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

by Douglas Vincent Wesselmann

  Tonight at 8 o’clock

  Direct from Europe

  Baron Samedi

  Master of the Arcane

  “Master of the Arcane, is it?” Poe paused to read the notice.

  “You know this Baron?” I asked, for Poe had seemed to have an air of expectation about him. “You have knowledge of this Samedi?”

  “Griswold, you mustn’t ask me to spoil the show.” Poe smiled his tight-lipped smile.

  As we entered, I started down towards some empty seats in the front of the theater, but Poe grabbed at my sleeve and tugged me into the very back row. There, we took our seats and waited as the remainder of the audience filed in, and the murmur of the crowd grew into a dull cacophony.

  At last, a shrill note sounded from the orchestra pit. A piccolo trilled up the scale, becoming a painful whistle. A drum sounded. The noise of the patrons slackened and died away until all that could be heard was the Oriental scale of a flute and a plucking violin. The kettledrum sounded loudly once again, and in a flash, the incandescent footlights flared to life. Then with a flourish, the musicians began a theme that built from crescendo to crescendo until another roll of thunder from the drums triggered a sudden explosion of purple smoke, center stage.

  He appeared in a small turban and a green robe that matched his tinted spectacles. The crowd broke into applause.

  It was Fox.

  Chapter 27

  September 30, 1849 8:30 p.m. - He Pervades All by Nature of His Intentness -

  We yield ourselves to folly through the feebleness of our very will. I cannot say how I was first drawn into Fox’s illusions. Years, though few, have been long in their passing, and as I press this story home, my memory has been worn by much suffering. Or, perhaps, I cannot even now bring reason to bear on my vulnerability to his enthralling eloquence, his advanced learning, and the thrilling sights he conjured, because no reason can encompass or even long survive such a meeting with true art.

  The music of the small orchestra seemed rich enough for a major ensemble. The notes leapt from theme to variation and counterpoint to fugue in sudden swells of melody. The purple smoke, which had announced his arrival, billowed in a roiling mandala to the proscenium arch above the stage and spread across the starred mural of the auditorium’s ceiling, rolling like a tide over our heads. There was a scent of jasmine and myrrh in the air.

  Fox stood in command of the room. Light played across his sunken cheeks and ivory skin until he appeared the most handsome of men. The green of his eyes behind the spectacles and the emerald of his cape were reminiscent of some verdant grove in spring.

  “Would you see the mysteries of the living world?” he asked us, and we all voicelessly invited him to amaze us. Amaze us he did.

  I can scarce find words to describe with any real effect the wonders he performed. A forest primeval appeared, and we walked through the creatures of the garden. Castles rose, and towers inhabited the realm of clouds. A beautiful woman appeared from beneath Fox’s cape.

  She was masked, yet familiar. Wearing a gold-threaded gown, she danced around him, and a memory stirred, then dissolved in apprehension as Fox drew out a long rapier and pressed it to her chest.

  I stood up, as did others in the audience. A man shouted, “No!”

  “But, yes,” said Fox, and he smiled.

  The woman reached over the blade of the sword and grasped Fox’s hand on the hilt. She turned her shaded face to us and shouted, “Now!” Before her words echoed off of the walls, she pulled herself towards the green-caped conjuror.

  “No!” I found myself shout in unison with others.

  The blade pierced her at the heart. She renewed her grip on Fox’s hand and pulled herself closer still. The blade sank deeper. She took a deliberate step towards him, and the blade emerged from her back. Another stride with her hands pulling eagerly at the hilt, and the tip of the blade twitched with each of her heartbeats. She gave a final pull and was in Fox’s embrace. A red pearl of blood danced on the end of the sword and then dropped towards the stage. A cymbal sounded, and the couple kissed.

  Fox held her, gazing into her eyes for a long moment, then he grabbed her by the bodice of her gown, and with his other hand still clutching the handle of the rapier, he pushed her away from him roughly. Backwards, she flew off the spit of the weapon and away. Fox tore at her dress, and it flew free of her body with a rip and the call of the trumpets. In one smooth, sudden motion, he swept it away. Like a matador ending a brionesa, he waved it above his head.

