Imp: Being the Lost Notebooks of Rufus Wilmot Griswold in the Matter of the Death of Edgar Allan Poe

by Douglas Vincent Wesselmann

  There was no answer to the challenge.

  “Get the fuck off my street!” Dick turned, pulled the gun from his belt, and fired off a single shot into the air. “Get your fuzzy cheeks off my fucking street!” The boys, Little Country included, had melted away by the time his second exhortation and the report of his pistol finished their last echoes off the discolored brick buildings close to each side of the narrow alley.

  I took a deep breath. Jupiter remained poised on the balls of his feet. His hands were ham-like fists. His eyes scanned left and right.

  Dick snorted and walked over towards Poe.

  “Far enough, sir.” Poe’s voice was dark and strong.

  Billy stopped in his tracks. There was an expression on his face that indicated he was surprised that his feet had obeyed the slight figure in black.

  “Be careful, Mr. Dick. He’s no priest.” A new man stepped out of the same doorway where Mr. Dick had first come to notice. “And not sick with the flux, either.” He was wearing a dark red silk and velvet vest over a Marseilles shirt, a black frock coat with gray pantaloons, and well-shined boots.

  Big Billy Dick was six feet from Poe and giving him a most hostile going over, but he was still stopped and making no further moves to approach closer. Poe had one hand halfway up his cane, the other gripped the silver handle.

  “No, he’s no priest.” Dick gave a little laugh, but the bravado was less than I suspected he could muster. “And not with any signs of cholera, Mr. Ready.”

  “Thought not.”

  “Mr. Ready?” I hoped he would be more forthcoming than his compatriot. “Mr. Ready, we appreciate your intercession and…”

  The man laughed. “Just call me Tom. I am Tom Angle. Some call me Ready, or Ready Tom – you should call me Tom. I’m a friendly sort.”

  “Today,” Billy Dick interjected. He didn’t take his eyes off Poe.

  “Today,” Tom agreed. “I’m a friendly man.” He laughed.

  I gave him the best smile I could manage. “We are most grateful for the aid you have given us, sir.”

  Ready Tom’s smile faded. “It’s no favor to you. I know Mr. Poe there.”

  “You know Mr. Poe?” I was somewhat surprised, I must admit.

  “You’re a bit of a Baltimore boy, yourself, aren’t you, Mr. Poe?” Billy Dick interrupted.

  Poe did not answer. He remained poised with his cane.

  “That he is, Mr. Dick. Mr. Poe is no stranger here.” Tom went on as he turned back to me, “I am not an uncultured man, Mr. … ah, Mr. ...?”

  “Forgive me, Tom.” I again attempted to show the utmost courtesy. “My name is Rufus Griswold. Perhaps you’ve heard of …”

  Ready Tom paid me no more attention. “I have seen you, boy.” Tom was eying Jupiter. He rubbed his chin. “I’ve seen you, haven’t I?”

  “No, sir. Just got to town this afternoon, sir.” Jupiter tensed again, and his fingers curled back into fists.

  “No. I’ve seen you. Over at Slatter’s Howard Street pens, or was it that you were poking around the darkies at Three Tun’s Tavern last month? Were you buying slaves, boy?”

  “Never been there, suh.” The fists stayed clenched but the voice modulated. Jupiter averted his eyes from Tom’s.

  Ready Tom looked him over hard. He sucked on his teeth. “No matter. Not my business, I guess. Not my business.” Then he added ominously, “For now.”

  “For now,” laughed Billy Dick. He took half a step towards Poe.

  There was a blur as Poe pulled a long blade free of his Malacca cane’s shaft. The steel glittered despite the poor illumination in the alleyway, and it made a hissing noise in the air as it swept down on Billy’s wrist.

  “Ah! Fuck!” shouted Dick as he jerked backwards. He clutched at his hand. “Shit!” A small gun dropped from his grip and clattered when it hit the paving stones. Billy Dick spun around in pain. “Shit!”

  Ready Tom laughed. “The priest has anointed you, Billy. I told you to take care.”

  “I should rip you,” groaned Dick, holding his injured right wrist tight with his left hand. “I should fucking open that ripe forehead of yours…”

  “You should be more polite,” said Poe – the thin blade still held in front of him, its tip tracing a small circle in the air – the Malacca sheath behind his back.

