Edgar Allan Poe: His Life, Letters, and Opinions — John H. Ingram, 1880, volume II — reading text

their fair author’s personal appearance had upon his mind: — “And now, in the most simple words I can command, let me paint to you the impression made upon me by your personal presence. As you entered the room, pale, hesitating, and evidently oppressed at heart; as your eyes rested for one brief moment upon mine, I felt, for the first time in my life, and tremblingly acknowledged, the existence of spiritual influences altogether out of the reach of the reason. I saw that you were Helen — my Helen — the Helen of a thousand dreams. . . . She whom the great Giver of all good had preordained to be mine — mine only — if not now, alas! then hereafter and for ever in the Heavens. — You spoke falteringly and seemed scarcely conscious of what you said. I heard no words — only the soft voice more familiar to me than my own. . . . “Your hand rested within mine and my whole soul shook with a tremulous ecstacy: and then, but for the fear of grieving or wounding you, I would have fallen at your feet in as pure — in as real a worship as was ever offered to Idol, or to God. “And when, afterwards, on those two successive evenings of all-heavenly delight, you passed to and fro about the room — now sitting by my side, now far away, now standing with your hand resting on the back of my chair, while the preternatural thrill of your touch vibrated even through the senseless wood into my heart — while you moved thus restlessly about the room — as if a deep sorrow or a most profound joy haunted your bosom — my brain reeled beneath the intoxicating spell of your presence, and it was with no merely human senses that I either saw or heard you. It was my soul only that distinguished you there. . . . “Let me quote to you a passage from your letter: — . . . ‘Although my reverence for your intellect and my admiration for your genius make me feel like a child in your presence you are not perhaps aware that I am many years older than yourself.’ . . . But grant that what you urge were even true. Do you not feel in your inmost heart of hearts that the ’Soul love’ of which the world speaks so often and so idly is, in this instance, at least, but the veriest — the most absolute of realities? Do you not — I ask it of your reason, darling, not less than of your hart — do you not perceive that it is my diviner nature — my spiritual being which burns and pants to commingle with your own I Has the soul age, Helen? Can Immortality regard Time? Can that which began never and shall never end consider a few wretched years of its incarnate life? Ah, I could almost be angry with you for the unwarranted wrong you offer to the sacred reality of my affection. “And how am I to answer what you say of your personal appearance? Have I not seen you, Helen? Have I not heard the more than melody of your voice? Has not my heart ceased to throb beneath the magic of your smile? Have I not held your hand in mine and looked steadily into your soul through the crystal Heaven of your eyes? Have I done all these things? — Or do I dream? — or am I mad? Were you indeed all that your fancy, enfeebled and perverted by illness, tempts you to suppose you are, still, life of my life! I would but love you but worship you the more. But as it is what can I — what am I to say? Who ever spoke of you without emotion — without praise I Who ever saw you and did not love? “But now a deadly terror oppresses me; for I too clearly see that these objections, so groundless — so futile. . . . I tremble lest they but serve to mask others more real, and which you hesitate — perhaps in pity — to confide to me. “Alas! I too distinctly perceive, also, that in no instance you have ever permitted yourself to say that you love me. You are aware, sweet Helen, that on my part there are insuperable reasons forbidding me to urge upon you my love. Were I not poor — had not my late errors and reckless excesses justly lowered me in the esteem of the good — were I wealthy, or could I offer you worldly honours — ah then — then — how proud would I be to persevere — to plead with you for your love. . . . “Ah, Helen! my soul! — what is it that I have been saying to you? — to what madness have I been urging you? — I, who am nothing to you — you who have a dear mother and sister to be blessed by your life and love. But ah, darling! if I seem selfish, yet believe that I truly, truly love you, and that it is the most spiritual love that I speak, even if I speak it from the depths of the most passionate of hearts. Think — oh, think for me, Helen, and for yourself. . . . “I would comfort you — soothe you — tranquillize you. You would rest from care — from all worldly perturbation. You would get better and finally well. And if not, Helen — if you died — then, at least! I would clasp your dear hand in death, and willingly — oh, joyfully — joyfully go down with you into the night of the grave. “Write soon — soon — oh soon! — but not much. Do not weary or agitate yourself for my sake. Say to me those coveted words that would turn Earth into Heaven.” The correspondence thus inaugurated was continued by equally characteristic communications from Poe. In a letter dated the 18th October, occur these passages: — “You do not love me, or you would have felt too thorough a sympathy with the sensitiveness of my nature, to have so wounded me as you have done with this terrible passage of your letter: — “ ‘How often I have heard it said of you,“He has great intellectual power, but no principle — no moral sense.’ ” “Is it possible that such expressions as these could have been repeated to me — to me — by one whom I loved — ah, whom I love! . . . “By the God who reigns in Heaven, I swear to you that my soul is incapable of dishonor — that, with the exception of occasional follies and excesses which I bitterly lament but to which I have been driven by intolerable sorrow, and which are hourly committed by others without attracting any notice whatever — I can call to mind no act of my life which would bring a blush to my cheek — or to yours. If I have erred at all in this regard, it has been on the side of what the world would call a Quixotic sense of the honorable — of the chivalrous. The indulgence of this sense has been the true voluptuousness of my life. It was for this species of luxury that in early youth I deliberately threw away from me a large fortune rather than endure a trivial wrong. Ah, how profound is my love for you, since it forces me into these egotisms, for which you will inevitably despise me! . . . “For nearly three years I have been ill, poor, living out of the world; and thus, as I now painfully see, have afforded opportunity to my enemies to slander me in private society without my knowledge, and thus with impunity. Although much, however, may (and, I now see, must) have been said to my discredit, during my retirement, those few who, knowing me well, have been steadfastly my friends, permitted nothing to reach my ears — unless in one instance of such a character that I could appeal to a court of justice for redress. “I replied to the charge fully in a public newspaper — afterwards suing the Mirror (in which the scandal appeared), obtaining a verdict and recovering such an amount of damages as, for the time, completely to break up that journal. And you ask me why men so misjudge me — why I have enemies. If your knowledge of my character and of my career does not afford you an answer to the query, at least it does not become me to suggest the answer. Let it suffice that I have had the audacity to remain poor that I might preserve my independence — that, nevertheless, in letters, to a certain extent and in certain regards, I have been ’successful’ — that I have been a critic — an unscrupulously honest and no doubt in many cases a bitter one — that I have uniformly attacked — where I attacked at all — those who stood highest in power and influence — and that — whether in literature or society, I have seldom refrained from expressing, either directly or indirectly, the pure contempt with which the pretensions of ignorance, arrogance, or imbecility inspire me. And you who know all this — you ask me why I have enemies. Ah, I have a hundred friends for every individual enemy, but has it ever occurred to you that you do not live among my friends? “Had you read my criticisms generally, you would see why all those whom — you know best know me least and are my enemies. Do you not remember with how deep a sigh I said to you. . . . My heart is heavy, for I see that your friends are not my own? . . . “But the cruel sentence in your letter would not — could not so deeply have wounded me, had my soul been first strengthened by those assurances of your love which I so wildly — so vainly — and, I now feel, so presumptuously entreated. That our souls are one, every line which you have ever written asserts — but our hearts do not beat in unison. — “That many persons, in your presence, have declared me wanting in honor appeals irresistibly to an instinct of my nature — an instinct which I feel to be honor, let the dis honorable say what they may, and forbids me, under such circumstances, to insult you with my love. . . . “Forgive me, best and only — beloved Helen, if there be bitterness in my tone. Towards you there is no room in my soul for any other sentiment than devotion. It is Fate only which I accuse. It is my own unhappy nature.” . . . Before Mrs. Whitman had answered this indignant protest, Poe went to Providence and entreated her to forgive his waywardness and his reproaches, and to remember only the reasons which he had urged why she should confide her future welfare and happiness to him. Finally, he urged her to defer her decision for a week, and exacted a promise that she would write to him at Lowell, previous to his return to New York, implying that his return viá Providence would depend upon the tenor of her letter. Unwilling to say the word which might separate them for ever, and unable to give him the answer he besought her to accord him, Mrs. Whitman delayed writing from day to day. At last she sent a brief and indecisive note which perplexed Poe; by return he wrote to say that he should be at Providence the following evening. Thither he went, but instead of going to Mrs. Whitman’s returned in a terribly depressed state to Boston, and, by an abortive attempt at suicide — particulars of which will be elsewhere given* — reduced himself to a truly deplorable condition. Early the following Monday the hapless poet again arrived in Providence, and on the morning of that day called on Mrs. Whitman. Agitated and unnerved on account of his having failed to call on the Saturday evening as promised in his letter, she had passed a restless night and was then quite unable to see him, but sent word by a servant that she would see him at noon. He returned a message to the effect that he had an engagement and must see her at once. Eventually he asked for writing-paper and sent her the following note: — “DEAR HELEN — I have no engagement, but am very ill — so much so that I must go home if possible — but if you say ’Stay,’ I will try and do so. If you cannot see me — write me one word to say that you do love me and that, under all circumstances, you will be mine. “Remember that these coveted words you have never yet spoken — and, nevertheless, I have not reproached you. If you can see me, even for a few moments, do so — but if not, write or send some message which will comfort me.” Mrs. Whitman wrote. that she would positively see him at noon. He called, and on that and the following day of endeavoured with all the eloquence which he could exert “with such matchless power,” to persuade her to marry him at once and return with him to New York. When Poe called on the second day Mrs. Whitman showed him some letters she had received, in which her correspondents strongly expostulated with her for receiving the poet’s addresses. One of these communications contained the passage