Lenore: The Last Narrative of Edgar Allan Poe

By Frank Lovelock

Since the beginning, The Imp of the Perverse has haunted his life and art. Now Edgar Allan Poe, relentlessly shadowed by this destructive force, finds himself on the brink of extinction. Comatose in a Baltimore hospital, he creates the fiction of his own demise, which seeks to reclaim every soul ever quickened by his imagination. “The Rave

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Lovelock
• Release date: Jun 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733179423

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Lenore

The Last Narrative of

Edgar Allan Poe

(A Novel by…)

Frank A. Lovelock

Copyright © 2019 by Frank A. Lovelock.

Hardback:      978-1-7331794-0-9

Paperback:      978-1-7331794-1-6

eBook:              978-1-7331794-2-3

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Epilogue

Appendix

Dedication

To Jeanne

NOTE TO THE READER

The novel takes as its starting point the various sketchy accounts of Edgar Allan Poe’s last days on earth. Poe left Richmond bound ultimately for New York on September 27, 1849. On the next day, he took a room at the Bradshaw Hotel on the Baltimore waterfront and was subsequently found in a dazed condition in the vicinity of Ryan’s Tavern on October 3. He was taken to Washington College Hospital, where Dr. J. J. Moran attended him, and where he died on Sunday morning, October 7, after calling repeatedly the name Reynolds … Reynolds. One account also has Poe in Philadelphia for a portion of the time (returning to Baltimore sometime before October 3). Most Poe scholars give little weight to this story. These are the broad facts; I have, to say the least, taken creative liberties with them.

I would be remiss not to note the numerous scholarly works that helped me clarify and strengthen ideas conceived before and during the process of writing. In several instances, the scholars provided me with leads to explore, and I am grateful for their work.

It will become apparent to anyone even remotely familiar with the works of Poe that I have extracted direct citations from his writings—not only from his fiction, poetry, and essays but also from his personal letters. These citations are integral to the novel, and I have made no attempt to conceal them. Wherever Poe’s own words appear, I have indicated such by using a bold italic typeface that sets them apart from the rest. Elsewhere, there are close paraphrases of Poe’s thought. I have included an appendix identifying the sources of all borrowings.

Many editions of Poe’s works exist: those designed for the general public and those for scholars. For my purposes, however, I found a single volume (The Works of Edgar Allan Poe), edited by Hervey Allen, which I snapped up at a used-book sale. It has served me well for the most part. At times, however, I have relied on a recent volume (The Unabridged Edgar Allan Poe), edited by Tam Mossman. The reader should be aware that citing from the works of Poe is tricky, since he often emended his pieces when republishing them; some of the changes are significant.

All personal correspondences are cited from The Letters of Edgar Allan Poe, edited by John Ward Ostrom, in 2 volumes. I should also note The Poe Log: A Documentary Life of Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), edited by Dwight Thomas and David K. Jackson, an indispensable tool to me in this project.

I would like to thank the library staff of Piedmont Virginia Community College, especially Charlotte Self and Linda Cahill, for helping me with on-line searches and obtaining needed materials. Prof. Rebecca Thomas made sure that Poe’s French was correct. Also, Margaret Hrabe of Alderman Library’s Special Collections (The University of Virginia) gave me not only professional support but also true friendship. I am grateful to Piedmont Virginia Community College for granting me the sabbatical needed to finish the work and especially to Dr. Clifford Haury, Chair of the Humanities Division, and Dr. Marsal Stoll, Dean of Instruction and Student Services, for supporting my request for leave.

The research was conducted for the most part at the Alderman Library. I also used the Maryland Historical Society, The Virginia Historical Society, The State Library of Virginia, The Poe House in Baltimore, and The Poe Museum in Richmond. My reconstruction of an 1849 Richmond and Baltimore relies on some fact, much shoe leather, and a fanciful bit of imagination.

Finally, I acknowledge my gratitude to my wife Jeanne, who constantly encouraged and supported me through three-years of planning, researching and writing. She has read and emended countless pages of the work in all stages of composition. Thank you … will never be enough.

The novel attempts to capture the flavor of a mid-19th century work. There are several narrators. Poe is one of them.

F.L.

Chapter One

Wednesday, October 3, 1849

Washington College Hospital

Baltimore

Mr. Poe! Mr. Poe! Can you hear me sir? Can you speak? Mr. Poe!