  “Impressive, Mr. Poe. A true Baltimore performance.” Ready Tom walked over to Dick and, with a flourish, handed the wounded man a silk kerchief. “Bind it well, Billy.”

  “We will be on our way, or it will be the worse for you,” said Poe.

  “Now, now.” Ready Tom calmed him. “No need for threats. Threats aren’t the custom here, Mr. Poe.”

  “We shall be on our way,” repeated Poe.

  A stray dog wandered out of a shadow and sniffed at my trouser leg. I was loath to move and made no motion to discourage the cur’s attentions. The mongrel gave a snort and trotted towards Ready Tom.

  “We think poorly of men who threaten us, Mr. Poe.” The dog’s nose went to Ready Tom’s boot. Tom looked down, pulled his gun from his belt, aimed, and calmly pulled the trigger.

  The shot was deafening in the narrow space. The stray’s skull exploded and spattered across the cobbles with a sick, splashing sound. The dog’s nearly headless body took a quivering step and fell over, twitching in a puddle of oily water. A red fountain of blood pulsed three – four – five times, and with a final seep of life, was quelled.

  I did not move a single muscle. Jupiter shifted his weight, ready to fight. And Poe? Poe laughed – that curious laugh of his.

  “On your way, Mr. Poe,” said Ready Tom as he replaced the gun in his belt. “You may go. And not by reason of your impolite threat.”

  I might have vomited had there been any meal in my stomach. I remember that I began to tremble uncontrollably.

  “Go,” said Tom. “I am a man who never kills for no reason. I know you have dealt with certain people in the past, Mr. Poe. I shall not dabble in their affairs. Ready Tom knows who you know, Mr. Poe. Consider it a professional courtesy – safe-passage.”

  “Let me cut him open, Tom.” Big Billy Dick was still clutching at his wrist.

  “Bide your time Mr. Dick.” Ready Tom motioned for the big man to be quiet. “Poe, you have had other, more important protectors than myself. For the moment I won’t cross the line between us. Unless…”

  “Unless?” asked Poe.

  Ready Tom laughed. “Unless you sniff my boot again without permission, Mr. Poe.” There was a pause and Ready Tom looked down at the dead dog, lifted an eyebrow, and then gave a small bow. “Do have a nice evening.”

  He put his arm around Billy’s shoulder and tugged his partner along with him, back through the dark alley-port from which he had emerged. The door closed with a slam.

  Poe lowered his blade and smoothly re-sheathed it inside the shaft of the Malacca cane. “Well, I could use a little dinner. How about you, my friends?”

  The dead dog’s tail gave a final twitch.

  Chapter 9

  September 28, 1849 8:10 p.m. - The Invention of a Pitiable Penny-a-Liner -

  I found myself trembling as I contemplated the horrible extremity that had so suddenly been visited upon the poor mongrel – dead in the bloody gutter. That such might be my own fate seemed all too real a possibility at that moment when the door slammed and we were left alone in the alleyway. Perhaps it was this irrevocable revelation of mortality’s reach that so unsettled me. Within my own disordered mind, I found myself making every species of argument, which the extremity of my situation suggested, to abandon this vain venture and return instead to the safety of my own walls.

  “We need some food, Griswold. I’ll take you to an old haunt and treat you to a Baltimore supper.” Poe’s affect seemed so normal – so like him to make the high-handed decision. Despite the rude manner of his presumption of command, I felt that there was at least some small sense of normality in the situation. I clung to the flotsam of that thought, but
it offered little comfort.

  The cryptic letter Poe had sent me now seemed to be but another of his maddening manipulations. Mrs. Whitman’s fearful visions and my own nightmarish dream were surely merely the products of etherous fumes and spoiled truffles. Such was my delusion as the afternoon turned to evening and the night yawned open before me. Did I conceive in the slightest degree the insane deluge of horrors that, even at that very moment, was about to be loosed? Had I known – oh, had I but known.

  “I will take the morning train for Philadelphia,” I said, as I struggled to keep up as my companion took up a quick pace once again.

  “Of course you will,” replied Poe, as if he were addressing a child or an obtuse student attempting to avoid an unpleasant exercise. “Of course you will.” Poe stopped and turned to me. In the light of a hydrogen gas streetlight, I beheld his eyes – unblinking and black – the pupils entirely dilated. Poe’s voice shifted from clarinet to bass. “And will you tell our friends in New York about your last night in your wife’s arms?” He smiled.