  The woman was gone. Only the empty dress remained.

  The ovation was immediate, and there were gasps and hoorahs. I was frozen where I stood. Fox discarded the sword and stepped up to the edge of the stage. He loomed over the crowd.

  “Now you shall learn the mysteries of the underworld!”

  I was mesmerized by him. The green eyes and the voice overwhelmed me, as if some primitive magic had been unleashed, not only in the theater, but inside me. A dark shape moved in the wings and flowed across the stage towards him. It raised itself up as he beckoned it to do. A figure began to form in the blackness – again, a woman.

  “Griswold! Griswold!” A whispered exclamation next to my ear – Poe was grabbing at me. I tried to fight him off and keep my eyes on the supple body condensing out of the fog. “Griswold!” He struck me on the face, and I fell back into my seat.

  I had been standing. The entire audience was on its feet. I could see them all leaning forward towards Fox. Entranced. Poe slapped me again.

  “Griswold!” The hissing call came again.

  “Yes. Yes.” I pulled away from him.

  “You see his power?” Poe gestured towards the crowd.

  “I saw…”

  “What he made you see.”

  “My God.”

  “Perhaps less than that. He is the most accomplished mesmerist in the world. He can work miracles, indeed.” Poe paused, remembering some previous encounter. “I tell you, he is the one we must destroy.”

  The audience let loose another gasp. I do not know what then they saw in front of them on that stage. They shouted, “No!” and “Stop!” and they moaned in unison. The rhythm of the music increased and gained in volume.

  Poe tugged at my sleeve and with a jerk of his head bid me follow him. Crouching, we slipped up the aisle and behind the white wooden half-wall at the back of the theater. He gestured again, and we moved quietly behind the backs of the audience to a small door on the wall. Not tall enough for a man to enter erect, we ducked and slipped through into a narrow passage that ran inside the auditorium wall towards the backstage wing.

  I followed close behind Poe’s crouched form as we made our way down the incline of the theater’s seating until finally, we emerged in a forest of ropes and lines that stretched taught from anchored pulleys up into the darkness of the overhead catwalks and rigging.

  I took a furtive look towards the stage. I could see Fox standing in the bright white light of the incandescent flares, his hands dancing in the air as a woman clad in diaphanous scarves and little else floated in front of him. I could also see the apparatus that supported her, the stagehand tugging at the attached rope, and its counterweight in the shadow of the wings. Another man worked a box that produced thunder – still another operated a bellows that emitted smokes of various colors and scents.

  “Now you see?” Poe whispered.

  I could only nod. The wonder was only intensified. How had he twisted my mind so far and plunged me so deep into such an illusion?

  “There’s more power in this vaporous lie than in any weak truth of your solid world.” Poe winked at me.

  The orchestra built again in a crescendo, and the tympani rumbled. Looking on stage, I saw Fox scatter a powder that erupted across a candles flame into a flash of purple smoke. As his hand waved, his foot tapped a small, hidden lever on the stage. The floating woman spun upright and raced upwards, ascending into the heavens. Into the darkness she receded. Even the thickest rope disappea
red, leaving only her supple form visible as she levitated finally into total shadow.

  A crash of cymbals and a silence.

  Then a loud ovation – loud huzzahs and adulation from the crowd erupted into a wall of noise. Fox ran to the wings, then back to the center of the stage where he gave a deep bow. He remained bowed as the cheers and applause continued. I even recall the sound of a woman weeping.

  The man with the bellows made some adjustment, and a large cloud of black smoke suddenly covered the stage. Two women with large peacock fans danced through the cloud and, waving the feathered wings, broke through the dark fog. The currents they created cleared the smoke away. Fox was gone.

  The audience gasped and then resumed their adulation. The roar of the throats and the staccato percussion of the hands were almost deafening. I crouched there in amazement. The miracle of the event was only amplified by this new view of the performance.

  “There he is,” whispered Poe.

  Surprised from my contemplation of the magic, I snapped my head around to see Poe already rising. He stood and took five or six quick steps as I stumbled to my feet and rushed to his side.

