Days When

My Heart
Was Volcanic
 Days When
My Heart
Was Volcanic

A novel of
Edgar Allan Poe

James Spada

Pond Street Press

 Published by
Pond Street Press
P.O. Box 370
Boston MA 02131

Book design by James Spada

Cover illustration “Playbill” cover art for Mr. Henry Ludlowe’s
performance in “The Raven, The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe,” by
George Hazelton, 1908. (Courtesy Eon Editions)

Frontispiece “The Raven,” by Arthur Beecher Carles, 1903

(Courtesy Encore Editions)

Copyright © 2010 by James Spada

All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted,

or copied in any form or manner without the prior written
consent of the author except in the case of brief
quotations used in articles or reviews.
For permissions write to:
James Spada
P.O. Box 370
Boston MA 02131

www.jamesspada.com

ISBN 1453766065

LCCN: 2010912875

Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication Data

James Spada 1950—

Days When My Heart Was Volcanic

1. Poe, Edgar, 1809-1849—Fiction 2. 19th-century writers—Fiction

3. New York (N.Y)—Fiction 4. Fordham (N.Y.)—Fiction
5. Mesmerism—Fiction 6. Tuberculosis—Fiction
 Biographies by James Spada

Grace: The Secret Lives of a Princess

Peter Lawford: The Man Who Kept the Secrets
Bette Davis: More Than a Woman
Streisand: Her Life
Julia Roberts: Her Life

Author’s Note
This is a work of fiction. Some of the characters, principally
the narrator, are products of my imagination. Others, like
Edgar Allan Poe, his family, and his literary circle, are real.
Some of the events in this story actually happened, others
were created by me. Some of the words spoken and
opinions offered by Edgar Poe in this book come from his
poems, stories, and letters. The Poe cottage still exists and
is maintained largely as it was in 1846 by the Bronx
County Historical Society in New York. The Blackwell’s
Island Lunatic Asylum, closed in 1894, lies in ruins on what
is now called Roosevelt Island in New York’s East River.
 Prologue

New York City, December 1848

C an there be a chasm deeper than the hollow left in a

broken human heart? Two years have passed since
the events that crushed my spirit, but still the pain
remains as sharp as a nick from my razor.
I recoil from food, from friends. I have no stomach for
the diversions that used to bring me pleasure. Most days
I remain in bed, where I have fallen half-clothed in the
smallest hours of the morning. I sleep a broken sleep,
shocked awake again and again by nightmares teeming
with madmen and ghosts and cadavers. Some of these
are the products of another writer’s imagination. Others
are real, people I have loved, people I have lost.
While I try to summon the energy to pry myself from
bed, my senses are alternately muffled and knife-sharp
in the way that half-sleep can make them. Below my
window I hear the clip-clop of hooves on paving stone
along Broadway, angry shouts between omnibus drivers,
the squawks of the boy hawking newspapers on the
corner. I smell the ripe aroma of chestnuts in a vendor’s
roasting pan, and that stokes memories too.
When finally I lift myself from the bed night has fallen.
I do not light a candle, but dress by the dim illumination
of a gas lamp slanting up through my window. In a
corner I can see the faint outline of my violin case
leaning against the wall, exhausted by disuse. On my
desk, spectral in the low light, my ink pot sits next to my
quill and a few sheets of paper, all as neglected as the
violin. They stare back at me as if puzzled.
Like a sleepwalker I pull on the same clothes I have
worn all week and descend the stairs to make my way to
the tavern, where whiskey takes the place of sleep as a
means to deaden my heartache.
If there was ever a chance that after two years my
sorrow might lift, it was dashed last week when I
stopped to buy an evening paper. I had lost interest in
current events, and in the world of New York’s literati
that had so fascinated me. What made me stop and put
a penny in the newsboy’s hand this day I cannot tell. I
continued on to the tavern, ordered the first of the
evening’s drinks, and unfolded the paper.
As the barkeep poured me a glass of bourbon my
heart was nearly stopped by what I saw in front of me. I
should have expected to see the name in print
anywhere, at any time, but still a shock twitched through
my spine as I read the announcement on the paper’s
front page.

EDGAR A. POE, ESQ., THE CELEBRATED POET AND CRITIC, IS ABOUT

TO LEAD TO THE MATRIMONIAL ALTAR, MRS. SARAH H. WHITMAN,
OF PROVIDENCE, A WELL-KNOWN AND POPULAR AUTHORESS.

