The Pale Blue Eye: A Novel (18 page)

I should have known it even then. She was dying.

Well, I didn't say quite all that to my young friend, just the nicer parts: sobs, huzzahs. Never have I had a more captive audience. He sat there at my feet, in a trance, practically watching the words as they came out of my mouth. And afterward, he questioned me as sharply as an Inquisitor. Wanted me to repeat everything, to call back details I was beyond remembering: the color of her costume, the names of the other players, the size of the orchestra. "And her song," he said, breathing heavy. "Can you sing it now?" No, I didn't think I could. It had been more than twenty years. I was very sorry, but I couldn't.

Which mattered not a bit. Poe sang it himself, right there on my sitting-room floor.

Last night the dogs did bark, I went to the gate to see, When ev'ry lass had her spark, But nobody came to me.

And it's O! dear what will become of me O! dear what shall I do, Nobody coming to marry me, Nobody coming to woo Nobody coming to woo.

I remembered it only when he reached the coda, an ascending scale to the dominant tapering back at the last second to the tonic--most affecting. As Poe himself seemed to know, for he drew out those final three notes. A good lyric baritone he had, and he didn't preen with it as he did with his speaking voice. He seemed to be meeting the notes as he went along. And when that last note had dwindled away, he raised his head and said, "My key, not hers." And then, with more emotion, "How privileged you were, Mr. Landor, to hear it."

It had indeed been a privilege, that's what I told him. I would have said that even if it hadn't been. My motto is never get between a man and his dead mama.

"What was she like on stage?" he asked.

"She was charming."

"You're not just--"

"No, no, she was delightful. Girlish and... clear, in a very nice way."

"That's what they tell me. I wish I could have seen for myself." He wrapped his chin in his hands. "How extraordinary, Mr. Landor, that Fate should have connected us in such a fashion. I could almost believe that the whole purpose of your seeing her was so that you might one day report back to me."

"And now I have," I replied.

"Yes, and what a--what a blessing it is." Looking down, he wormed his hands together, feeling the friction of finger against finger. "You understand how it is, Mr. Landor--to be so utterly bereft, I mean. To lose the one who is dearer to you than life."

"Yes, I suppose I do," I said, evenly.

"I wonder." He glanced up with an appeasing smile. "Would you mind telling me about her?"

"Who?"

"Your daughter. I should be glad to hear, if you wouldn't object."

There was a good question: did I object? It had been so long since anyone had asked me that if I had any objections, I could no longer remember what they were. And so--because he'd asked so nicely and because no one else was there and because the fire had died down to a murmur and the air was growing chill round the edges-- and, I suppose, because it was a Sunday afternoon, which was when she always felt nearest to me--I began talking.

In no particular order. I just bounced across the years, landing on one memory, rebounding off another. There she was, falling from an elm tree in Green-Wood Cemetery. And there she was, sitting in the midst of Fulton Market. From the youngest age, she could just be set down in the busiest of marketplaces, and she wouldn't budge, wouldn't complain--she always knew someone would be coming back for her. And there she was, buying a dress at Arnold Constable for her thirteenth birthday and, oh, eating ice cream at Contoit's and giving a hug to Jerry Thomas, the bartender at the Metropolitan Hotel.

Her petticoats always made a certain sound, peculiar to her, like a stream churning against a weir. She walked with her head slightly down, as though she were checking the laces of her boots. Only poets could make her cry; humans, almost never. If someone spoke crossly to her, she would stare right into him, as though she were trying to understand the terrible change that had come over him.

And she could do dialects--Irish and Italian and at least three different varieties of German-- God knows where she learned them all--the streets of New York, I guess. She might have had a career in the theater herself if she hadn't been so--so inward. Oh, and she had this curious way of holding her pen, her whole fist curled round the shaft, as though she were trying to spear a fish. We could never get her to hold it any other way, no matter how much her hand cramped.

Her laugh, too, did I mention that? Such a private sound--nothing more than a gust of air through the nostrils--accompanied, maybe, by a tremor of the jaw, a stiffening of the neck. Oh, you had to be alert to know when that girl was laughing, or you'd miss it completely.

"You haven't told me her name," said Poe.

"Her name?"

"Yes."

"Mattie," I said.

And something fell out of my voice. I should have given up speaking altogether, but I staggered on.

"Mattie is her name."

