Whether it was St. George's cheery announcement: “Well, gentlemen, I am sorry, but we still have each other, and so we will remember our guest in our hearts even if we cannot have his charming person,” or whether it was that the absence of Poe made little difference when a dinner with St. George was in question—certain it is that before many moments the delinquent poet was for the most part forgotten.
As the several dishes passed in review, Malachi in charge of the small arms—plates, knives, and forks—and Todd following with the heavier guns—silver platters and the like—the talk branched out to more diversified topics: the new omnibuses which had been allowed to run in the town; the serious financial situation, few people having recovered from the effects of the last great panic; the expected reception to Mr. Polk; the new Historical Society, of which every one present was a member except St. George and Harry; the successful experiments which the New York painter, a Mr. Morse, was making in what he was pleased to call Magnetic Telegraphy, and the absurdity of his claim that his invention would soon come into general use—every one commenting unfavorably except Richard Horn:—all these shuttlecocks being tossed into mid-air for each battledore to crack, and all these, with infinite tact the better to hide his own and his companions' disappointment over the loss of his honored guest—did St. George keep on the move.
With the shifting of the cloth and the placing of the coasters—the nuts, crusts of bread, and finger-bowls being within easy reach—most of this desultory talk ceased. Something more delicate, more human, more captivating than sport, finance, or politics; more satisfying than all the poets who ever lived, filled everybody's mind. Certain Rip Van Winkles of bottles with tattered garments, dust-begrimed faces, and cobwebs in their hair were lifted tenderly from the side-board and awakened to consciousness (some of them hadn't opened their mouths for twenty years, except to have them immediately stopped with a new cork), and placed in the expectant coasters, Todd handling each one with the reverence of a priest serving in a temple. Crusty, pot-bellied old fellows, who hadn't uttered a civil word to anybody since they had been shut up in their youth, now laughed themselves wide open. A squat, lean-necked, jolly little jug without legs—labelled in ink—“Crab-apple, 1807,” spread himself over as much of the mahogany as he could cover, and admired his fat shape upside down in its polish. Diamond-cut decanters—regular swells these—with silver chains and medals on their chests—went swaggering round, boasting of their ancestors; saying “Your good health” every time any one invited them to have a drop—or lose one—while a modest little demijohn—or rather a semi-demi-little-john—all in his wicker-basket clothes, with a card sewed on his jacket—like a lost boy (Peggy Coston of Wesley did the sewing) bearing its name and address—“Old Peach, 1796, Wesley, Eastern Shore,” was placed on St. George's right within reach of his hand. “It reminds me of the dear woman herself, gentleman, in her homely outside and her warm, loving heart underneath, and I wouldn't change any part of it for the world.”
“What Madeira is this, St. George?” It was the judge who was speaking—he had not yet raised the thin glass to his lips; the old wine-taster was too absorbed in its rich amber color and in the delicate aroma, which was now reaching his nostrils. Indeed a new—several new fragrances, were by this time permeating the room.
“It is the same, judge, that I always give you.”
“Not your father's Black Warrior?”
“Yes, the 1810. Don't you recognize it? Not corked, is it?”
“Corked, my dear man! It's a posy of roses. But I thought that was all gone.”
“No, there are a few bottles still in my cellar—some—How many are there, Todd, of the Black Warrior?”
“Dat's de las' 'cept two, Marse George.”
“Dying in a good cause, judge—I'll send them to you to-morrow.”
“You'll do nothing of the kind, you spendthrift. Give them to Kennedy or Clayton.”
“No, give them to nobody!” laughed Kennedy. “Keep them where they are and don't let anybody draw either cork until you invite me to dinner again.”
“Only two bottles left,” cried Latrobe in consternation! “Well, what the devil are we going to do when they are gone?—what's anybody going to do?” The “we” was the key to the situation. The good Madeira of Kennedy Square was for those who honored it, and in that sense—and that sense only—was common property.