Poe, Poe, Poe! Will I ever be free of that name and the
miserable memories it stirs? The thought that he could
give his love to another woman—and one who has had
knowledge of another man!—after his dear Sissy fills me
with anger and disbelief. Theirs are the faces that most
haunt my dreams.
 When I met Mr. Poe I put myself in his hands. I longed
with my student’s fervor that he would not only show me
how to be a poet but would guide me to a wise and
fruitful manhood. In the beginning I felt exhilarated,
certain that this would be so. But little by little the
sweet cream of my dreams grew sour, then curdled. The
man I have become stares back at me from the glass
behind the bar.
The bile of recrimination flows through my veins, and
yet I know in my heart that I am as much at fault as Mr.
Poe. I cannot blame him more than I blame myself for
what knowing him made me desire, made me become,
made me do.
 One
Fordham, New York, July 1846

B ut it is meant for Mr. Poe!”

I heard the name through the din of the outdoor market
like the clang of hammer on anvil. I turned to see a
stout, grandmotherly woman, her black dress offset by a
white widow’s cap. A cotton shawl covered her
shoulders, although it was a warm forenoon. She carried
a wicker basket over one arm. Her other arm was
stretched out, her hand inches away from the freshly
slaughtered chicken the butcher held teasingly aloft.
“I have but a shillin’, sir,” the woman pleaded. “Mr. Poe
is ill. Surely, for him—?”
“Don’t matter if it be fer Pres’dent Polk,” the man
replied. He was as moist and fleshy as the goose
carcasses hung in a prim row behind him, and his apron,
the color of a new potato, was streaked with fresh blood.
“Two bits is me lowest price.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. She seemed to weigh
whether to plead further or move along, and she didn’t
notice me until I stepped forward.
“Did you say two bits?”
“That I did, lad. And the finest, freshest bird in
Fordham it is.”
“I will have it.” I reached into a pocket of my waistcoat,
retrieved a quarter dollar piece, and placed it in the
man’s eager palm.
The woman looked at me, her gray eyes glinting
disappointment. She said nothing more before she
turned and walked away.
“Hurry, sir,” I urged as the vendor wrapped the bird in
brown paper and tied it with a thin white string. I
grabbed the package and ran after the woman.
“Excuse me, please, ma’am,” I called as I caught up to
her. She stopped and turned. In her basket I could see
an onion, two carrots, and a turnip. Her dress was clean
and well kept but homespun and a bit worn. I assumed
her to be a domestic who had left the house without
enough money for her marketing. Her broad face
remained stony as she looked up at me, her lips pressed
into a thin line. She waited for me to continue.
“Begging your pardon, ma’am—if it’s not too forward
of me—I could not help but overhear you mention the
name Mr. Poe to the butcher. Would that be Edgar Allan
Poe, the writer? I have heard it said that he recently
moved here.”
Her wary gaze took full stock of me before she replied.
“I did indeed refer to that gentleman.”
I tried to mask my excitement, to little effect. “Please,
ma’am, I am so sorry to hear that Mr. Poe is ill. I am a
great admirer of his writing. I must have read everything
he has written. Would you be kind enough to give him
this as a token of my esteem?” I thrust the wrapped
chicken toward her.
Again she hesitated. “I cannot accept a gift from a
stranger,” she replied at last, and started to turn away.
“My name is Jeremiah Delaney, ma’am. So you see, I
am no longer a stranger.”
She stopped and smiled slightly, her wariness
softened. “Thank you, young man,” she said, and
nodded. “I am Mrs. Clemm.” She took the package and
placed it in her basket, then resumed walking. I, bolder
than I could have imagined myself, continued to walk
beside her. I am tall and have a long gait, so I took
shorter strides than usual to avoid moving ahead of her.
The sounds of sellers hawking faded behind us as we
started up the dusty dirt path toward the Kingsbridge
Road.
We walked in silence for a few moments, the smells of
roasting nuts and freshly slaughtered meat replaced by
the sweet waft of rose water from Mrs. Clemm. She
seemed to pay me no heed, but I was sure she remained
aware of my presence. I fancied that she appreciated my
company, but this was based more on my desire that it
be so than on any such indications from the lady.
A horse approaching from behind moved us to the side
of the road. Once the carriage passed and the sound of
hooves faded, we resumed our progress and I spoke
again—a bit too eagerly. “I just this morning finished the
latest installment of Mr. Poe’s ‘Literati of New York City’
in ‘Godey’s Lady’s Book.’ I look forward to each month’s
profiles. I first became aware of his writings about four
years ago. A cousin gave me the first volume of ‘Tales of
the Grotesque and Arabesque’ for my sixteenth birthday.
I hid it from my parents—my father would not have
approved. I barely ate or slept until I finished it, two days
later, all fourteen stories. I’m certain that ‘The Tell-tale
Heart’ frightened me out of a year’s growth.”
Mrs. Clemm turned to me and laughed, her face