I laid my arm against my steaming eyes and gasped out a laugh. "I'm afraid you find me a bit out of sorts, I do apologize..."

"You needn't say any more," he said gently. "If you don't care to."

"Maybe I will just stop for now." It was awkward, yes. I would have tried to pretend nothing had happened, but Poe saw no need. He took what I'd said and stored it away and spoke to me as intimately as if he'd known me all his life.

"I do thank you, Mr. Landor."

And there was in his tone the sweetest form of absolution. I never stopped to ask myself what I was being absolved of. I only knew that whatever embarrassment I'd felt was already seeping away.

"Thank you, Mr. Poe."

I gave him a nod. Then I sprang to my feet and went in search of snuff.

"So!" I called back. "In the midst of all this chatter, I believe we've quite forgotten the job we were charged with. You say you've found something?"

"Better than that, Mr. Landor. Someone."

Poe had made his move (as expected) on Friday afternoon, right after evening parade but before mess was blown. This interval, he had used to approach one of the leaders of the prayer squad--a third classman by the name of Llewellyn Lee. In a low, entreating voice, Poe had asked whether he might join the group at their next convocation, as Sunday chapel would be too long a wait. This Lee quickly called together several of his squad-mates for an impromptu discussion by the gun trestles.

"A dreary tribe, Mr. Landor. Had I voiced to them my true religious principles, they would instantly have banished me from their ranks. As it was, I had to affect a docility and deference quite outside my usual character."

"I do appreciate that, Mr. Poe."

"Luck was on our side, however. Being zealots, they are fundamentally credulous in all matters. As a consequence, they had no qualms about inviting me to their next meeting. And when I informed them that I was in dire need of spiritual counsel, owing to a recent encounter with a fellow cadet--well, I hardly need tell you that this piqued their interest. Please explain yourself, they said. I announced then, in fearstruck accents, that certain overtures had been made to me by this same cadet. Overtures of a rather dark and, to my mind, un-Christian nature. Upon further prompting, I told them I had been exhorted to query the very grounds of my faith... and to apprentice myself in mysterious and arcane practices of ancient provenance."

(Was that really how he put it to them? I don't doubt it.)

"Well, they rose to it, Mr. Landor. To a man, they demanded to know who this importunate cadet was. I told them, of course, that as his confidences had been made to me in private, I was honor-bound not to reveal the fellow's name. They said, Oh yes, we understand, but a minute later, they were back at it: Who? Who was it?"

The memory of it made his eyes twinkle. "Ah, but I stood firm. I said they could not drag it from me did God himself threaten to smite me with a lightning bolt. It would not be right, I said. Against all the codes of an officer and a gentleman. Well, we went back and forth until one of them, goaded beyond all endurance, at last broke out with: Is it Marquis?"

There was a savage grin on his face now. He was pleased with himself, no denying it, and who could blame him? It's not every day a plebe gets the better of upperclassmen.

"Et alors, Mr. Landor! Thanks to my little ruse and their callow sensibilities, we now have at our disposal a name."

"And that was all they gave you? A name?"

"They didn't dare do more. The fellow who let it slip was instantly pummeled into silence."

"But I don't understand. Why did they mention Dr. Marquis when you had expressly told them it was a cadet?"

"Not Dr. Marquis--Artemus Marquis."

"Artemus?"

That grin stretched wider now. All those pearly perfect teeth in full revelry.

"Dr. Marquis' only son," he said. "A first classman. And reputedly a dabbler in black magic."

Narrative of Gus Landor

15

November 7th to the 11th

And from that instant, Poe had a new mission. He was to find some way of getting close to this Artemus Marquis, learn as much as could be learned, and report back to me at punctual intervals. It was here, on the brink of his next adventure, that my young spy blanched.

"Mr. Landor, with all due respects, it's impossible."

"Why is that?"

"Oh, it's undeniable that I--I possess some small local renown, but I've no reason to believe I am known to Mr. Marquis. For all that we march in the same cadet company, we've no acquaintance in common, and being a plebe, I've scant resources for contracting any sort of social intimacy..."

No, no, he assured me, it wouldn't do. Teasing a name out of the prayer squad, that had been one thing; worming his way into the confidences of a first classman would be quite another.

"I'm sure you'll find a way," I said. "You can be very charming when you set your mind to it."