I

September 27, 1849

Mr. Poe! Allow me sir! A looming, white figure arose from the depths of the steamship Curtis Peck and caught me as I made my way unsteadily toward the boarding plank. Light from the several storm lanterns placed about the wharf perforated the night, darting with lambent uncertainty across the black surface of the river while casting shadows on the low buildings along the shore. The moment of departure was upon us as furnaces in the core of the vessel sent their hellish plumes blasting into the starry sky. Up river, and to the west, I could hear rapids fiercely rolling their way out of Richmond, the waters heavy with recent rains.

The Curtis Peck wrenched against the taut lines, as they moaned and stretched with the insistence of the ship’s undulations. We were bound out with the early tide, assuring our arrival at Norfolk by day’s end. Thence up the Chesapeake Bay to Baltimore, where we would make port on Friday the 28th of September.

The trip bode little joy for me. My illness had become oppressive, and had it not been for the strong arm of my new companion, I might well have lost my footing in the treacherous gloom that pervaded the passage and fallen headlong into the current. I confess that my discernment, if not fear, at being approached by another stranger in the night was quickly offset by the comfort I found in giving myself momentarily over to the solid presence of him who now assisted me.

Sir, I said, struggling to gain my composure, I fear you have the advantage of me. I am not aware that we are acquainted.

Nay sir, replied the young man, my presumption in addressing you was prompted by my desire to meet you at last. I have long been an admirer of your work. In truth, several weeks ago while in Richmond to arrange the affairs of this journey, I had the distinct pleasure of hearing your recitation of The Raven at the Exchange Hotel. Imagine my delight last evening when a friend of mine, employed by the steamship line, informed me that you had booked passage for Baltimore. I must admit that in hope of encountering you, I have taken several eager turns about the decks. Then seeing you lose your footing as you boarded caused me, I fear, to rashly address you. Forgive my impetuousness. I am not so ill-bred as it may appear.

While my rescuer had been descanting rather too excitedly for me to follow with precision, he had been guiding me steadily along the leeward railings until we reached the main commons where other passengers, already seated, were preparing for an early breakfast. In the steadier light of the interior lamps, I could now see my ardent new friend more clearly. His was a striking visage that burns instantly into man or woman upon first encounter. The face, a work of fine sculpture, brought the intensity of high cheekbones strongly forward to encase impenetrable black eyes, the bearing of which might well evoke fear were they not offset by a delicate, shall I say, feminine mouth. An aureate nimbus of hair, seemingly aflame rounded his high forehead as he stood with his back to the lantern. This face rose above me like that of some impassioned angel as I settled heavily into the cushioned seat along the walls of the cabin.

Those eyes! Certainly, I remembered them, staring up at me from the front row in the Lecture Room of the Exchange. They had disconcerted my recitation. "The fowl whose fated eyes now burned into my bosom’s core." Fiery eyes! God help me, I had said the line hundreds of times. Fiery eyes, not fated! The audience seemed none the wiser. None, at least, commented upon the miscue, though I derided myself for it as I watched the source of my distraction make his way precipitately to the back of the room and depart. Yes, surely, I had seen those eyes before. Deception seemed to lay in their impenetrability. But it was vain to tax myself further on this matter. The fever burning away at me for days had purged my memory of all but the darkest torments of my soul. I put my hand to my head and leaned forward onto the arm of the chair.

It was several moments that I remained so, neither of us speaking. At length, my companion entreated me further. Mr. Poe, sir, may I have the pleasure of continuing our conversation?

I endeavored to rise and put forward my hand in token of my acceptance of his proffered friendship, but the Curtis Peck took that instant to move from the wharf, lurching into the dark current and sending me heavily back into the chair. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr.—? My hesitation again became an awkward silence.

My name is Reynolds, sir. It seems I’ve neglected all of the protocols in my desire to meet you. The fellow now eagerly drew up a seat next to mine. Danton Rousseau Reynolds. My given names are more famous than I. Be that as it may, I rarely answer to them. To my friends I’m simply Reynolds.

The pleasure is mine, Mr. Reynolds, I replied with some effort to engage myself in this stranger’s importunities. May I also express my gratitude in your assisting me aboard. I fear I am slightly indisposed. But I am not, sir, under the influence of drink.

Why I felt compelled to defend my character to a man I had just met leaves me now angry with myself. But you must understand. I was much troubled by calumniators who delighted in each errant step I take in public. As God is my witness, on that night I had taken no spirits, though the finest brandy had been offered me on several occasions.