“Don't be frightened, Latrobe,” laughed St. George—“I've got a lot of the Blackburn Reserve of 1812 left. Todd, serve that last bottle I brought up this morning—I put it in that low decanter next to—Ah, Malachi—you are nearest. Pass that to Mr. Latrobe, Malachi—Yes, that's the one. Now tell me how you like it. It is a little pricked, I think, and may be slightly bruised in the handling. I spent half an hour picking out the cork this morning—but there is no question of its value.”
“Yes,” rejoined Latrobe, moistening his lips with the topaz-colored liquid—“it is a little bruised. I wouldn't have served it—better lay it aside for a month or two in the decanter. Are all your corks down to that, St. George?”
“All the 1810 and '12—dry as powder some of them. I've got one over on the sideboard that I'm afraid to tackle”—here he turned to Clayton: “Major, you are the only man I know who can pick out a cork properly. Yes, Todd—the bottle at the end, next to that Burgundy—carefully now. Don't shake it, and—”
“Well—but why don't YOU draw the cork yourself, St. George?” interrupted the major, his eyes on Todd, who was searching for the rarity among the others flanking the sideboard.
“I dare not—that is, I'm afraid to try. You are the man for a cork like that—and Todd!—hand Major Clayton the corkscrew and one of those silver nutpicks.”
The Honorable Prim bent closer. “What is it, St. George, some old Port?” he asked in a perfunctory way. Rare old wines never interested him. “They are an affectation,” he used to say.
“No, Seymour—it's really a bottle of the Peter Remsen 1817 Madeira.”
The bottle was passed, every eye watching it with the greatest interest.
“No, never mind the corkscrew, Todd,—I'll pick it out,” remarked the major, examining the hazardous cork with the care of a watchmaker handling a broken-down chronometer. “You're right, St. George—it's too far gone. Don't watch me, Seymour, or I'll get nervous. You'll hoodoo it—you Scotchmen are the devil when it comes to anything fit to drink,” and he winked at Prim.
“How much is there left of it, St. George?” asked Latrobe, watching the major manipulate the nutpick.
“Not a drop outside that bottle.”
“Let us pray—for the cork,” sighed Latrobe. “Easy—E-A-SY, major—think of your responsibility, man!”
It was out now, the major dusting the opening with one end of his napkin—his face wreathed in smiles when his nostrils caught the first whiff of its aroma.
“By Jupiter!—gentlemen!—When I'm being snuffed out I'll at least go like a gentleman if I have a drop of this on my lips. It's a bunch of roses—a veritable nosegay. Heavens!—what a bouquet! Some fresh glasses, Todd.”
Malachi and Todd both stepped forward for the honor of serving it, but the major waved them aside, and rising to his feet began the round of the table, filling each slender pipe-stem glass to the brim.
Then the talk, which had long since drifted away from general topics, turned to the color and sparkle of some of the more famous wines absorbed these many years by their distinguished votaries. This was followed by the proper filtration and racking both of Ports and Madeiras, and whether milk or egg were best for the purpose—Kennedy recounting his experience of different vintages both here and abroad, the others joining in, and all with the same intense interest that a group of scientists or collectors would have evinced in discussing some new discovery in chemistry or physics, or the coming to light of some rare volume long since out of print—everybody, indeed, taking a hand in the discussion except Latrobe, whose mouth was occupied in the slow sipping of his favorite Madeira—tilting a few drops now and then on the end of his tongue, his eyes devoutly closed that he might the better relish its flavor and aroma.
It was all an object lesson to Harry, who had never been to a dinner of older men—not even at his father's—and though at first he smiled at what seemed to him a great fuss over nothing, he finally began to take a broader view. Wine, then, was like food or music, or poetry—or good-fellowship—something to be enjoyed in its place—and never out of it. For all that, he had allowed no drop of anything to fall into his own glass—a determination which Todd understood perfectly, but which he as studiously chose to ignore—going through all the motions of filling the glass so as not to cause Marse Harry any embarrassment. Even the “1817” was turned down by the young man with a parrying gesture which caught the alert eyes of the major.