shedding the dour cast etched there by a life in the
servant trade. “Your height has certainly caught up since
then, Mr. Delaney. Truth be told, Eddie’s stories have
robbed me of many a night’s sleep as well.”
I was taken aback to hear her refer to her employer in
such a familiar way, but I betrayed no hint of this to her.
We turned onto the Kingsbridge Road and began to
climb Fordham Hill. After we had gone a few dozen yards
along this road, she saw me glance at an isolated
cottage at the hill’s crest.
“That is our home,” she said.
Another thrill coursed through me. How many times
had I passed this wooden structure on my way to and
from school, unaware that within its walls lived the great
Poe? Incautiously, I blurted out the question. “Is Mr. Poe
at home?”
“No. He has been in New York City since yesterday,
meetin’ with editors.” Her soft drawl suggested she had
spent most of her life a deal south of New York.
Although I had expected from what Mrs. Clemm told
the butcher that Mr. Poe would be at home on a sickbed,
I again did not express my confusion as we approached
the cottage. It was a small, pine-shingled wood frame
structure of one and a half stories, with a sharply pitched
roof and a covered porch that extended along the width
of its front. Three wooden pots of thickly flowered
geraniums dotted the porch; jasmine vines entwined the
pillars and lent their sweet to the air. Here and there a
cherry tree dotted the greensward that surrounded the
house.
The serenity of the cottage impressed me. The quiet of
the area was interrupted only by the occasional twitter
of a blue jay or the rustle of a breeze. This seemed a
modest home for a man of Mr. Poe’s renown. I knew the
interior would reflect his fame and fortune—but I dared
not hope to be asked in.
 To my relief, Mrs. Clemm did not dismiss me as she
approached a door at the right end of the porch. I
followed close behind, but when she opened the door
and stepped inside, I hesitated.
“I do not wish to impose.”
“It would not be an imposition, Mr. Delaney,” she said.
“Please, come in.”
As I entered the room—the kitchen—and closed the
door behind me, Mrs. Clemm crossed to a doorway that
led to a parlor. She remained there for a minute,
listening intently. I heard nothing—and neither did she,
to judge from her lack of reaction. I looked around the
room. To my surprise, it was even humbler than the
exterior. It was as narrow as a railway car, and sparsely
furnished. In the center stood a pine sawbuck table
flanked by two ladder-back chairs; two similar chairs
were hung along a wall. Next to a twelve-paned window
curtained with gauzy white fabric stood a plain pine
hutch with two shelves above a two-door cabinet. A few
wooden cooking utensils and several knives hung from
nails along the walls.
The wooden door of the fireplace, painted a pale blue,
was closed for the summer. The unused poker, hearth
brush and two bellows leaned out of a carved-out tree
trunk. At the wall opposite the fireplace stood a small
cook stove with a kettle on top.
My expression must have betrayed my surprise,
because Mrs. Clemm asked, “Is there something wrong,
Mr. Delaney?” I felt my cheeks redden as I reassured
her. I tried to reconcile the disparity between what I had
expected of Edgar Allan Poe’s home and what I saw
around me. Finally I hit upon the answer: Mr. Poe must
own another residence in New York City, a great house
with fine furnishings and a staff of servants. I must be in
the kitchen of his summer home, a retreat where he
enjoys the calm and quiet he needs to write. Mrs.
Clemm, his cook and housekeeper, had joined him here
for the summer.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Clemm said as she peered into the
stove’s firebox. “The fire is nearly out. I will have to bring
in more wood if I am to boil a stew.” She started toward
the door but I reached it before she did.
“Please, allow me.”
 She smiled. “The pile is alongside the house.”
By the time I returned with an armful of logs and twigs,
Mrs. Clemm had removed her shawl and widow’s cap.
Her wispy white hair gathered into a loose bun at the
nape of her neck. As I crossed to the hearth and grabbed
the poker she stood at the table and unwrapped the
chicken.
“Nice and young,” she proclaimed. With one precise
blow with a heavy cleaver she halved the carcass; four
more brisk chops severed legs and wings.
I placed the logs in the firebox and prodded them with
the poker. Mrs. Clemm carried the chicken pieces over,
gently dropped them into the water, and moved the
kettle onto the cook plate. Then she returned to the
table and quickly washed the vegetables in a small tin
bowl, peeled the onion and turnip, trimmed the carrots,
and diced them all into small pieces.
“Mr. Delaney, do sit down,” she said as she added the
vegetables to the kettle. I had been watching the fire
intently; the logs I added had not yet caught the flame.
As I sat on one of the chairs at the table, Mrs. Clemm
fanned the fire with the smaller bellows. Soon it took on
a steady glow, the cook plate warmed, and Mrs. Clemm
returned to the table.
The stove added to the room’s warmth, which was
already considerable, as it was noon and the sun glared
