“Yes, I shall do it tonight, and send it off to Graham, to-
morrow.”
He reached for the wine bottle and found it empty. “An-
other bottle, Jeff,” he called, “To celebrate Mr. Poe’s return.”
7 4
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
Legrand appeared to be worried. “Well, one more, Poe,״
he agreed, “but that's all.״
“Mystery,״ continued the poet, unheeding. “And yet, it is
all about us. It is at the heart of everything. It is life and it is
death. And what do any of us know? To dream—that has
been the business of my life; and I have framed for myself
a bower of dreams. In them, you have had your part. Come,״
he cried abruptly, “let us drink! It is early—but let us drink!
It is late—but what matters it? Let us drink! Let us pour out
an offering . . .״
His words trailed into nothingness, and again silence lay
heavily between them.
“My dear fellow,״ said Legrand, at length, “can I help
you in any way while you are in the city? I owe a great
deal to you, you know. My very existence, in fact.״
“Mystery,״ continued the dreamer, resuming the tone of
his desultory conversation. “Mystery and despair! M ans
career is a pendulum that swings ceaselessly between hope
and fear. Life is a struggle between them. Between a de-
sire to believe that life is important and a conviction that
it is not. It is not truth that man needs, but if it were, who
should give it to him? W hat he requires is a beautiful legend,
to soothe and comfort him. It is all that he shall ever discover.
Death! W hat is death? Not death, but that Time can offer
him only age, may be man s tragedy.״ He laughed harshly.
“Wherefore, let us drink!״
“Poe,״ said his friend, leaning swiftly across the table,
“are you in need of money?״
The poet set down his glass and ran his fingers upward
through his curling hair. The directness of the question ap-
parently had broken his moody train of thought.
“Why, yes,״ he replied, after a moment. “I am always in
need of money. But I have enough for the moment. It is
sufficient until tomorrow. And tomorrow, there will be
plenty, Legrand, as you shall hear.״
“You would not mind if I offered to lend you some?״
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
7 5
“Ah, I should mind it greatly. Believe me, my embarrass-
ment is only temporary.״
Legrand was silent. After a time, he asked: “W hat are
your plans for the evening?״
“To drink,״ said the poet. “To drink, Legrand, and when
I have finished, to drink again. And then, when I have
finished drinking, once more—to drinkl״
“By God, you shall do nothing of the sort! Look here, Poe.
I have a set of rooms. Suppose you spend the night with me,
and in the morning, with fresh minds, we shall attack the
problem—״
“It is your accusing conscience talking, Legrand,״ said the
poet. “You have made me drunk, it whispers, and so you
must look after me.״ He snapped his fingers. “Fiddlesticks!
I am no more drunk than yourself. I am alive! I see clearly!
Listen, Legrand! Last night, I had a dream. Do you believe
in presentiments?״
His companion moved uneasily. His expression seemed
to indicate dismay and a measure of suspicion.
“No matter,״ continued the other, growing more cheerful
as he talked. “They are, I believe, often subconscious con-
elusions, and so may have a definite value. Well, I have a
presentiment that, by this time tomorrow, I shall be rolling
in riches!״
“My dear fellow!” exclaimed Legrand. “Are you sure
that you feel quite well?״
“You should be the last to ask it. I am not drunk, nor have
I taken leave of my senses. Last night—lis ten !—I dreamed
that I stood within an ancient house; a house falling into
ruin and decay; peopled by lonely, imprisoned echoes in
the wall, and shadowy memories, tearless and waiting. I
progressed from room to room, and the lonely echoes woke
and whispered around me; gaunt memories sprang forth to
welcome and reproach me. At length, in a bare chamber, high
under dripping eaves, I found an ancient chest, and inside
a treasure—jewels and gold and tarnished silver vessels, and
7 6
THE M A N WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
on the top of all a parchment sheet that told the tragic
story.״
“Oh, you’re drunk as an owl!״ cried Legrand. “Come
out of it, Poe. L ets go home.״
“A parchment sheet of writing,״ continued the poet re-
lentlessly, “whereby it was made known that all this wealth
was mine, and had been awaiting me these many, many
years. Can you guess, Legrand, what house that old house
was?״
“Tell me, if you care to.״
“It was my grandfather’s house!״
For an instant, Legrand stared stupidly. Then, “The
devil!״ he exclaimed.
“No, my grandfather: General David Poe. He was a
quartermaster general, Legrand, during the Revolution, and
an intimate of Lafayette. How well I used to know the story!
