The Slender Poe Anthology (20 page)

“The disturbance in the street had been occasioned by the frantic
behavior of a man with a musket. He had fired it among a crowd of women
and children. It proved, however, to have been without ball, and the
fellow was suffered to go his way as a lunatic or a drunkard. When
he had gone, D
—
came from the window, whither I had followed him
immediately upon securing the object in view. Soon afterwards I bade him
farewell. The pretended lunatic was a man in my own pay.”

“But what purpose had you,” I asked, “in replacing the letter by a
fac-simile? Would it not have been better, at the first visit, to have
seized it openly, and departed?”

“D
—
,” replied Dupin, “is a desperate man, and a man of nerve. His
hotel, too, is not without attendants devoted to his interests. Had
I made the wild attempt you suggest, I might never have left the
Ministerial presence alive. The good people of Paris might have heard
of me no more. But I had an object apart from these considerations. You
know my political prepossessions. In this matter, I act as a partisan of
the lady concerned. For eighteen months the Minister has had her in his
power. She has now him in hers
—
since, being unaware that the letter is
not in his possession, he will proceed with his exactions as if it
was. Thus will he inevitably commit himself, at once, to his political
destruction. His downfall, too, will not be more precipitate than
awkward. It is all very well to talk about the
facilis descensus Ave
r
ni
;
but in all kinds of climbing, as Catalani said of singing, it is far
more easy to get up than to come down. In the present instance I have
no sympathy
—
at least no pity
—
for him who descends. He is that
monstrum horrendum
, an unprincipled man of genius. I confess, however, that I
should like very well to know the precise character of his thoughts,
when, being defied by her whom the Prefect terms ‘a certain personage'
he is reduced to opening the letter which I left for him in the
card-rack.”

“How? did you put any thing particular in it?”

“Why
—
it did not seem altogether right to leave the interior blank
—
that
would have been insulting. D
—
, at Vienna once, did me an evil turn,
which I told him, quite good-humoredly, that I should remember. So, as
I knew he would feel some curiosity in regard to the identity of the
person who had outwitted him, I thought it a pity not to give him a
clue. He is well acquainted with my MS., and I just copied into the
middle of the blank sheet the words
—

— Un dessein si funeste,
S'il n'est digne d'Atrée, est digne de Thyeste.

They are to be found in Crebillon's ‘Atrée.'”

The poem first appeared in April 1839, in the
American Museum of Science
,
Literature and the Arts
, out of Baltimore. Five months later in
Burton's
Gentleman's Magazine
, and
Monthly Review
, it had become “embodied” (Poe's term) in
The Fall of the House of Usher
.

Poe attributes the verses to Roderick Usher, the last one standing in an ancient and learned bloodline; it's not one of Usher's “wild fantasias” of guitar and words, but something of a ballad whose “discordant melody” is in a dark key. There's little doubt that Poe was haunted— haunted by rejection, failure, death—all of it housed in his head. In this poem, Poe metaphorically delivers Roderick Usher's “disordered” head. For some reason it reminds me of Hamlet's words, “… for there's nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.”

With regard to the long history of poetry, every poet to some degree participates in a “troop of Echoes.”

THE HAUNTED PALACE

In the greenest of our valleys

By good angels tenanted,

Once a fair and stately palace
—

Radiant palace
—
reared its head.

In the monarch Thought's dominion
—

It stood there!

Never seraph spread a pinion

Over fabric half so fair.

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,

On its roof did float and flow,

(This
—
all this
—
was in the olden

Time long ago,)

And every gentle air that dallied,

In that sweet day,

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,

A winged odour went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,

Through two luminous windows, saw

Spirits moving musically,

To a lute's well-tuned law,

Round about a throne where, sitting,

Porphyrogene,

In state his glory well befitting,

The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing

Was the fair palace door,

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,

And sparkling evermore,

A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty

Was but to sing,

In voices of surpassing beauty,

The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assailed the monarch's high estate.

(Ah, let us mourn!
—
for never sorrow

Shall dawn upon him desolate!)

