Nevermore, p.19
Nevermore, page 19
How much time elapsed while I remained in this pleasurably stuporous condition, I am at a loss to say. All at once, I grew cognizant of a sudden cessation of sound. Sissy had stopped singing!
As my inebriated senses began to regain their normal acuity, I perceived that the angelic maiden was standing in an attitude of intense contemplation, her right index finger pressed against her tight-squeezed lips, her pale brow furrowed, her gaze directed downward At last she shrugged—sighed—and, looking at Crockett, declared: “I can’t think of any more songs.”
“What about ‘The Amsterdam Maid’?” Muddy piped up beside me.
“Oh yes!” Sissy cried delightedly. “I forgot!” Then extending one delicate hand in her mother’s direction, she exclaimed: “Come, Muddy. Sing it with me!”
“Goodness, no!” the dear woman cried, rapidly waving one hand back and forth in a gesture of emphatic demurral.
“Go on now, Miz Clemm,” the frontiersman urged. “I’d be tickled to hear the two of you singing together.”
“We-e-ell,” Muddy said in a relenting tone. “All right, then.” Rising to her feet, she moved to Sissy’s side and placed her arm around her daughter’s shoulder. Then—as the two stood gazing fondly at each other—the heaven-sent pair began to perform the rousing old “shanty” in voices of surpassing beauty:
“In Amsterdam there lived a maid
And she was mistress of her trade,
I’ll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid.
“For a-roving, a-roving, since roving’s been my ruin,
I’ll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid.
“Her eyes were like two stars at night,
And her cheeks they rivalled the roses red,
I’ll go no more a-roving with you, fair maid….”
As the song proceeded, Muddy—who had appeared somewhat constrained at the start—grew increasingly animated, rolling her eyes, tapping one foot, and swaying her body in time to the music. Gazing upon the dear-hearted woman, I could not help but marvel—as I had done on so many previous occasions—at the deep, the inexplicable paradox which she embodied. Here was a woman of such profound inward beauty—such sheer, preternatural goodness—that her soul seemed utterly unblemished by the merest speck of earthly imperfection. And yet she was related, by the closest ties of kinship, to a being whom I had every reason to detest. I mean, of course, her brother—my natural father—David Poe, Jr., the creature who had abandoned his young wife and infant children in the most heartless fashion conceivable. By what strange, hereditary means could two such contrasting, even antithetical, personalities have sprung from the same ancestral roots? It was a mystery all insoluble.
The song ended. While the two performers blushed, beamed, and curtsied, Crockett and I burst into a wild ovation.
“Hurrah!” cheered the frontiersman. “That was prime, and no mistake!”
“Brava!” I cried, rising to my feet. “Rarely have I been privileged to hear such intoxicating, such richly melodious sounds!”
All at once, Sissy pointed a dainty forefinger in my direction and exclaimed: “Now it’s your turn, Eddie!”
This unforeseen remark startled me into a momentary silence. “I beg your pardon?” I replied at last.
“The gal is right, Poe,” Crockett said. “You are the only one among us who hasn’t pitched in tonight.”
Here was a truly unexpected turn! Had it occurred earlier in the evening, I would surely have resisted. My dismal mood, however, had been considerably brightened by the buoyant duet which my loved ones had just performed. Moreover, I could see that the long and wearying party was rapidly drawing to a close—a prospect that could not fail to infuse my heart with a sense of the keenest satisfaction. In short, for the first time that evening, I was feeling positively festive.
“I will be happy to accommodate your request,” I said with a smile and a bow. Exchanging places with Muddy and Sissy, I positioned myself in the center of the room, while my loved ones arranged themselves on the settee. For several moments, I stood in silent rumination. At length, I gazed at my auditors and announced: “Ladies and gentleman. For your pleasure and edification, I shall recite one of the most powerful and poignant poems in our language. It was composed in 1586 by a young Englishman named Chidiock Tichborne. A Catholic noble who plotted to replace Queen Elizabeth with a monarch of his own faith, Tichborne was sent to the dreaded Tower of London to await execution for treason. On the night prior to his beheading, he composed a moving letter of farewell to his devoted young wife, Agnes, enclosing the following stanzas. These were later set to music and published in a widely distributed collection of madrigals. The poem, which has come to be known as ‘Tichborne’s Elegy,’ goes thusly.”