I had dined at Sadler’s Restaurant on the corner of 16th and Main. There I was pleasantly surprised to meet Judge Robert Hughes, a friend of longstanding, as well as J.M. Blakely, the owner of the Swan Tavern where I had recently taken lodging. Joining us was an Englishman whose surname was Sikes—I remember little more apart from his coarse wit.

The serendipitous gathering at Sadler’s passed pleasantly, though I was troubled with not feeling well. Some time before dining I had paid a visit to the home of my dearest bride to be, Elmira Shelton. Our proposed marriage was the culmination of more than two decades of affection. She it was who had been taken from me by cruel parents, loath to have their daughter marry a dreamer and would-be poet. Now both of us, bereft of mates, had been reunited in the comfort each could bring the other. On this evening, Elmira had implored me to postpone my trip. She told me that I did not appear to be well and that I seemed fevered and restless. To appease her, I sought counsel of Dr. John Carter, her family physician, who was at home when I called on him shortly after leaving my dearest one. Cautioning against over exertion, Carter nevertheless reassured me that a trip down river with the subsequent crossing of the Bay would likely do little harm. To the contrary the sea air will likely invigorate you, he pronounced with great enthusiasm as he helped me on with my coat and guided me toward the foyer of his stately house on Broad Street.

Upon departing Dr. Carter’s home, I had inadvertently taken his walking stick, leaving mine in its place. Indeed, it was not until I was ready to bid farewell to my friends at the restaurant some two and half hours later that I became aware of the error. As it was now nearly midnight, I be thought it best not to trouble the doctor. He would, I felt sure, recognize the innocent mistake. I further determined that I would take the first opportunity after returning from my journey north to make the proper exchange.

Leaving Sadler’s shortly before the stroke of 12, Blakely and I bid a good night to Judge Hughes and the English chap and returned to the Swan. Although it was hours before the scheduled departure, I was fitful and not at all sure that I could rest. Nearing one in the morning, I arranged to have my trunk and other personal effects transported to the boat ahead of me and set out on foot alone toward Rockett’s Landing, a distance of about two miles from the tavern. I had determined that the cool night air might enliven me. Accordingly, I found myself within a half hour moving about the haunts of the riverfront. In retrospect, such was not the wisest course to follow, for I was beset not only by illness but also by the fevered hopes that I could at last extricate myself from the dark phantoms that had pursued my life.

My recent prospects in Richmond seemed more promising than those I had been accustomed to in the north. Admittedly, the several lectures I had given throughout the summer months had not always been grandly attended; they had, nonetheless, brought me a measure of needed income. My readings had met with favorable notice in the press, and, at last I felt hopeful that my work was gaining the degree of respect it had long been due.

My trip north, then, had two purposes. First, I had been engaged by Mr. John Loud of Philadelphia to edit the poetry, should I denominate it as such, of his wife. An odious task, but one that I measured should take no more than three days and for which I would be handsomely paid the sum of one hundred dollars. Thence on to New York to gather my dear Muddy, mother of my departed wife, and return to Richmond.

Though hope kindled the flame of future rewards, the present was dismal nonetheless. I found myself continuing to live wretchedly, taking money from friends, even humbling myself for five dollars lent me by J. R. Thompson, editor of the Southern Literary Messenger, a journal, I must assert, that owed no small debt to my tireless efforts years earlier to make it a first-class publication. It was Thompson who took it upon himself to request that I be his errand boy to deliver a letter to Rufus Griswold in Philadelphia, a contact which held measured reward. Griswold bore me little regard and I less for him. But his literary acquaintances were valuable, and his influence in the world of publishing was useful, though his own work rarely rose to the level of hack. Over the years I had learned to stroke this dark cat carefully before turning my back on him.

It was such musing that led me to wander rather aimlessly about the darkened streets whilst waiting for the signal from the Curtis Peck that boarding was under way. How, I cannot precisely recall, but suddenly I found myself in the vicinity of Locust Alley, several blocks interior of the Richmond wharf district. Those familiar with the city will know this to be a place of questionable propriety. As soon as I realized where I had absently trespassed, I made immediate progress to take myself from this precarious section of the city.