And round about his home the glory

That blushed and bloomed,

Is but a dim-remembered story

Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,

Through the encrimsoned windows see

Vast forms, that move fantastically

To a discordant melody,

While, lie a ghastly rapid river,

Through the pale door

A hideous throng rush out forever

And laugh
—
but smile no more.

This is a key tale in the understanding of Poe; the 1846 version printed here is the longest and last of its publications during his lifetime.

Poe was no stranger to self-sabotage. For me, the most heartbreaking of episodes regarding his search for steady income came during a visit to Washington, D. C., in 1843, a sinecure government appointment was in the offing; all hope was lost when Poe couldn't manage his drinking. For Poe, the imp was in any alcoholic beverage.

At a time when phrenology—the pseudo-scientific attempt to establish links between the shape and contours of the skull with the mental faculties—was a serious undertaking, Poe expounds on a psychological impulse that contradicts one's best interests; the imp has a Freudian flair about it, a bit of id, a bit of death wish.

If you've ever done anything you knew you shouldn't have, and the consequences were grave, you know all you need to know about the imp.

THE IMP OF THE PERVERSE

In the consideration of the faculties and impulses
—
of the
prima mobilia
of the human soul, the phrenologists have failed to make room for a
propensity which, although obviously existing as a radical, primitive,
irreducible sentiment, has been equally overlooked by all the moralists
who have preceded them. In the pure arrogance of the reason, we have
all overlooked it. We have suffered its existence to escape our senses,
solely through want of belief
—
of faith;
—
whether it be faith in
Revelation, or faith in the Kabbala. The idea of it has never occurred
to us, simply because of its supererogation. We saw no need of the
impulse
—
for the propensity. We could not perceive its necessity. We
could not understand, that is to say, we could not have understood, had
the notion of this
primum mobile
ever obtruded itself;
—
we could not
have understood in what manner it might be made to further the objects
of humanity, either temporal or eternal. It cannot be denied that
phrenology and, in great measure, all metaphysicianism have been
concocted
a priori.
The intellectual or logical man, rather than the
understanding or observant man, set himself to imagine designs
—
to
dictate purposes to God. Having thus fathomed, to his satisfaction, the
intentions of Jehovah, out of these intentions he built his innumerable
systems of mind. In the matter of phrenology, for example, we first
determined, naturally enough, that it was the design of the Deity that
man should eat. We then assigned to man an organ of alimentiveness,
and this organ is the scourge with which the Deity compels man, will-I
nill-I, into eating. Secondly, having settled it to be God's will that
man should continue his species, we discovered an organ of amativeness,
forthwith. And so with combativeness, with ideality, with causality,
with constructiveness,
—
so, in short, with every organ, whether
representing a propensity, a moral sentiment, or a faculty of the pure
intellect. And in these arrangements of the
Principia
of human action,
the Spurzheimites, whether right or wrong, in part, or upon the whole,
have but followed, in principle, the footsteps of their predecessors:
deducing and establishing every thing from the preconceived destiny of
man, and upon the ground of the objects of his Creator.

It would have been wiser, it would have been safer, to classify (if
classify we must) upon the basis of what man usually or occasionally
did, and was always occasionally doing, rather than upon the basis of
what we took it for granted the Deity intended him to do. If we cannot
comprehend God in his visible works, how then in his inconceivable
thoughts, that call the works into being? If we cannot understand him in
his objective creatures, how then in his substantive moods and phases of
creation?