"But what am I to look for, exactly?" "Why, I'm afraid I don't yet know, Mr. Poe. It seems to me the first task is to gain Mr. Marquis' trust. Once you've secured that, you need only keep your eyes and ears open."

And when still he caviled, I laid a hand on his shoulder and said:

"Mr. Poe, if anyone is capable of this, you are."

Which I think I must have believed. Why else would I have let an entire week go by without word from him? Although, by the time Thursday night rolled round, I admit I'd begun to despair of our project's success. I was actually in the act of framing my defense before Hitchcock when I heard a thump against my hotel door.

By the time I opened it, the hall was empty. The package, though, that was waiting for me in its plain brown wrapper.

And here was I, expecting scraps of intelligence, the briefest of bulletins. Leave it to Poe to produce an entire manuscript. Pages upon pages! God knows when he'd found the time to write it all out. It's well known what a taskmaster Thayer is: reveille at dawn, morning maneuvers, meals, recitations, drills, parade, tattoo at nine-thirty. Cadets can't get more than seven hours of sleep on any given night. Looking at Poe's account of the past week, I'd say he got by with even less than his usual four.

I read it all in one sitting. And it gave me no small pleasure, partly because, like all narratives, it says so much about the author--though not, of course, what the author himself would say.

Report of Edgar A. Poe to Augustus Landor

November 11th

Enclosed you will find a brief history of my investigations undertaken to the present date.

I have endeavored in every way to be as factual as possible--precision, Mr. Landor!--with none of the lyrical accents that would occasion you pain. Wherever I err toward Fancy, kindly excuse it as not the prerogative--the reflex of a Poet, unable to pry his soul free of its vocation.

I believe I impressed upon you the nearly insurmountable challenges I faced in forming an intimacy with Artemus Marquis. Indeed, I spent the better part of Sunday night and early Monday morning turning the problem over in my mind. I came at length to a certain conclusion--namely, that forcing myself on young Marquis' attentions would demand a public display such as would align me with his deepest and, unless I presume too far, his darkest sympathies.

Accordingly, as soon as Monday's reveille roll call had finished, I lost no time in making my way to the hospital, where I was able to present myself directly to Dr. Marquis. This good gentleman asked me what it was ailed me. I informed him that I was sick at my stomach. "Vertigo, hey?" cried Dr. Marquis. "Let me feel of your pulse. Pretty quick. Very well, Mr. Poe, keep in the house today and take care of yourself. Matron will give you a dose of salts. Tomorrow, I want you to knock about, take exercise, stir yourself. Nothing better." Armed with salts and a note excusing me from duties, I presented myself next to Lieutenant Joseph Locke, who, in tandem with his cadet commanders, was overseeing the breakfast formation. I could not help but note Mr. Artemus Marquis standing among their ranks.
A brief word about his appearance, Mr. Landor. He is perhaps five feet and ten inches, slender and well knit, with hazel-green eyes and chestnut hair of such a curly disposition that the Academy barbers have yet to tame it. Mindful of his privileges as a first classman, he has even begun to sport a mustache which he trims with great rigor. A smile seems always to play on his lips, which are full and warm. He is reckoned extremely handsome, I believe, and a more susceptible soul might suppose that Byron himself had been reborn in all his beauty.

Lieutenant Locke, upon reading the doctor's note, affected a great scowl. Cognizant now that I possessed an audience--and in particular the young Marquis--I took this advantage to announce that in addition to the vertigo, I was laid under by an even worse ailment: grand ennui seizure.

"Grand ennui?" expostulated the lieutenant.

"Of a most pronounced character," said I.

At this, a few of the more discerning cadets began to titter amongst themselves. Others, however, impatient at the delay, began to vent their displeasure in no uncertain terms. "What a fast animal it is! Hey, get on with it, Dad!" (I must regretfully supply context for this last epithet. In respect to my fellow classmates, I am considered somewhat older in appearance-- nothing to be wondered at, as I am further on in years than most of them. My roommate, Mr. Gibson, by way of comparison, is no more than fifteen. There has even been circulated a scurrilous rumor that my Academy appointment was originally intended for my son and was passed to me upon that hypothetical young man's untimely death.) These imbecile antics were summarily silenced by the cadet adjutant, and I am pleased to report that most of the fellows in my company looked upon the proceedings with no comment. Artemus Marquis was one of these.