The Portable Edgar Allan Poe (75 page)

 

Ah, Annie Annie!
my
Annie! what cruel thoughts about your Eddy must have been torturing your heart during the last terrible fortnight, in which you have heard
nothing
from me—not even one little word to say that I still lived & loved you. But Annie I know that you
felt
too deeply the nature of my love for you, to doubt
that
, even for one moment, & this thought has comforted me in my bitter sorrow—I could bear that you should imagine
every other evil except that one
—that my soul had been untrue to yours. Why am I not
with you
now
darling
that I might sit by your side, press your dear hand in mine, & look deep down into the clear Heaven of your eyes—so that the words which I now can only
write
, might sink into your heart, and make you comprehend what it is that I would say—And yet Annie,
all
that I wish to say—all that my soul pines to express at this instant, is included in the one word,
love
—To be with you now—so that I might whisper in your ear the divine emotions, which agitate me—I would willingly—oh
joyfully
abandon this world with all my hopes of another:—but you
believe
this, Annie—you do believe it, & will always believe it—So long as I think that you
know
I love you, as no man ever loved woman—so long as I think you comprehend in some measure, the fervor with which I adore you,
so
long, no worldly trouble can ever render me absolutely wretched. But oh,
my darling
,
my
Annie, my own sweet
sister
Annie, my
pure
beautiful angel—
wife
of my soul—to be mine hereafter &
forever in the Heavens
—how shall I explain to you the
bitter, bitter
anguish which has tortured me since I left you? You saw, you
felt
the agony of grief with which I bade you farewell—You remember my expressions of gloom—of a dreadful horrible foreboding of ill—Indeed—
indeed
it seemed to me that death approached me even then, & that I was involved in the shadow which went before him—As I clasped you to my heart, I said to myself—“it is for the last time, until we meet in Heaven”—I remember nothing distinctly, from that moment until I found myself in Providence—I went to bed & wept through a long, long, hideous night of despair—When the day broke, I arose & endeavored to quiet my mind by a rapid walk in the cold, keen air—but all
would
not do—the demon tormented me still. Finally I procured two ounces of laudanum & without returning to my Hotel, took the cars back to Boston. When I arrived, I wrote you a letter, in which I opened my whole heart to you—to
you
—my Annie, whom I so madly, so distractedly love—I told you how my struggles were more than I could bear—how my soul revolted from saying the words which were to be said—and that not even for your dear sake, could I bring myself to say them. I then reminded you of that holy promise, which was the last I exacted from you in parting—the promise that, under all circumstances, you would come to me on my bed of death—I implored you to come
then
—mentioning the place where I should be found in Boston—Having written this letter, I swallowed about half the laudanum & hurried to the Post-Office—intending not to take the rest until I saw you—for, I did not doubt for one moment, that
my own
Annie would keep her sacred promise—But I had not calculated on the strength of the laudanum, for, before I reached the Post Office my reason was entirely gone, & the letter was never put in. Let me pass over, my darling
Sister
, the awful horrors which succeeded—A friend was at hand, who aided & (if it can be called saving) saved me—but it is only within the last three days that I have been able to remember what occurred in that dreary interval—It appears that, after the laudanum was rejected from the stomach, I became calm, & to a casual observer, sane—so that I was suffered to go back to Providence—Here I saw
her, &
spoke, for
your
sake, the words which you urged me to speak—Ah Annie Annie!
my
Annie!—is your heart
so
strong?—is there
no
hope!—is there
none
?—I feel that I
must
die if I persist, & yet, how can I now retract with honor?—Ah
beloved
, think—think for
me &
for yourself—do I not
love you
Annie? do you not
love me
? Is not this
all
? Beyond this blissful thought, what other consideration
can
there be in this dreary world! It is not
much
that I ask,
sweet sister Annie
—my mother & myself would take a small cottage at Westford—oh
so
small—so
very
humble—I should be far away from the tumults of the world—from the ambition which I loathe—I would labor day & night, and with industry, I could accomplish
so
much—Annie! it would be a Paradise beyond my wildest hopes—I could see some of your beloved family
every
day, & you often—oh VERY often—I would hear from you continually—regularly &
our
dear mother would be with us & love us both—ah
darling
—do not these pictures touch your inmost heart? Think—oh
think
for me—before the words—the vows are spoken, which put yet another terrible
bar
between us—before the time goes by, beyond which there must be
no
thinking—I call upon you in the name of God—in the name of the holy love I bear you, to be
sincere
with me—
Can you, my
Annie,
bear
to think I am another’s?
It would give me supreme—infinite bliss
to hear you say that you could
not
bear it—I am at home now with my dear muddie who is endeavoring to comfort me—but the sole words which soothe me, are those in which she speaks of “
my Annie”
—she tells me that she has written you, begging you to come on to Fordham—ah beloved Annie, IS IT NOT POSSIBLE? I am so
ill
—
so
terribly, hopelessly ILL in body and mind, that I feel I CANNOT live, unless I can feel your sweet, gentle, loving hand pressed upon my forehead—oh my
pure, virtuous, generous, beautiful, beautiful sister
Annie!—is it not POSSIBLE for you to come—if only for one little week?—until I subdue this fearful agitation, which if continued, will either destroy my life or, drive me hopelessly mad—Farewell—here & hereafter—

