. Would the journal tell me? I’d brewed my evening cup of chamomile in a gold-rimmed fluted teacup I’d picked up at an antique shop in the Berkshires, and, as I sipped the tea and continued to read Foster’s prim handwriting, I felt myself tugged into the mysteries of the past.
1 March 1842
Dear Friend,
I spent a pleasant afternoon with little Mrs. Osgood in her rooms. She is a true Poet and sympathizes with my passion for the incandescent Life of Words. She asked why I write so often of Birds. I did not tell her this, but I think it is because they are so fleet—like our lives. Here in full beauteous Plume and Song, and then—gone, to where no one can truly say, in spite of all the warbling from the Pulpit! I said to Mrs. Osgood that for me the creatures of the Sky capture the nature of the Eternal as it lives in the manifestations of the natural world. And that, also, is true. We talked about our poetic aspirations and about the Literature of this new Country. She thinks, as do I, that a new day is dawning in which American writing will provide the standard for the World. What that writing will look like is still a Mystery to us—to me and to Mrs. Osgood, that is. Will it be all savages and forests like Mr. Cooper? Or will the softer influences of our Ladies such as Miss Sedgwick and Mrs. Sigourney have also a place? Will Home and Family and quiet domesticated Nature serve as national emblems equal to the bloody head and bones of life at the frontier? Perhaps not. But the life of the Spirit in the parlor and the park is what I know best, and what I needs must write. It would be immodest of me to admit that I have hopes of being someday listed among the names of our national Poets, and I would never say as much to my dear Fanny, with her so very feminine Modesty. But still, it is most pleasant to have a friend who understands the inkstained fingers and the odd preoccupations of my days!
In-ter-est-ing! At least to a scholar of women’s literature like myself. Fanny Osgood was an unjustly forgotten poet whose witty verses and poignant poems of children and lost love had won her much acclaim and many friends among the New York literati of the 1840’s. Now, here was a record that these two women poets had carried on serious conversations about the nature and future of American literature—and at the precise moment when such a national literature was first being consciously crafted.
And here, too, was yet another link to Edgar Allan Poe! Osgood had carried on a much-talked-about flirtation with Poe in the pages of the Broadway Journal, of which he was editor in 1845. But that little romance would have been somewhat after the period of this journal, wouldn’t it? Foster had died in … let’s see. I flung the heavy afghan off my knees, and headed for the study and my copy of the Oxford Companion to Women’s Writing in the United States. Hmm, they just listed the year of Foster’s death—1845—not the month and day. I pulled the afghan around my shoulders again and stared into the flames. That cranial data bank of miscellaneous knowledge that constitutes my brain went into overdrive. Then—bingo!: February first. That’s right. Emmeline Foster’s body had been found floating in the Hudson River on February first, 1845. Osgood and Poe didn’t meet until later that spring, so there would be nothing new about them in this record. Too bad. But it should tell me about the love that Emmeline was rumored to have felt for the famous, tortured, Poe. I dropped my gaze again to the brownish ink inscription on the closely written page in front of me.
15 March 1842
Dear Friend,
My Mother is gone. I have had today a stiff little note from Mr. Lawrence to that effect. She was taken by a fever of the Brain last evening at about eight o’clock, and Passed almost at once. She is now at Peace—would it be unnatural to say I am glad? Without my father to guide her, she had no evening star and Mr. Lawrence found her a burden at the last—although he did not find her Fortune so! Had my father not willed his estate as he did, with such foresight as to my Mother’s weaknesses, I fear I would this day be among the penniless women who ply their thankless trades in the manufactories and—yes—on the cruel streets of this Heartless City. To spend my days as I do in a comfortable home with little anxiety about the satisfaction of my modest daily wants is Bliss. Were I forced to scribble for my food and lodging as do so many literary Ladies in this city of literary Men, I would not write a word in which I could take any pride. I must prepare now for the trip to Tarrytown. Even Mr. Lawrence would not deny me attendance at my Mother’s final services. It would not look well to his elegant friends!
The phone rang. The unanticipated shrill in the silent house startled me, and the journal jerked out of my hand, landing upside down on the braided hearth rug. I snatched a look at my watch: 11:22 P.M. Who could be calling at this hour? Then my ever vigilant parental soul went into overdrive: Amanda! Ohmigod. She’s had an accident! I snatched up the receiver. “Yeah?” The caller was Amber Nichols. My pulse rate slowed. I glanced at my watch again. Still 11:22. What the hell did Amber want with me at this hour of the night?
“Karen,” Amber said, in her precise, high voice. “How are you?”
“Fine.” I stretched the phone cord out as far as it would go so I could retrieve Emmeline Foster’s journal from the hearth rug.
“I hope I didn’t wake you, Karen, but I wanted to ask you about the Christmas party.”