Placing one hand upon my bosom and raising the other aloft, I directed my gaze towards the ceiling and proceeded to declaim the following verses:
“My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,
My crop of corn is but a field of tares,
And all my good is but vain hope of gain;
The day is past, and yet I saw no sun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
“My tale was heard and yet it was not told,
My fruit is fallen and yet my leaves are green,
My youth is spent and yet I am not old,
I saw the world and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut and yet it is not spun,
And now I live, and now my life is done.
“I sought my death and found it in my womb,
I looked for life and saw it was a shade,
I trod the earth and knew it was my tomb,
And now I die, and now I was but made;
My glass is full, and now my glass is run,
And now I live, and now my life is done.”
Having enunciated the final words, I maintained my position for a moment while awaiting the expected ovation. To my surprise, however, my performance was greeted, not by a burst of applause, but by a heavy—protracted—and absolute—silence. Gazing at my auditors, I saw that both Muddy and Sissy were staring at me with expressions that were nothing short of stricken.
“Oh, Eddie,” cried Sissy. “That was so dreadfully sad! Did you say that Mr. Tichborne was killed after writing that poem?”
I nodded. “He was led to the block early the next morning and beheaded.”
Sissy gasped and raised a hand to her throat.
“And the poem was written to his wife?” inquired Muddy in a tremulous voice.
“Yes,” I answered. “It was included in a letter of farewell that he composed to his beloved soul-mate just hours before he faced the executioner’s blade.”
“And how old was he when he died?” Muddy asked, her voice cracking slightly.
“A mere twenty-eight.”
A silent moment ensued as Muddy and Sissy turned to gaze at each other, their darling features arranged into identical expressions of intense and sorrow-laden dismay. All at once, Sissy burst into tears, leapt from the settee, and dashed from the room. Muddy, her own eyes brimming with moisture, quickly rose to her feet and bustled after her sobbing daughter.
Somewhat thunderstruck by the intensity of my loved ones’ reaction, I turned to look at Crockett, who was regarding me with a wry expression while shaking his head slowly from side to side. At length, he slapped both hands upon his thighs and pushed himself erect.
“By jings, Poe, but you are a regular barrel of fun,” he said as he stepped to my side. Placing his hands upon his hips, he gazed at the doorway through which Muddy and Sissy had fled. “Reckon me and you might as well attend to our business,” he said, emitting a sigh. “Looks like this-here party is over!”
CHAPTER 20
Ushering Crockett into my sanctum, I enkindled the oil lamp that stood upon my writing table; whereupon—reaching into the breast pocket of his high-collared coat—the frontiersman extracted two panatelas and extended one towards me.
“Smoke?” he inquired.
Though I had partaken of cigars on certain rare social occasions (such as the farewell dinner given to me by my fellow cadets, following my cunningly contrived discharge from the United States Military Academy at West Point), I had never developed a fondness for the habit—my finely wrought constitution being in no small degree susceptible to the intoxicating influences of tobacco. I therefore declined Crockett’s offer with a polite shake of the head.
Returning the proffered cigar to his pocket, Crockett placed the other one between his teeth, bit off the tip, then positioned the head directly over the glowing chimney of the oil lamp. Having ignited it to his satisfaction, he seated himself in the straight-backed chair that faced the writing table, crossed one leg over the other, and—eyes narrowed against the plumes of smoke drifting upwards from his panatela—regarded me intently.
As I scrutinized his countenance in turn, I perceived that his expression—which, throughout the evening, had been luminous with pleasure—was now deeply clouded with concern. “Is something the matter, Colonel Crockett?” I inquired. “You appear, of a sudden, to have lapsed into a mood of uncharacteristic solemnity.”