  At that, my façade of equanimity broke. I am a carefully disciplined man, un-inclined to violence, but Poe’s cruelty knew no bounds. I rushed towards him and, with a sweep of my arm, delivered a blow to his face with the back of my hand. I struck him again – then again, and a fourth time.

  Poe merely smiled. He made no effort to defend himself. His voice became even deeper. “Was her dead forehead as cold as you told in the tale?”

  I felt such a murderous rage. I brought back my hand, now in a fist, and as I made to strike him full on with all my strength, a mightier black hand stayed my blow.

  “No more,” said Jupiter. “No more.”

  I jerked my arm out of the black man’s grip and struck him on the cheek with all my force. “Do not touch me, boy! Do not dare touch me!” I was in the grip of a fury, and I made to strike him again for his insolence.

  With a dismissive swat, Jupiter struck me. Or, at least, that is my surmise. I remember little of the exact nature of what happened at that moment, save that later I discovered red brick dust on the back of my coat as if I had been flung into a wall. Indeed, there was more evidence of such an impact in the form of a large, painful knot on the back of my head. But as I say, it is deduction alone that allows me to surmise that Jupiter delivered a blow that resulted in those observed effects.

  When I came to my senses, I was seated – or perhaps slumped is a more accurate description – on a crude bench in the corner of a shadowy room full of clatter and cacophonous conversations. With a shock, I realized that I was leaning up against Jupiter’s side, tucked beneath his arm like a weaning pup. He was warm and smelled of cloying cinnamon. I felt myself about to retch, and I pushed myself away from the black man with force.

  “Well, he’s awake.” Jupiter almost laughed.

  “He is awake.” Poe’s voice was soft but clear. “A conscious slumber seemed to take. And would not for the world awake. But, just. For all beauty sleeps. And lo! This ugly hatchling peeps. Where sits Griswold and his destiny?”

  Attempting to compose myself on the bench, I bumped my knees into a rustic table. I winced in pain and, in the spasm, felt the bruise on my back and the bump on my head start to throb. “God’s mercy,” I moaned.

  “Not in bloody Baltimore,” Jupiter snorted.

  A man in a filthy apron appeared and tossed down three pewter bowls on the table. Their contents splashed a steamy liquid onto the splintered surface of the planks. He placed a large bucket of steaming oysters in front of us as well. “You paying for the nigger, too? I don’t mind him eating here under the steps with you, but I’ll have my dollar now.”

  “Not to worry, good man.” Poe’s attempt at charm went unheeded. The waiter seemed unmoved. “Pay him, Griswold.”

  Aching, I retrieved my purse and removed a few coins. I tossed them at the sour-faced servant, and he caught them with more agility than a mope of his class might have been expected to possess.

  “Now bring along the beer, man,” Poe called after the already retreating man.

  “I shall be going now, Poe.” I had not forgotten his words, and though my anger had abated, my resentment still smoldered. I made to stand and was struck by a wave of dizziness. I sat down again and tried to gather myself. “I shall go back to Barnum’s and sleep. And then, sir, in the morning, I shall return to Manhattan.”

  “Eat some oysters.” Jupiter spoke as he slid one of the steaming bowls over to his place at the table.

  “It’s the finest oyster cellar in town, Griswold.” Poe smiled and grabbed at his own bowl.

  “You cannot expect…” I meant to reason with them, which of course, was misguided. At any rate, my plea was interrupted.

  “I expect you to stay and redeem yourself, Griswold. And you shall aid in my redemption as well.” Poe was not even looking at me.

  Three big cups of beer were deposited in front of us. Poe picked one up and drained near half in a single draw. “Ah, life was sweet.” Jupiter was slurping at his meal – emptied shells piling up beside his bowl.

  “My redemption?”

  Poe sucked an oyster down and tossed the shell halves over his shoulder where they clattered on the already littered floor. “Tell me your tale, Griswold.”

  “I have no idea what…”

  “That lovely little yarn of that last meeting of the star-crossed lovers. Surely you can tell us of that night.”

  “My wife?” I shuddered.