  Fox, clad in a black cape now and accompanied by two hooded women, one in black, one all in white, was striding towards a short set of stairs that led to a metal door. Poe stepped straight in front of him.

  “Hold there, pimp!” Poe’s voice was strong.

  Fox rocked back on his heels and spread his arms to halt his companions. His face, at first startled, settled back into a relaxed expression. He brought a finger to his mouth and licked the tip lightly with a dart of his tongue, then ran it across the thin brow above his eye. “Mr. Poe. Time for another sermon?”

  “No sermon tonight, Fox.” Poe started to raise his walking stick.

  I stepped out of the shadows and pointed at Fox. My bravado faded as I spoke, but I affected a brave front. “And no sermon from you, preacher!” I shouted. My voice cracked as I continued. “You grave robber!”

  Fox saw me and laughed as I joined Poe. “You mistake me for the Preacher?” Fox shook his head in mock innocence. The green-spectacled creature had the air of an aggrieved cleric. He turned from me to the poet. “Well, here you are. The ape and his mule, but still no muse, eh, Poe?”

  “We are here.”

  “Of course, the little clue I gave – my, such clever men – and such a transparent call. One would almost guess that I wanted you here tonight.”

  “Wanted?” I asked. I could not help myself.

  “Pardon the clumsy phrasing, Mr. Griswold. You, as an editor, should excuse my imprecise language. Allow me to rephrase that.” Fox cleared his throat. “One would almost guess I expected you here tonight.”

  “Let her come to me, Fox.”

  “Let her?” Fox turned towards the hooded woman in white. “Darling Penelope, your husband has returned for you.” He bowed to her and with a sweep of his arm bade her go.

  “Come here, Sissy.” Poe’s voice was harsh.

  The woman only looked down at her feet. She did not move. Fox straightened, brought his finger to his mouth again, and smoothed his eyebrow.

  “A scorned woman, Mr. Poe.”

  “I will have her.” Poe stepped towards Fox.

  Raising his hand to stop his advance, Fox assumed the look of a hawker in some Araby bazaar. “Why not a barter, Poe?”

  Poe was brought up short. “A barter?”

  “Give me my Molly back, and I’ll give you the woman.”

  “Molly for my Sissy?” Poe joined the haggle.

  “No. No. No.” Fox shook his head and waved his finger like a schoolteacher correcting a slow student. He turned to the woman in black. “Eulalie, he misunderstands.”

  “Caroline?” I could not keep her name in my throat. The woman in black was surely my wife. “Caroline?” I called to her again.

  Fox’s head snapped to examine me. “Caroline?” He looked back at Poe. “Oh, my. He seeks Caroline.”

  Poe’s words rasped in his mouth. “Yes. He does.”

  “I’m afraid you are over your depth, Mr. Griswold.” Fox gestured to the black-hooded woman. Allow me to introduce Eulalie, the Black Pearl.” In response, the robed woman gave a shallow, perfunctory curtsy, and raising her face slightly, I caught a glimpse of her light, coffee-brown skin. “I believe your Negro calls her Marie.”

  “Our Lady of the Cipher, I believe.” Poe bowed.

  “Molly as your side of the bargain,” Fox said.

  “Where is my Caroline?” I grabbed at an iron rigging-peg that secured a small curtain line. I pulled it free, and as the rope hissed free, I raised the peg like a club. “Where is she?”

  “Hold, Griswold.” Poe’s arm restrained me. “You proposed our side of the barter, Fox. What’s yours?”

  “A simple trade, Poe. Molly for the Black Pearl. The Greek goddess for the mulatto.”

  Fox’s bargain would free Jupiter’s wife. But he was asking Poe and I to forgo our quest to free the souls of our own enraptured wives – treachery.

  “We’ll not give you Molly.” I blurted it out. “I’ll not see her in bondage to you.”

  Fox laughed. “Bondage? My dear, foolish man. Molly is not my slave.”

  “But…” I could not speak.

  “My men found a great deal of blood at the Barnum. Someone must be seriously hurt. I assume it was Molly’s blood. Give her to me.”

  “Not the right bargain,” said Poe.

  “I can save her,” said Fox.