It was then that I first became aware of being followed. When I heard the hollow steps echoing on the cobblestones behind me, I stopped. The sinister walker, apparently realizing that I had ceased to advance, stopped his movement also. I—or should I say we—listened, as though the two of us were opponents in some sightless game of chess. I heard only my own stertorous breathing above the heavy rushing of the river just to the south. Foolishly, I called out, perhaps assuming that whoever was following would be so distracted as to give up his pursuit. There was no answer. I continued my way; likewise, the walker behind me renewed his progress. I hastened and could hear his steps accelerating to match my own. I dared a quick look over my shoulder as I stumbled in the dark. Some large shadowy figure was surely overtaking me. Driven by my illness and seized by the knowledge that in my weakened state I should offer little resistance to an attacker—and, for all I knew there could be several gamins approaching—I made a mad career toward the first light I perceived at the end of the street. Approaching an entrance to a garishly lit building, I pounded maniacally upon the door as the dark figure came upon me with great speed, a monstrous cudgel held high above his head. He was about to deliver the first killing blow; I saw nothing but his evil eyes, narrow and vicious as they trained themselves upon me in the glare of the light emanating from the building. I backed terrified into the door well, preparing to receive the imminent violence. Throwing my left arm in front of my face, I cursed myself for foolishly leaving in the hotel Dr. Carter’s walking stick, which was equipped with concealed dagger in its handle. Unarmed, as I now was, any attempt to ward off my attacker seemed futile. I should die, it was now plain to me, in a loathsome alley at the hands of a merciless killer. One last desperate act of self-preservation caused me to call aloud for rescue as the door into which I had repeatedly thrust my body opened suddenly, causing me to sprawl headlong into the antechamber of what appeared to be a rather disreputable inn. The dark figure, bending toward me uttered an evil imprecation, and receded immediately into the black void of the night.

II

I was born in Dinwiddie County, Virginia, in 1831. The plantation I called home was Helen’s Hill, named for the mother of Thomas T. Reynolds, a wealthy tobacco planter, who owned not only my mother and me but over a hundred other slaves. Not all of us were field hands—or even house servants. Many had been trained as craftsmen and were always being rented out to work on various jobs. In fact, it wasn’t unusual for these skilled workers to be gone weeks at a time, helping to build barns, lay foundations of houses or do the finish carpentry inside grand homes. The money that they brought into Helen’s Hill helped immensely with the economy of the estate while the little cash that each was allowed to keep gave Reynolds’ Niggers—as we were called—a social standing envied throughout the county by less fortunate slaves.

My mother’s name was Mae. I was called Eleonora at birth, but in time I became Mae’s Lenore. We used no last name. After the War, slaves often took the family names of the people who had once owned them. Mae never lived to see emancipation, but even if she had, I am sure that she would have never allowed anyone to call her Reynolds, even though she had a real claim to that name. It was common knowledge that she was the daughter of Talbot Reynolds, wild and profligate younger brother of Thomas. Talbot spent his short life entangled in one scandal after another, almost always affairs de coeur. He had fought several duels with the notable men in Dinwiddie County by the time some sort of strange fever and paralysis dealt him the final blow long before I was born. As part of the settlement of Talbot’s rather meager estate, Mae was left to Master Thomas, whose wife, Lyla Shaw Reynolds, knew what everyone else knew about my mother’s lineage. For that reason, Miss Lyla would not allow Mae to come into the main house whenever it could be prevented. To his credit, Master Reynolds never allowed his wife to sell my mother; he kept her apart from the other slaves, providing especially for her, and allowing her to be taught to read and write, which was against the law, but he did it. And so, she was able to pass this knowledge on to me.

The story told me was that on one summer night, when my mother, a seamstress, was working in her own small cottage built close by the rear entrance of Helen’s Hill, an associate of Master Reynolds became intoxicated and broke in upon her. The struggle was pointless; the man was strong and enraged with lust for my mother, whom he had watched grow into womanhood. He assaulted her twice, keeping her bound and gagged in the interval. In the morning, he left, thinking no one had seen him enter the cottage and that he had killed her. Needless to say, she survived. I was the child of that outrage.

Mother’s assailant, I will never dignify him with the word father, was not prosecuted. Master Reynolds might have brought charges that his property had been abused, but he did not. The rapist’s family had land holdings throughout the county, and the Reynolds were in debt to them on several accounts, so nothing was ever said about the assault. After my mother recuperated, however, she refused to directly address Master Reynolds again. As far as I know, she never allowed another man to touch her. She carried a silent hatred of all males white or black for the rest of her life. I always thank God I was born a woman, for I’m not sure what mother would have done with me had I been a boy child. Mae was not