Induction,
a posteriori
, would have brought phrenology to admit, as an
innate and primitive principle of human action, a paradoxical something,
which we may call
perverseness
, for want of a more characteristic term.
In the sense I intend, it is, in fact, a
mobile
without motive, a motive
not
motivirt
. Through its promptings we act without comprehensible
object; or, if this shall be understood as a contradiction in terms, we
may so far modify the proposition as to say, that through its promptings
we act, for the reason that we should not. In theory, no reason can be
more unreasonable, but, in fact, there is none more strong. With certain
minds, under certain conditions, it becomes absolutely irresistible. I
am not more certain that I breathe, than that the assurance of the wrong
or error of any action is often the one unconquerable
force
which impels
us, and alone impels us to its prosecution. Nor will this overwhelming
tendency to do wrong for the wrong's sake, admit of analysis, or
resolution into ulterior elements. It is a radical, a primitive
impulse—elementary. It will be said, I am aware, that when we persist in
acts because we feel we should
not
persist in them, our conduct is but a
modification of that which ordinarily springs from the
combativeness
of phrenology. But a glance will show the fallacy of this idea. The
phrenological combativeness has for its essence, the necessity of
self-defence. It is our safeguard against injury. Its principle regards
our well-being; and thus the desire to be well is excited simultaneously
with its development. It follows, that the desire to be well must
be excited simultaneously with any principle which shall be merely a
modification of combativeness, but in the case of that something which I
term
perverseness
, the desire to be well is not only not aroused, but a
strongly antagonistical sentiment exists.

An appeal to one's own heart is, after all, the best reply to the
sophistry just noticed. No one who trustingly consults and thoroughly
questions his own soul, will be disposed to deny the entire radicalness
of the propensity in question. It is not more incomprehensible than
distinctive. There lives no man who at some period has not been
tormented, for example, by an earnest desire to tantalize a listener by
circumlocution. The speaker is aware that he displeases; he has every
intention to please, he is usually curt, precise, and clear, the most
laconic and luminous language is struggling for utterance upon his
tongue, it is only with difficulty that he restrains himself from giving
it flow; he dreads and deprecates the anger of him whom he addresses;
yet, the thought strikes him, that by certain involutions and
parentheses this anger may be engendered. That single thought is enough.
The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to
an uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the deep regret and
mortification of the speaker, and in defiance of all consequences) is
indulged.

We have a task before us which must be speedily performed. We know that
it will be ruinous to make delay. The most important crisis of our life
calls, trumpet-tongued, for immediate energy and action. We glow, we are
consumed with eagerness to commence the work, with the anticipation of
whose glorious result our whole souls are on fire. It must, it shall be
undertaken to-day, and yet we put it off until to-morrow, and why?
There is no answer, except that we feel
perverse
, using the word with
no comprehension of the principle. To-morrow arrives, and with it a more
impatient anxiety to do our duty, but with this very increase of anxiety
arrives, also, a nameless, a positively fearful, because unfathomable,
craving for delay. This craving gathers strength as the moments fly.
The last hour for action is at hand. We tremble with the violence of
the conflict within us,
—
of the definite with the indefinite
—
of the
substance with the shadow. But, if the contest have proceeded thus
far, it is the shadow which prevails,
—
we struggle in vain. The clock
strikes, and is the knell of our welfare. At the same time, it is
the chanticleer
—
note to the ghost that has so long overawed us. It
flies
—
it disappears
—
we are free. The old energy returns. We will labor
now
. Alas, it is
too late!

We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss
—
we
grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger.
Unaccountably we remain. By slow degrees our sickness and dizziness and
horror become merged in a cloud of unnamable feeling. By gradations,
still more imperceptible, this cloud assumes shape, as did the vapor
from the bottle out of which arose the genius in the Arabian Nights.
But out of this our cloud upon the precipice's edge, there grows into
palpability, a shape, far more terrible than any genius or any demon
of a tale, and yet it is but a thought, although a fearful one, and one
which chills the very marrow of our bones with the fierceness of the
delight of its horror. It is merely the idea of what would be our
sensations during the sweeping precipitancy of a fall from such a
height. And this fall
—
this rushing annihilation
—
for the very reason
that it involves that one most ghastly and loathsome of all the most
ghastly and loathsome images of death and suffering which have ever
presented themselves to our imagination
—
for this very cause do we now
the most vividly desire it. And because our reason violently deters us
from the brink,
therefore
do we the most impetuously approach it. There
is no passion in nature so demoniacally impatient, as that of him who,
shuddering upon the edge of a precipice, thus meditates a Plunge. To
indulge, for a moment, in any attempt at
thought
, is to be inevitably
lost; for reflection but urges us to forbear, and
therefore
it is, I
say, that we
cannot
. If there be no friendly arm to check us, or if we
fail in a sudden effort to prostrate ourselves backward from the abyss,
we plunge, and are destroyed.