Plucking the cigar from his mouth, the frontiersman released a thick plume of smoke into the room. “I didn’t want to spoil the party for you and the gals, Poe, so I did my damnedest to shove my worries aside for a spell. But I have been in a mighty black humor since earlier today.”
“And what is the cause of your unhappiness?”
“When I got back to the hotel, there was a message from my crony in Washington City, Mr. Thomas Chilton. Seems like my enemies in Congress are fixing to push through Ol’ Hick’ry’s Injun Bill.”
“I assume that you are referring to the government’s plan to dispossess the Southwestern tribes of their rightfully deeded territories and remove them to far less favorable tracts west of the Mississippi?” The impassioned debate over this proposal having been extensively reported in the newspapers, I was, of course, familiar with its details.
“That’s the one,” Crockett said grimly. “Why, if I don’t get re-elected, them redskins will never get a fair shake.”
“I must confess, Colonel Crockett,” said I, “that—in light of both your youthful exploits in the Creek War and your frequent denigrations of the red man’s character—I am excessively surprised at your sympathetic concern for the Indian cause.”
“Why, Poe,” Crockett exclaimed, “you are plumb mistook about my sentiments. I won’t deny that I do not look with favor upon a murderous savage hell-bent on mischief. But I have always been a friend to the Chicksaws and Cherokees and other law-abiding tribes. And besides, our government give the injuns our sacred word. A treaty is the highest law of the land. I would rather be an old coon dog belonging to a poor man in the forest than belong to any country that wont do justice for all.”
For several moments following this fervent declaration, I sat in silent contemplation of the frontiersman, whose deep-rooted integrity, though sometimes obscured by his overbearing manner, could in no way be doubted. At length, I cleared my throat and declared: “In view of the pressing political matters requiring your attention, it is even more imperative that we accomplish our mission in the most expeditious manner possible.”
“Amen to that,” Crockett said. “Have you ciphered out the meaning of that pestiferous word yet?”
“Sadly,” I said with a heartfelt sigh, “and in spite of my prolonged and strenuous efforts to discover its signification, the answer is no.” Here, I folded my hands and rested them upon the tabletop. “There is, however, certain information of which I have yet to apprise you—information which, I have good reason to believe, bears directly upon the fearful mystery in which we two have become so deeply embroiled.”
“I am all ears,” Crockett said, taking another puff of his long, slender cigar.
I leaned forward in my seat and fixed the frontiersman with a penetrating look. “The story that I related to you and Captain Russell, regarding my motive for returning to Montague’s dwelling, was not, strictly speaking, the truth.”
“Why, what in blue blazes do you mean?” Crockett said, his brow furrowed with perplexity.
“I mean,” I replied, “that I have uncovered a singular—albeit inscrutable—connection among the various personages who have met such ghastly deaths over the course of the past, unparalleled week.”
Then, having thus thoroughly engaged the frontiersman’s attention, I drew a deep breath and proceeded to apprise him of the circumstance that had sent me rushing back to Montague’s dwelling in search of clues—i.e., my discovery that, among my collection of cherished memorabilia, was a decades-old newspaper clipping composed by Montague and containing allusions to both the Asher and Macready names.
“That something other than mere coincidence is involved in this matter,” I asserted, “seems to me a deduction beyond reasonable dispute.”
For several moments Crockett sat in silence, chewing ruminatively on his glowing panatela, which protruded from one corner of his mouth, “Well,” he drawled at length, “that is most uncommon curious, for a certainty. What in tarnation do you make of it?”
“As of yet,” I answered with a sigh, “I have been unable to arrive at a satisfactory explanation. It would appear, however, that—at the heart of the mystery that now confronts us—lies some dark and ominous secret involving the theatrical realm.”
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” Crockett exclaimed. “The theatre, eh?” Giving his head a regretful shake, he exhaled a stream of cigar smoke and said: “I’m afraid I can’t be of much use to you there, ol’ hoss. I ain’t never even been to the theatre excepting only once, and that was to see Mr. James H. Hackett play-acting in The Lion of the West in Washington City.”