“You are right, my boy,” the bon vivant said sententiously. “It is a wine for old men. But look after your stomach, you dog—or you may wake up some fine morning and not be able to know good Madeira from bad. You young bloods, with your vile concoctions of toddies, punches, and other satanic brews, are fast going to the devil—your palates, I am speaking of. If you ever saw the inside of a distillery you would never drink another drop of whiskey. There's poison in every thimbleful. There's sunshine in this, sir!” and he held the glass to his eyes until the light of the candles flashed through it.
“But I've never seen the inside or outside of a distillery in my life,” answered Harry with a laugh, a reply which did not in the least quench the major's enthusiasms, who went on dilating, wine-glass in hand, on the vulgarity of drinking STANDING UP—the habitual custom of whiskey tipplers—in contrast with the refinement of sipping wines SITTING DOWN—one being a vice and the other a virtue.
Richard, too, had been noticing Harry. He had overheard, as the dinner progressed, a remark the boy had made to the guest next him, regarding the peculiar rhythm of Poe's verse—Harry repeating the closing lines of the poem with such keen appreciation of their meaning that Richard at once joined in the talk, commending him for his insight and discrimination. He had always supposed that Rutter's son, like all the younger bloods of his time, had abandoned his books when he left college and had affected horses and dogs instead. The discovery ended in his scrutinizing Harry's face the closer, reading between the lines—his father here, his mother there—until a quick knitting of the brows, and a flash from out the deep-brown eyes, upset all his preconceived opinions; he had expected grit and courage in the boy—there couldn't help being that when one thought of his father—but where did the lad get his imagination? Richard wondered—that which millions could not purchase. “A most engaging young man in spite of his madcap life,” he said to himself—“I don't wonder St. George loves him.”
When the bell in the old church struck the hour of ten, Harry again turned to Richard and said with a sigh of disappointment:
“I'm afraid it's too late to expect him—don't you think so?”
“Yes, I fear so,” rejoined Richard, who all through the dinner had never ceased to bend his ear to every sound, hoping for the rumble of wheels or the quick step of a man in the hall. “Something extraordinary must have happened to him, or he may have been called suddenly to Richmond and taken the steamboat.” Then leaning toward his host he called across the table: “Might I make a suggestion, St. George?”
St. George paused in his talk with Mr. Kennedy and Latrobe and raised his head:
“Well, Richard?”
“I was just saying to young Rutter here, that perhaps Mr. Poe has been called suddenly to Richmond and has sent you a note which has not reached you.”
“Or he might be ill,” suggested Harry in his anxiety to leave no loophole through which the poet could escape.
“Or he might be ill,” repeated Richard—“quite true. Now would you mind if I sent Malachi to Guy's to find out?”
“No, Richard—but I'll send Todd. We can get along, I expect, with Malachi until he gets back. Todd!”
“Yes, sah.”
“You go to Guy's and ask Mr. Lampson if Mr. Poe is still in the hotel. If he is not there ask for any letter addressed to me and then come back. If he is in, go up to his room and present my compliments, and say we are waiting dinner for him.”
Todd's face lengthened, but he missed no word of his master's instructions. Apart from these his mind was occupied with the number of minutes it would take him to run all the way to Guy's Hotel, mount the steps, deliver his message, and race back again. Malachi, who was nearly twice his age, and who had had twice his experience, might be all right until he reached that old Burgundy, but “dere warn't nobody could handle dem corks but Todd; Malachi'd bust 'em sho' and spile 'em 'fo' he could git back.”
“'Spose dere ain't no gemman and no letter, den what?” he asked as a last resort.
“Then come straight home.”
“Yes, sah,” and he backed regretfully from the room and closed the door behind him.
St. George turned to Horn again: “Very good idea, Richard—wonder I hadn't thought of it before. I should probably had I not expected him every minute. And he was so glad to come. He told me he had never forgotten the dinner at Kennedy's some years ago, and when he heard you would be here as well, his whole face lighted up. I was also greatly struck with the improvement in his appearance, he seemed more a man of the world than when I first knew him—carried himself better and was more carefully dressed. This morning when I went in he—”
The door opened silently, and Todd, trembling all over, laid his hand on his master's shoulder, cutting short his dissertation.