Examine these similar actions as we will, we shall find them resulting
solely from the spirit of the
Perverse
. We perpetrate them because we
feel that we should
not
. Beyond or behind this there is no intelligible
principle; and we might, indeed, deem this perverseness a direct
instigation of the Arch-Fiend, were it not occasionally known to operate
in furtherance of good.

I have said thus much, that in some measure I may answer your question,
that I may explain to you why I am here, that I may assign to you
something that shall have at least the faint aspect of a cause for my
wearing these fetters, and for my tenanting this cell of the condemned.
Had I not been thus prolix, you might either have misunderstood me
altogether, or, with the rabble, have fancied me mad. As it is, you will
easily perceive that I am one of the many uncounted victims of the Imp
of the Perverse.

It is impossible that any deed could have been wrought with a more
thorough deliberation. For weeks, for months, I pondered upon the
means of the murder. I rejected a thousand schemes, because their
accomplishment involved a chance of detection. At length, in reading
some French Memoirs, I found an account of a nearly fatal illness that
occurred to Madame Pilau, through the agency of a candle accidentally
poisoned. The idea struck my fancy at once. I knew my victim's habit
of reading in bed. I knew, too, that his apartment was narrow and
ill-ventilated. But I need not vex you with impertinent details. I need
not describe the easy artifices by which I substituted, in his bed-room
candle-stand, a wax-light of my own making for the one which I there
found. The next morning he was discovered dead in his bed, and the
Coroner's verdict was
—
“Death by the visitation of God.”

Having inherited his estate, all went well with me for years. The idea
of detection never once entered my brain. Of the remains of the fatal
taper I had myself carefully disposed. I had left no shadow of a clew
by which it would be possible to convict, or even to suspect me of the
crime. It is inconceivable how rich a sentiment of satisfaction arose
in my bosom as I reflected upon my absolute security. For a very long
period of time I was accustomed to revel in this sentiment. It afforded
me more real delight than all the mere worldly advantages accruing from
my sin. But there arrived at length an epoch, from which the pleasurable
feeling grew, by scarcely perceptible gradations, into a haunting and
harassing thought. It harassed because it haunted. I could scarcely get
rid of it for an instant. It is quite a common thing to be thus annoyed
with the ringing in our ears, or rather in our memories, of the burthen
of some ordinary song, or some unimpressive snatches from an opera.
Nor will we be the less tormented if the song in itself be good, or
the opera air meritorious. In this manner, at last, I would perpetually
catch myself pondering upon my security, and repeating, in a low
undertone, the phrase, “I am safe.”

One day, whilst sauntering along the streets, I arrested myself in the
act of murmuring, half aloud, these customary syllables. In a fit of
petulance, I remodelled them thus; “I am safe
—
I am safe
—
yes
—
if I be
not fool enough to make open confession!”

No sooner had I spoken these words, than I felt an icy chill creep to
my heart. I had had some experience in these fits of perversity, (whose
nature I have been at some trouble to explain), and I remembered well
that in no instance I had successfully resisted their attacks. And now
my own casual self-suggestion that I might possibly be fool enough to
confess the murder of which I had been guilty, confronted me, as if the
very ghost of him whom I had murdered
—
and beckoned me on to death.

At first, I made an effort to shake off this nightmare of the soul.
I walked vigorously
—
faster
—
still faster
—
at length I ran. I felt
a maddening desire to shriek aloud. Every succeeding wave of thought
overwhelmed me with new terror, for, alas! I well, too well understood
that to
think
, in my situation, was to be lost. I still quickened my
pace. I bounded like a madman through the crowded thoroughfares. At
length, the populace took the alarm, and pursued me. I felt
then
the
consummation of my fate. Could I have torn out my tongue, I would have
done it, but a rough voice resounded in my ears
—
a rougher grasp seized
me by the shoulder. I turned
—
I gasped for breath. For a moment I
experienced all the pangs of suffocation; I became blind, and deaf,
and giddy; and then some invisible fiend, I thought, struck me with his
broad palm upon the back. The long imprisoned secret burst forth from my
soul.