  Jupiter belched. Poe took another pull on his beer. Neither of them spoke for a time, but went back to their suppers. I was left with my halting tongue and a sour stirring in my stomach that insinuated itself up my gullet and slithered into my mouth.

  Finally, Poe spoke again. “Very well, I shall tell the tale. Have I not heard it before, myself? And what a demented story it is, that gossip that spread from mouth to mouth, never denied, about the fine Mr. Rufus Griswold.” Poe took a mouthful of broth.

  “Please, Mr. Poe,” I begged.

  “And so, the telling of… What shall we title this recounting?” Poe drained his cup. “Bring brandy!” he shouted towards the lout with the dirty apron.

  “Beer,” mumbled Jupiter.

  “As you will.” Poe stroked his ragged moustache. “Ah, yes. I think I shall call it, “The Tomb of Saranella.”

  “Please. I beg you.” My words were lost on him. There was no mercy.

  Poe told my tale.

  Chapter 10

  September 28, 1849 9:30 p.m. - The Tomb of Saranella -

  Cruelty lurks in every artist. There is such a sense of omnipotence in the man who communes with those demonic angels known to posterity as muses. The visions they offer are often purchased at a price that Doctor Faust himself would have refused. Some would say that Truth, when revealed, does no kindness. Like Joshua’s trumpets, its blast levels those walls of delusions we have built to shelter our human vanities. We are left exposed in the ruins.

  Moses was granted, on the border of the Promised Land, only a glimpse of Yahweh’s reflected glory. For man cannot survive looking directly into the face of God. But the Muse turns the artist’s head and tempts his eyes. The artist sees. Madness follows.

  “Give me a leaf, Jupiter.” Poe held out his hand in the Negro’s direction. He closed his eyes, pondering. “How shall I tell the tale?”

  “Poe, please.” I was trapped between my companions at that rough-hewn table in the oyster cellar. There was no escape.

  Sipping on his watered brandy and chewing on the coca leaf, Poe began, “There lived, in those days, a man of impeccable reputation. In a mighty city, he lived – an island city where his home was a shrine to poetry and great art. And in this holy place, the man received many petitioners. They made pilgrimage to him to present their pedestrian requests and interrogatories. And though his mind was bent to inquiries only the gods themselves might understand, he did not treat the hoi polloi with disdain. He forgave the common run of man their failings and looked down on them wi
th tolerance and forbearance. With great wisdom he dealt with their questions. ‘What is art?’ they asked him. ‘Don’t trouble yourselves,’ he said. ‘I will ponder this. Trust in me.’ And so all the world listened as the man defined for them the difference between poetry and doggerel. The great man himself declared who was poet and who was pretender.”

  Jupiter laughed between oysters. “You’re talking about him.” He pointed at me. “Funny. But why not just tell him?”

  “Where’s the art of that, my dear man?” Poe’s jaw worked at the leaf in his mouth. He took another swig of the brandy and swished it around in his mouth.

  “Poe, you needn’t…” I began.

  “All of the people who heard his pronouncements praised them as gospel. But woe betide those who voiced exception. They were cast out, and there was great weeping and gnashing of teeth among those apostates. As a result – of his wisdom, of course – all who remained spoke of him in the highest regard. They were admitted to the shrine, and they showered him in verses.” Poe waved at the waiter to bring more brandy. He continued, “Now this great man had a wife, and her name was Saranella. She had raven hair and boyish hips. She was beautiful beyond words. He himself had made her so. His power was so great that he himself had formed her into the incarnation of a goddess. He molded her and trained her and – in her own interest – he punished her when she slipped into human imperfection. Until, after time, Saranella became worthy of him.”

  “Poe, I will have no more!” I stood up and intended to force my way free.

  “Sit down and drink your drink.” Jupiter put his hand on my shoulder and forced me back onto the bench.

  I picked up my flagon and took a mouthful of the liquor. My throat burned. Poe’s words burned deeper.

  “Where was I?” Poe took another leaf from Jupiter, put it into his mouth. and continued. “She was the only one who was allowed to touch him. For no other was deserving of the honor. And Saranella had been taught to let him touch her. And he did. He touched Saranella in ways that were forbidden to lesser beings. He did things to her that cannot be described here for fear that gentle ears will hear and be soiled by the revelations.”