  “You can save her?…” I began, but Poe cut me off.

  “No, Fox.” Poe refused him. “No trade.”

  “But, Poe. If he can help her.” I was torn. Molly was dying. If Fox could save her, then perhaps there was a way through this danger. Perhaps I could be spared the confrontation with my own sinful bargain to preserve my Caroline in such an unholy state. I confess it. I wished the cup be passed, and I wished that Molly live. I gave voice to my weakness. “Poe,” I pleaded. “Even if she is a slave, she will at least live.”

  “Griswold!” Poe warned me with a dark stare.

  Fox licked his lips. “Mr. Griswold, you have the wrong impression of me. Molly is not my slave.”

  “No?”

  “She is, dear boy, my partner.”

  I stumbled backwards.

  “At any rate, as I said, I did expect you this evening.” Fox gestured towards the darkness. “And if there is to be no trading…”

  Poe grabbed at the handle of his cane and took half a step towards the mesmerist.

  “Tom! Billy! Now’s the time.” Fox spoke to the shadows, and the shadows responded. Ready Tom and Big Billy stepped out from behind a line of heavy stage curtains. Tom was almost grinning. Billy was not. Both of them were holding pistols at their sides – for the moment, pointed down towards the floor.

  It was the only moment we had. Billy started to raise his gun, but the woman in black threw up an arm and startled him. A shot flew up into the shadows. Poe grabbed me, but I needed no encouragement as we both made a mad dash towards the steps up to the doorway. Another shot, and the railing beside my hand splintered. A spike of wood was driven into the palm of my hand.

  In fear there can be an escape from pain. I did not feel a thing. Poe and I ran through the metal stage door and reached the alleyway behind the museum. Poe found an old frame and quickly wedged it against the door. It would not hold for long. Off we ran towards the street.

  At Calvert, I started to turn south, but Poe grabbed at my shoulder and pulled me north with him. I was frightened enough this time to match his speed.

  “But the hotel is the other way,” I said with as much wind as I could muster.

  “I know.”

  “But why?...”

  “The mother must always run away from the nest.” Poe grabbed me again, and we snapped around a corner into a dark alley just as another shot rang out.

  “God help us,” I cried.

  “I think He’s given all the aid we can exp
ect for one night.” Poe mocked my prayer.

  We ran on into the dark streets. We ran for our lives. And as I raced to match Poe, he was making the oddest sounds. At first I could not tell what they were. Was he weeping? Was it merely the whistle of labored breath from hard-pressed lungs? Finally, above the slapping of our boots on cobblestone and brick, I recognized their nature.

  I swear that Poe was laughing.

  Chapter 28

  October 1, 1849 12:01 a.m. - The Gods Bear in Kings What They Abhor in Rascals -

  It was but a minute after midnight, or so I judged the time, on that cusp of October, when Poe and I first had some small chance to rest and regain our wind. Ready Tom and his friend Billy had harried us for more than an hour. Poe, as was his nature, led the chase in the manner of a hound with pepper in his nose.

  We circled around the Washington Monument’s tall column two full times. On the second loop, we made a sudden meeting with three Nightwatch men on patrol protecting the fine houses of the square. With dismay, I recognized the men as the same crew to have forced me into Jezebel’s lair. And one of them recognized me as well, or at least thought he did.

  “Here! Halt!”

  Poe and I, who had just emerged into the street at a dead run, skidded to a halt.

  The constable raised his lantern and illuminated our faces. “Wait there! And what might you two pugs be doing out on such a night?”

  We might have been caught at that very moment – hauled to the prowler’s pen and locked up while the crew of thieves who shared the chains sat in judgment on our fates. The outcome of such a seeming certainty did cause me no small anxiety in that sliver of a moment.

  “Wait, I’ve seen you.” The watchman threw his beam in my face. “It’s the madman – the madman with the rabid sow.” I heard the clink of a shackles being pulled from a belt. All was lost.

  Then our hunters became our saviors, for Ready Tom and Billy burst from an alley behind the three dolts preparing our arrest. Tom’s gun was raised, and it caught the lantern’s light on its silver barrel.