“Marse George, please sah, can I speak to you a minute?” The boy looked as if he had just seen a ghost.
“Speak to me! Why haven't you taken my message, Todd?”
“Yes, sah—dat is—can't ye step in de hall a minute, Marse George—now—right away?”
“The hall!—what for?—is there anything the matter?”
St. George pushed back his chair and followed Todd from the room: something had gone wrong—something demanding instant attention or Todd wouldn't be scared out of his wits. Those nearest him, who had overheard Todd's whispered words, halted in their talk in the hope of getting some clew to the situation; others, further away, kept on, unconscious that anything unusual had taken place.
Several minutes passed.
Again the door swung wide, and a man deathly pale, erect, faultlessly dressed in a full suit of black, the coat buttoned close to his chin, his cavernous eyes burning like coals of fire, entered on St. George's arm and advanced toward the group.
Every guest was on his feet in an instant.
“We have him at last!” cried St. George in his cheeriest voice. “A little late, but doubly welcome. Mr. Poe, gentlemen.”
Kennedy was the first to extend his hand, Horn crowding close, the others waiting their turn.
Poe straightened his body, focussed his eyes on Kennedy, shook his extended hand gravely, but without the slightest sign of recognition, and repeated the same cold greeting to each guest in the room. He spoke no word—did not open his lips—only the mechanical movement of his outstretched hand—a movement so formal that it stifled all exclamations of praise on the part of the guests, or even of welcome. It was as if he had grasped the hands of strangers beside an open grave.
Then the cold, horrible truth flashed upon them:
Edgar Allan Poe was dead drunk!
The silence that followed was appalling—an expectant silence like that which precedes the explosion of a bomb. Kennedy, who had known him the longest and best, and who knew that if his mind could once be set working he would recover his tongue and wits, having seen him before in a similar crisis, stepped nearer and laid both hands on Poe's shoulders. Get Poe to talking and he would be himself again; let him once be seated, and ten chances to one he would fall asleep at the table.
“No, don't sit down, Mr. Poe—not yet. Give us that great story of yours—the one you told at my house that night—we have never forgotten it. Gentlemen, all take your seats—I promise you one of the great treats of your lives.”
Poe stood for an instant undecided, the light of the candles illumining his black hair, pallid face, and haggard features; fixed his eyes on Todd and Malachi, as if trying to account for their presence, and stood wavering, his deep, restless eyes gleaming like slumbering coals flashing points of hot light.
Again Mr. Kennedy's voice rang out:
“Any one of your stories, Mr. Poe—we leave it to you.”
Everybody was seated now, with eyes fixed on the poet. Harry, overcome and still dazed, pressed close to Richard, who, bending forward, had put his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand. Clayton wheeled up a big chair and placed it back some little distance so that he could get a better view of the man. Seymour, Latrobe, and the others canted their seats to face the speaker squarely. All felt that Kennedy's tact had saved the situation and restored the equilibrium. It was the poet now who stood before them—the man of genius—the man whose name was known the country through. That he was drunk was only part of the performance. Booth had been drunk when he chased a super from the stage; Webster made his best speeches when he was half-seas-over—was making them at that very moment. It was so with many other men of genius the world over. If they could hear one of Poe's poems—or, better still, one of his short stories, like “The Black Cat” or the “Murders in the Rue Morgue”—it would be like hearing Emerson read one of his Essays or Longfellow recite his “Hyperion.” This in itself would atone for everything. Kennedy was right—it would be one of the rare treats of their lives.
Poe grasped the back of the chair reserved for him, stood swaying for an instant, passed one hand nervously across his forehead, brushed back a stray lock that had fallen over his eyebrow, loosened the top button of his frock coat, revealing a fresh white scarf tied about his neck, closed his eyes, and in a voice deep, sonorous, choked with tears one moment, ringing clear the next—word by word—slowly—with infinite tenderness and infinite dignity and with the solemnity of a condemned man awaiting death—repeated the Lord's Prayer to the end.