“Oh?” I smoothed out the crinkled pages where the old copybook had hit the floor. “The President’s party, you mean?” I flipped through to find my place.
“No. The English Department party on Wednesday.”
I wanted this mundane call to be over so I could get back to the personal tragedies unfolding in the pages in front of me. “That’s no big deal. Just cookies and punch in the lounge.”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh. I see. And—will you be there?”
Okay, I’d found my place: … would not look well to his elegant friends!…“Yes, I will.”
“And—does everyone come?”
“Sure. It’s kind of obligatory. But, don’t worry if you’re going away …”
“No, that’s not it!” Amber’s words speeded up, as if suddenly she
was in a hurry to get off the phone. “I’ll be there. I do hope I didn’t wake you.” But she’d hung up before I could respond, and I stood with the phone in one hand and the ancient notebook in the other. What the hell was that all about? I shook my head to clear it, then turned back to the journal.
Let’s see, where was I? Oh, yes. … would not look well to his elegant friends! Emmeline Foster’s family situation just got sadder and sadder. And there was no further mention of her mother’s funeral, simply a cross-hatched page where she had written something, then obliterated it in a bold and angry hand, as if determined that even she would never be able to read it again. In spite of the aura of anger created by the furious obliteration, the following entry was as cool and collected as usual. And it was about Poe.
April the second, 1842
Dear Friend,
After several Missives querying the fate of my little poem, Mr. Poe today replies that he must have “Mislaid my Verse,” for he can find it nowhere. Well, he shall not have another from my hand! Mr. Griswold who is just up from Philadelphia tells me that Mr. Graham’s editor is not always a Reliable man. There have been scenes of public Drunkenness in the City of Brotherly Love, and even accusations of Plagiarism! Now I do not believe everything I hear, but it is too bad American Letters should be sullied by such charges!
At this moment through my casement I see the first Robin of the year flitting through the Park. Now she has perched on the scrollwork of the gate and is rousing the Universe with her Song—or at the very least is rousing the Gramercy neighborhood! And so, Spring still comes, even with my Dear Mother gone! Why, when I am happy for her Escape from constant pain and oppression, do I feel this dead hand on my Heart each time I think of her? My Verses are my only Relief, for otherwise I share this Grief with no one.
The fire was dying down, and the embers burned with a deeper, hotter glow than had the flames. A memory of my own mother superimposed itself on the smoldering coals. She was sitting at the dented enamel kitchen table peeling apples for a pie. And then the door opened and my father came in from work—
I jerked my thoughts back from my own past; it was easier to deal with Emmeline’s. She seemed so little interested in Poe that I was intrigued. These did not seem to be the writings of a lovelorn woman. I skimmed pages for the next mention of the famous poet.
30 June 1842
Miss Lynch, in whom I have confided about Mr. Poe’s loss of my little Poem, tells me the latest disturbing news of this benighted man. Having differences with Mr. Graham as to his editing of the Magazine, Mr. Poe has abruptly resigned his position. This was two months ago, and now his poor little wife and her mother find themselves destitute. Even worse, Mr. Poe came earlier this week to New-York seeking work and in an intoxicated condition visited Mr. Langley of the Democratic Review and Mr. Hamilton of the Ladies Companion, distressing them both. Then he vanished from his friends and was found several days later wandering like one Demented in the woods near Jersey City. It is generally conceded that Mr. Poe is a Genius of American letters, but, oh, must Genius end inevitably in Madness?
The fire crackled hypnotically in the stove, and in spite of the compelling tale unfolding in front of me, my eyelids were drooping. I skipped several entries that seemed to focus largely on household details.
22 February 1843
Dear Friend,
I live too much in the Past. The Present flies before my reach as do the Redbreasts in the park. My Mother is not gone a full year, and Mr. Lawrence has married again. Rumor has it that his new young wife was enceinte before her wedding day. He has sold the river house at Tarrytown, and is at present engaged in building a house in town. A mansion, I suspect, as he has situated it in that section of Fifth Avenue near 34th Street where Mr. Stewart the Merchant has so recently located. So go the proceeds of all my Father’s endeavors. That I find myself situated so comfortably in this City has naught to do with Mr. Lawrence’s paternal care, or with the misguided laws of a Nation that puts all property in husbands’ hands. Rather it is that my Father saw beyond his own masculine advantages to the needs of a daughter whom he loved as a Person in herself—rather than as a mere Appendage to some yet unknown man.
I checked the date of the entry: 1843. Five years before New York State passed the Married Woman’s Property Act. Until 1848, in New York, a husband had legal ownership of all his wife’s money and belongings, whether they were inherited or earned. At her marriage to Mr. Lawrence, Emmeline’s mother would have lost any right to determine how her money was allocated. Emmeline had indeed been lucky that her father had made separate provisions for her: Her stepfather was beginning to look like a cad.