Forever your own
EDDY—

 

My dear friend Thomas,

Your letter, dated Nov. 27, has reached me at a little village of the Empire State, after having taken, at its leisure, a very considerable tour among the P. Offices—occasioned, I presume, by your endorsement “to forward” wherever I might be—and the fact is, where I might
not
have been, for the last three months, is the legitimate question. At all events, now that I have your well-known M.S. before me, it is most cordially welcome. Indeed, it seems an age since I heard from you and a decade of ages since I shook you by the hand—although I hear of you now and then. Right glad am I to find you once more in a true position—in the “field of Letters.” Depend upon it, after all, Thomas, Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man. For my own part, there is no seducing me from the path. I shall be a
litterateur
, at least, all my life; nor would I abandon the hopes which still lead me on for all the gold in California. Talking of gold, and of the temptations at present held out to “poor-devil authors”, did it ever strike you that all which is really valuable to a man of letters—to a poet in especial—is absolutely unpurchaseable? Love, fame, the dominion of intellect, the consciousness of power, the thrilling sense of beauty, the free air of Heaven, exercise of body & mind, with the physical and moral health which result—these and such as these are really all that a poet cares for:—then answer me this—
why
should he go to California? Like Brutus, “I pause for a reply”—which, like F. W. Thomas, I take it for granted you have no intention of giving me.—[I have read the Prospectus of the “Chronicle” and like it much especially the part where you talk about “letting go the finger” of that conceited body, the East—which is by no means the East out of which came the wise men mentioned in Scripture!] I wish you would come down on the Frogpondians. They are getting worse and worse, and pretend not to be aware that there
are
any literary people out of Boston. The worst and most disgusting part of the matter is, that the Bostonians are really, as a race, far inferior in point of
anything beyond mere talent
, to any other
set
upon the continent of N. A. They are decidedly the most servile imitators of the English it is possible to conceive. I always get into a passion when I think about. It would be the easiest thing in the world to use them up
en masse.
One really well-written satire would accomplish the business:—but it must not be such a dish of skimmed milk-and-water as Lowell’s.

I suppose you have seen that affair—the “Fable for Critics” I mean. Miss Fuller, that detestable old maid—told him, once, that he was “so wretched a poet as to be disgusting even to his best friends”. This set him off at a tangent and he has never been quite right since:—so he took to writing satire against mankind in general, with Margaret Fuller and her
protégé
, Cornelius Matthews, in particular. It is miserably weak upon the whole, but has one or two good, but by no means
original
, things—Oh, there is “
nothing
new under the sun” & Solomon is right—for once. I sent a review of the “Fable” to the “S. L. Messenger” a day or two ago, and I only hope Thompson will print it. Lowell is a ranting abolitionist and
deserves
a good using up. It is a pity that he is a poet.—I have not seen your paper yet, and hope you will mail me one—regularly if you can spare it. I will send you something whenever I get a chance.—[With your co-editor, Mr (unreadable) I am not acquainted personally but he is well known to me by reputation. Eames, I think, was talking to me about him in Washington once, and spoke very highly of him in many respects—so upon the whole you are in luck]—The rock on which most new enter-prizes, in the paper way, split, is namby-pamby-ism. It never did do & never will. No yea-nay journal
ever
succeeded.—but I know there is little danger of your making the Chronicle a yea-nay one. I have been quite out of the literary world for the last three years, and have
said
little or nothing, but, like the owl, I have “taken it out in thinking”. By and bye I mean to come out of the bush, and then I have
some
old scores to settle. I fancy I see some of my
friends
already stepping up to the Captain’s office. The fact is, Thomas, living buried in the country makes a man savage—wolfish. I am just in the humor for a fight. You will be pleased to hear that I am in better health than I ever knew myself to be—full of energy and bent upon success. You shall hear of me again shortly—and it is not improbable that I may soon pay you a visit in Louisville.—If I can do anything for you in New-York, let me know.—Mrs Clemm sends her best respects & begs to be remembered to your mother’s family, if they are with you.—You would oblige me very especially if you could squeeze in what follows, editorially. The lady spoken of is a most particular friend of mine, and deserves
all
I have said of her. I will reciprocate the favor I ask, whenever you say the word and show me how. Address me at N.
York City,
as usual and if you insert the following, please cut it out & enclose it in your letter.

Truly your friend,
EDGAR A POE.

 

My dear, dear
Mother,—

I have been
so
ill—have had the cholera, or spasms quiet as bad, and can now hardly hold the pen. . . .

The very instant you get this,
come
to me. The joy of seeing you will almost compensate for our sorrows. We can but die together. It is no use to reason with me
now
; I must die. I have no desire to live since I have done “Eureka.” I could accomplish nothing more. For your sake it would be sweet to live, but we must die together. You have been all in all to me, darling, ever beloved mother, and dearest, truest friend.

I was never
really
insane, except on occasions where my heart was touched. . . .