There was no denying the place. I had been there before; I
knew it when I saw it. Now do you think me drunk? For
years, I have wondered that my grandfather left nothing to
his children. It was said that he had died quite poor. His
widow also died in poverty. Legrand, something happened
back in those early days, something curious and strange; and
now, at last, the hiding place of the treasure has been re-
vealed to me in a dream. You ask my plans for the evening.
I will tell you them. I intend to collect the treasure of my
ancestor.״
All this he said in a fierce, low whisper, leaning forward
toward his friend across the table, who now listened with
sparkling eyes.
“Damn it, Poe!״ exploded Legrand, “it is almost too
amazing to be true.״
“You will help me?״
“I am at your service.״
“Then we shall leave at once. But we shall need another
candle.״
A new taper had been placed within the holder, and
׳THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
7 7
plucking it from its place the poet pinched out the flame and
deposited it with the other in his pocket. ״And now,״ he
cried, ״a final glass—to our successi”
״Successi” echoed Legrand, and raised his glass.
They drank the toast solemnly and sank back into their
chairs.
״Success,” m uttered the poet, and leaned forward to the
table. He laid his head upon his hand and breathed heavily.
Presently, his hand slipped down; his head drooped forward
and was pillowed on his arm. His breathing became sterto-
rous and harsh.
After a time, a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and he
was gently shaken. He looked up wildly into the face of the
; old Negro who had waited upon him. Legrand had vanished.
״Was yo'-all quite finished, Massa Poe?” asked the Negro
respectfully. ״ ’Ca’se if you is, we is gwine to close up de
dining room.”
״Where is the gentleman who was with me?” demanded
the poet thickly. ״When did he go?”
The old Negro turned his face aside for a moment to
hide a smile. Then his features became grave as he replied:
״Dey wa’n’t no one else with yo’, Massa Poe. D at other
genelman, he wasn’t here at all, sah.”
״Not here!” cried Poe. He dashed his hand across his eyes.
״Not here I Why, I’ve been talking with him for an hour I”
״Yassah,” said the darky, “yo’s done a powerful lot of
talkin’, Massa Poe; but dere wa’n’t no one else with yo’.
Yo’ was jes’ kin’ of talkin’ to yo’self, sah.”
The poet sank back in his chair and seemed to shrivel.
“Good God!” he m uttered in a low voice; and suddenly he
staggered to his feet. ״Am I insane?”
His eyes fell upon the row of empty bottles on the table,
and for some moments he stood regarding them. At last,
quietly, he asked: “How long have I been sleeping?”
“About two hours, sah.”
“Two hours! It must be ten o’clock.” He strode to the
7 8
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
window and pushed aside the curtains. The rain was still
falling monotonously in the streets. He returned to the
table. T m sorry if I have been a trouble, Jeff,” he said. “Bring
me my bill and Til get out.” And after a moment he whis-
pered again, “Good God!”
In the street, he began to feel better. His head was clearer,
his legs firmer. He welcomed the rain that beat against his
face. The darkness was a bandage about his eyes. For a
few minutes, he stood and let the water cool his raging
blood. Then, with a stronger step, he moved away in the
darkness toward the old home of his fathers.
It was midnight when he crossed the deserted garden and
climbed the knoll to the ruined dwelling. The door flew open
to welcome him, and in the frame stood a woman, tall and
beautiful, who extended a hand to him and drew him quickly
within. In the darkness, they stood looking into each others
eyes.
“I have waited long for you to come,” she whispered.
“Look well into my face, Edgar Poe, and tell me: do you
know me?”
He shook his head, embarrassed, like a child that is ques-
tioned by an elder. “I seem to know you, lady,” he replied;
“there is that about your eyes that is familiar; or perhaps it
is your hair. I think that once I knew you very well.”
Her laughter was like the chiming of old bells.
“You have never known me,” she said, “and yet for
years I have been near you, your neighbor in a dozen
streets and cities, your destined bride through all your years
of life.”
“Of course,” he smiled. “How well I know you now! It
was your eager voice that puzzled me, your radiant youth
and loveliness. I had not thought that such a thing could
be. I know you now. You are the Lady Death, my long-
lost love!”
She laughed, showing her faultless teeth, confident of her
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
7 9
beauty and perpetual youth. Her eyes became coquettish,
and she nestled against his shoulder.
“I am so glad you find me not entirely a fright,״ she ad-
mitted. “And now, after all these years, you will go with
me?״
He hesitated and drew back. He pressed her hand in his,
and it was cold as ice. He attempted to articulate, and his
tongue clucked against the top of his mouth.