29 June 1843
Dear Friend,
A hot day today. I walked up Fifth Avenue to see Mr. Lawrence’s house. Truly it is an imposing Pile. How does my mother’s widower afford such Luxury? Although appearing very much the Gentleman, he comes himself from less than extravagant means, and surely my Mother’s fortune does not extend so far as this brownstone mansion would suggest. Perhaps the new Mrs. Lawrence brings wealth to the marriage? I should not mind, I know, but anger gnaws like a Rodent. My dear Mother was easy prey for such a fortune hunter as he. There! I have said it at last! But I will confide it in you alone, dear Friend, and will say it nowhere else, for I have no Recourse, and would not engage in public wrangling in any case. I am comfortable as I am, if not luxurious, and have my Writing and my friends for satisfaction. And that is—must be—enough!
Poor Emmeline. In spite of her passionate disclaimer, she seems to have been a lonely soul. I skimmed more entries. Visits, writing habits, health, household concerns: Life. Then my eye was snagged by yet another mention of Poe’s name.
12 October 1843
Dear Friend,
Mrs. Barhyte tells of meeting Mr. Poe at Saratoga this past summer. She was much flattered by his asking her advice on a new Poem he is writing. He says it will be his Masterpiece. I saw her at Miss Lynch’s, where I visit most Saturday evenings. I meet many persons of interest there, and some of note, and the converzationes are most stimulating. Mr. Greeley asked me for a poem for the Tribune, but I declined. I have decided to save my new Verses, and to present them fresh to the world in a Book compilation. There would seem to me to be more Power in that manner of publication than in printing them scattershot throughout the Magazines. And I am fortunate to be able to live without the income from the Verse—as others cannot. Dear Fanny Osgood tells an amusing story of riding down Broadway with Miss Lynch on a shopping expedition and realizing she had no Money on hand. On the spot she wrote a two-stanza Poem, took it into a Magazine office, and came out with ten dollars! She laughs at her own facility, but I know what it costs her in Artistry. I would not for the world barter my Talent for all the yards of satin ribbon ever made. I say this knowing my good Fortune—that I have never had to, and, God willing, never shall.
This journal was proving to be a historical treasure trove. Anne Lynch’s soirees were famous in New York City literary history for bringing together notables of the literary and cultural worlds. But, as fascinating as this material was, the time was now well after midnight, and my exhausted eyes were winning the battle over my scholarly willpower. I skimmed faster, looking for two keywords—Poe—and, having been totally appalled by what Foster had said so far about her stepfather—Lawrence. The next relevant entry came a few months later.
23 February 1844
Dear Friend,
Mr. Poe is in New York. I met him at Miss Lynch’s soiree, and to me he seems not to be the Reprobate of whom they speak. Rather he was circumspect in his manner and careful in his dress—and extremely courteous in the Southern way. He is not a handsome man, but Romantic in his aspect, with dark hair curling over the most prominent forehead I have ever seen, heavily shadowed eyes like sad, dark pools, an unhappy mouth and chin. I have read some of Mr. Poe’s tales in the press and, as I said to Mrs. Oakes Smith, he appears in person as Fantastic as many of the disturbed Souls of
whom he writes.
A shiver ran through me, whether at this firsthand image of the uncanny Edgar Allan Poe, or at the increasing chilliness of the room, and I wrapped the afghan more tightly around my shoulders. Was this the fateful moment in which Emmeline Foster’s doom was sealed? If I were reading fiction instead of fact, it certainly would be. But Emmeline’s cool account of the meeting did not sound anything like a record of passionate love at first sight. And the following entry seemed to confirm her lack of interest.
3 May 1844
Dear Friend,
Friends ask why I have not printed Verses recently. I smile, and they infer that the Muse comes not so readily these days, but the truth is that more and more I am determined to put together a Book of Poems that will read as an extended sequence, or perhaps as something of a Novel in Verse. It will be unique, I think, in American Letters, less than an Epic but more than a simple gathering of disparate Verses. The Poems will speak to each other in accretion, and the length of the Volume will allow me a deeper Reflection, and some play with the pleasures of language. I am so pleased in the long run that Mr. Poe did not publish “The Bird of the Dream,” for I shall base all the poems on the images and themes there initiated—the sense of unholy loss, the haunting refrain. I work every day at my escritoire by the window overlooking the Park and inscribe the finished Verses in a little leather book. I am in no haste to conclude the volume; this shall be a work for the Ages.
Little leather book? Had I seen it? The blue leather notebook that had been passe d around among my colleagues the day we’d opened the box? Free from the necessity to write for the popular market, Emmeline Foster had devoted herself to a far more ambitious project than anyone had previously known about.
Was there someone among my colleagues who wanted to make certain that no one ever did?
As I approached the end of this journal, the entries were few and far between. I read through them at top speed, not pausing at all for reflection. Then I hit the following, which stopped me cold.
The Raven and the Nightingale Page 20