Kennedy sat as if paralyzed. Richard Horn, who had lifted up his hands in horror as the opening sentence reached his ears, lowered his head upon his chest as he would in church. There was no blasphemy in this! It was the wail of a lost soul pleading for mercy!
Harry, cowering in his chair, gazed at Poe in amazement. Then a throb of such sympathy as he had never felt before shook him to his depths. Could that transfigured man praying there, the undried tears still on his lids, be the same who had entered on his uncle's arm but a few moments before?
Poe lifted his head, opened his eyes, walked in a tired, hopeless way toward the mantel and sank into an easy-chair. There he sat with bowed head, his face in his hands.
One by one the men rose to their feet and, with a nod or silent pressure of St. George's palm, moved toward the door. When they spoke to each other it was in whispers: to Todd, who brought their hats and canes; to Harry, whom, unconsciously, they substituted for host; shaking his hand, muttering some word of sympathy for St. George. No—they would find their way, better not disturb his uncle, etc. They would see him in the morning, etc., and thus the group passed out in a body and left the house.
Temple himself was profoundly moved. The utter helplessness of the man; his abject and complete surrender to the demon which possessed him—all this appalled him. He had seen many drunken men in his time—roysterers and brawlers, most of them—but never one like Poe. The poet seemed to have lost his identity—nothing of the man of the world was left—in speech, thought, or movement.
When Harry re-entered, his uncle was sitting beside the poet, who had not yet addressed him a word; nor had he again raised his head. Every now and then the sound of an indrawn breath would escape Poe, as if hot tears were choking him.
St. George waved his hand meaningly.
“Tell Todd I'll ring for him when I want him, Harry,” he whispered, “and now do you go to sleep.” Then, pointing to the crouching man, “He must stay in my bed here to-night; I won't leave him. What a pity! O God! what a pity! Poor fellow—how sorry I am for him!”
Harry was even more affected. Terrified and awestruck, he mounted the stairs to his room, locked his chamber door, and threw himself on his bed, his mother's and Kate's pleadings sounding in his ears, his mind filled with the picture of the poet standing erect with closed eyes, the prayer his mother had taught him falling from his lips. This, then, was what his mother and Kate meant—this—the greatest of all calamities—the overthrow of a MAN.
For the hundredth time he turned his wandering search-light into his own heart. The salient features of his own short career passed in review: the fluttering of the torn card as it fell to the floor; the sharp crack of Willits's pistol; the cold, harsh tones of his father's voice when he ordered him from the house; Kate's dear eyes streaming with tears and her uplifted hands—their repellent palms turned toward him as she sobbed—“Go away—my heart is broken!” And then the refrain of the poem which of late had haunted him night and day:
“Disaster following fast and following faster,
Till his song one burden bore,”
and then the full, rich tones of Poe's voice pleading with his Maker:
“Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
Yes:—Disaster had followed fast and faster. But why had it followed him? What had he done to bring all this misery upon himself? How could he have acted differently? Wherein had he broken any law he had been taught to uphold, and if he had broken it why should he not be forgiven? Why, too, had Kate turned away from him? He had promised her never to drink again; he had kept that promise, and, God helping him, he would always keep it, as would any other man who had seen what he had just seen to-night. Perhaps he had trespassed in the duel, and yet he would fight Willits again were the circumstances the same, and in this view Uncle George upheld him. But suppose he had trespassed—suppose he had committed a fault—as his father declared—why should not Kate forgive him? She had forgiven Willits, who was drunk, and yet she would not forgive him, who had not allowed a drop to pass his lips since he had given her his promise. How could she, who could do no wrong, expect to be forgiven herself when she not only shut her door in his face, but left him without a word or a line? How could his father ask forgiveness of his God when he would not forgive his son? Why were these two different from his mother and his Uncle George, and even old Alec—who had nothing but sympathy for him? Perhaps his education and training had been at fault. Perhaps, as Richard Horn had said, his standards of living were old-fashioned and quixotic.
Only when the gray dawn stole in through the small window of his room did the boy fall asleep.
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