“You know how long and dearly I have loved you,״ he
stammered, at length. “It is not that I am unfaithful. From
the beginning, I have dreamed only of your arms about me,
and your lips on mine, our mingled bodies and our long
repose. And yet—”
“And yet?״
“Somehow, I have just begun to live. Tonight I came here
with my heart aflame. It seemed that a vision led me.”
“It was I.”
But he shook his head and held her from him for a time,
looking deeply into her eyes. “You are very beautiful,״ he
sighed; “but I have never lived. It grieves me to seem un-
gracious; yet I must beg your pardon and go upon my way.
Some other day—or night—perhaps—״
“W hat is it you would do?” she asked.
“Dwell for a time within the lap of luxury. Lie for a time
beside the hussy Life.”
“Her body is less soft than mine.״
“Still, with your permission, I should like to try her shame-
ful ease.”
“Stay with me,” she pleaded. “See, we have the house
to ourselves. Upstairs there is a chamber with old hangings,
and a bed wide as a field of lilies. There your father was born,
and there your grandfather died. W hat could be more ap-
propriate than that you and I—”
He pushed her resolutely away. “Not tonight,” he said
firmly. “Besides, I am not feeling very well. Some other
80
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
keep it by me. You will come to me when I send for you?”
She sighed and drifted from him. “I will come,” she whis-
pered, “for I cannot do otherwise.”
“That is well,” he answered, “and don't feel too badly
about this, if you please, because, after all—”
Then he noticed that she was gone. A cold breeze whistled
through the half-open door, and he knew that his clothes
were dripping wet. Somehow, he had lost his hat. He pushed
his fingers upward through the wet mass of his hair and
tightly closed his eyes. Thus he stood for a moment, silent;
then, pushing forward across the wide reception hall, he
stumbled over the first step of the ascending flight and began
his upward climb. . . .
In the morning, a ray of sunlight, piercing the grime of an
attic window, fell upon the body of a man lying across an
ancient chest. His hair was m atted and unkempt. His eyes
were closed. After a time, they opened and stared in bewil-
derment at the scene about him. Old rafters, thick with the
dust of ages; cobwebs larger and more terrible than the
meshes of a dream; and a chaos of old furniture and boxes,
draped with the moldering, discarded garments of three
generations. Like Rip van Winkle returning to the world,
the derelict groaned and stretched his aching limbs. Memory
swept over him like a roll of drums, and with difficulty he
got upon his feet. A cracked and dusty mirror stood at an
angle against the sloping roof, and he staggered forward
and wiped a portion of its surface, recoiling in horror from
the image that looked forth at him. He sank down again
upon the chest, and buried his face in his hands, murmuring
incoherently.
Thus he sat for a time, then, rising, flung back the lid of the
ancient coffer. A hideous smile distorted his features. In-
stead of jewels and hoarded gold, he looked upon a musty
tangle of old garments, out of which, like the shoulder of a
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
81
man, thrust upward an epaulette of tarnished silver. It was
the uniform of General David Poe. Unceremoniously, he
hauled it forth and dropped it to the floor. Then, methodi-
cally, he began to draw forth piece after piece and add it to
the heap.
At the bottom he came upon a velvet bag, no larger than
a woman’s vanity case, drawn tight at the throat by a draw-
string. Inside was something hard and metallic, and some-
thing too that crackled like old paper. W ithout emotion, he
untied the string and shook the contents of the bag out upon
the boards.
The slender vial that tumbled forth pleased him greatly,
and for a few moments he turned it in his hands, as a child
plays with a toy. Then he examined it with greater care,
and in a moment came upon the legend engraved on the
surface of the setting. And then, for a long time, he sat very
still and stared with dazed and frightened eyes at the im-
possible thing that he held within his hand.
The waters of Bimini! The precious drops de León sought
—and failed to find!
Slowly, his wits came back. It was, of course, incredible;
beyond belief. This was some trifle that once had graced the
boudoir of his father’s mother, that slender Revolutionary
maiden whose eyes looked forth, so full of mischief, from
beneath long, sweeping lashes, in the dainty miniature
that was all that was left to tell that she had lived. Were
it a vial of that veritable water from the fountain, that
slim hoyden would be living still, and breaking hearts on
every hand. And yet . . .
Again his mind departed for a time. Then he recalled
that there had been a paper with the vial. He snatched it
from the bag and carried it to the window. Brown, faded
writing, and paper turning yellow. For a moment, the words
danced before his eyes and ran together; then they settled
into place, and he read what his grandfather had written.
82
THE M AN WHO CALLED HIMSELF POE
T h is p retty phiall w ith the p retty nam e w as given