“There is something else that I have yet to divulge,” I declared after a momentary pause. “Something of such a fantastic and inexplicable nature that—in spite of having witnessed it with my own eyes—I can scarcely credit the evidence of my senses.”
“Don’t keep me guessing,” said Crockett, “for I am fit to bust with curiosity.”
Fully cognizant of the sheer implausibility of the information that I was about to impart, I hesitated briefly before declaring: “There was another person in Montague’s apartment. A woman.”
A long moment passed while Crockett absorbed this remarkable, this startling revelation. “A woman?” he said at last, regarding me with a deeply quizzical expression.
“That is correct. She appeared in Montague’s bedroom immediately following my appalling discovery of the old man’s horribly mutilated corpse.”
Regarding me with an intensely doubtful expression, Crockett declared: “Why, it must’ve been that neighbor lady, Mrs. Purviance.”
I gave my head an emphatic shake. “No. While it is true that I obtained only the briefest glimpse of this person before I lapsed into insensibility, my view of her countenance was sufficiently clear to assure me of her identity. The woman I saw—and here I shall not blame you for reacting with a high degree of skepticism, for I am fully aware that the fact I am about to relate is of the most fantastic and anomalous nature—the woman I saw was the identical being who entered my bedroom on the night of the fatal conflagration at the Asher residence!”
Removing his cigar from his lips, Crockett stared at me silently for a moment. “Damn it, Poe,” he exclaimed at last, “but that’s the beatenest thing I ever heard.”
“I concur entirely with your assessment.”
“Don’t you reckon that what you saw was just a figger of your imagination?” Crockett inquired. “After all, you was mighty shook up after turning up that ol’ man’s carcass.”
An involuntary shudder coursed through my being as I recalled the awful—the unspeakable—moment when, staggering backwards from the appalling sight I had just glimpsed beneath the floorboards of Alexander Montague’s bedchamber, I heard—then felt—then saw—the same uncanny creature I had confronted once before.
“I assure you, Colonel Crockett,” I said grimly, “that the figure I observed was as palpably real as you yourself.”
Re-inserting his half-smoked panatela between his teeth, the frontiersman chewed on the tip for a moment before inquiring: “Why in tarnation didn’t you tell Cap’n Russell none of this?”
“For several reasons,” I replied. “First, because of my conviction that the mystery might be more expeditiously resolved by a pair of determined and resourceful individuals, operating independently of the police. As you yourself have noted, the professional law officer—even one who, like Captain Russell, is endowed with unusual acumen—is invariably hampered in his efforts by the necessity of adhering to the strict protocols of the law. As a consequence of this constraint, the typical police investigation, no matter how vigorously pursued, tends to proceed at a lamentably dilatory pace. In the present circumstance, such a delay is almost certain to have tragic results, given the possibility—or, rather, likelihood—that the perpetrator of these atrocities will continue to commit similar outrages until caught.”
“Can’t hardly argue with you there,” Crockett said.
“There is another consideration, too,” I said after a brief pause, “one which—while imbued with a tincture of self-interest—must nevertheless be acknowledged,”
“I’m listening,” said Crockett.
“Distinct advantages would accrue to each of us should we manage to resolve this mystery on our own. For you, the favorable publicity that you would inevitably receive could only be of benefit in regard to your political ambitions.”
“I’d be lying if I denied it,” the frontiersman acknowledged. “And how about you, Poe. What do you stand to gain?”
The yellowed newspaper review still lay upon the table. By way of replying to the frontiersman’s query, I picked it up, rose from my seat, and—stepping to the opposite side of the table—handed it to Crockett.
“Read this,” I said, as he cast me a quizzical glance.
Holding the clipping towards the light, Crockett began to peruse it, squinting through the smoky haze issuing from the smoldering tip of his much-reduced panatela. A moment later, he plucked the cigar from his mouth and—gaping up at me—exclaimed: “Why this here writin is all about Eliza Poe! Ain’t that your deceased mother?”