bright outside the windows. Droplets of perspiration
pearled on Mrs. Clemm’s forehead, matting the wisps of
hair that curled along her temples. She seemed unfazed
by this as she continued with her chores. She cleaned
the cleaver with a damp rag, and swept the vegetable
leavings from the table into her hand before placing
them in a jar—where, I surmised, they would remain
until added to a compost pile. She then broke off leaves
from several sprigs of dried herbs that hung from a nail
on the side of the cupboard, crumbled them between her
fingers, and threw them into the kettle. She took a long
wooden spoon off the wall and stirred the stew, which
had begun to give off waves of steam.
Finally she lowered herself onto a chair across the
table from me. “We are in for a hot rest of the summer,
no doubt of that,” she said. She took a crumpled cloth
from the pocket of her dress and wiped her forehead.
“Though I must say it has been cooler here than in the
city since we came last month.”
She stopped and looked out the window. Outside the
air was still. “Have you been here in Fordham during the
winter?” she said finally. “I suspect that just as the
summers are cooler here the winters might be colder.”
“I have been studying at St. John’s, just down the road
a bit, for the past two years and yes, both winters have
been very cold. I would imagine that this house might be
vulnerable to winds, unprotected as it is.”
Concern clouded Mrs. Clemm’s eyes; whatever her
thoughts, she soon cocked her head toward the door to
the parlor, as she had before, listening with the wariness
of a wren over her hatchlings. Again there was no sound.
She shook her head slightly as though to clear her mind
and stood up. I took this as an invitation to leave, and I
rose as well.
“Thank you so much for the chicken, Mr. Delaney, and
for your help with the wood. I hope someday to see you
again.”
A soft sound from the parlor caught our attention. Then
a girl’s voice asked, “Who is it, Muddy? Who is there?”
Mrs. Clemm hurried through the door, and I heard
muffled conversation. I could make out only my name
and a few other words in the exchanges, and Mrs.
Clemm’s insistence that I was about to leave. After
several more words the girl said, in a voice I could now
hear clearly, “I shall meet Mr. Delaney, mother, and that
is the last of it!”
Moments later Mrs. Clemm re-entered the kitchen,
followed by a young woman older than she had sounded
—I judged her to be about twenty-three. She was the
loveliest, frailest girl I had ever seen. The color and
texture of her skin made me think of the delicate pale
petals of a calla lily. Her cheeks were blushed and her
eyes, framed by lush lashes, were colored a more
vibrant violet than I had ever seen before.
She wore a long white nightdress, and only the
contrast of her unpinned hair, as black as pitch and
flowing down past her shoulders, kept her from seeming
spectral.
I responded to her as I never had anyone before—in an
instant my heart flooded with love. I had enjoyed little
exposure to girls growing up on the farm in New
Hampshire, and even less after my mother chose to
teach me at home rather than send me to the
schoolhouse Miss Palmer established in town. Even now,
only boys were my classmates at St. John’s, only men
my teachers.
I did not consider my limited basis for comparison. I
simply knew that the woman in front of me was the most
beautiful, desirable human being I had ever seen, a
sweet goddess floating toward me as though from
heaven.
At that moment she passed into my soul forever.
“Mr. Delaney,” Mrs. Clemm said, “allow me to
introduce my daughter, Virginia.”
I wondered that a woman as stalwart as Mrs. Clemm
could be the mother of such a delicate creature. Virginia
smiled and held out her hand. She gazed so steadily into
my eyes that my cheeks burned as hot as the fire I had
just fed. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Delaney. I
hope my mother hasn’t talked your ears off.”
I stammered a denial as I took her hand, and she
laughed, though not unkindly. Her laugh had the lilt of
the lightest arpeggio. Her southern accent, softer than
her mother’s, lent her speech a velvety timbre that
served only to heighten the vertigo that I felt in her
presence.
As though directed by a force outside myself, I then did
something I could never have imagined doing. I leaned
over and kissed the tiny pale hand that Virginia had
offered me. When I straightened up she looked at me
bemusedly, and I felt heat rise again in my cheeks
before Mrs. Clemm’s voice broke the awkward moment.
(Did she sense the need to end the spell?)
“Mr. Delaney was just about to leave, Sissy. I need to
begin the sewin’ Mrs. Jamison brought over yesterday.”
“Oh, please do stay,” Virginia said as she lowered
herself onto the chair Mrs. Clemm had vacated. She
turned to her mother. “I’ll help you with the sewin’,
Muddy. I’m sure Mr. Delaney‘s company will make the
chore go by more pleasantly.”
Mrs. Clemm hesitated before she replied. “Very well,”
she said, and gave me a slight smile as she took a chair
down from the wall and moved it up to the table. I was
pleased that Virginia had taken a seat because my knees
had begun to feel watery and I wasn’t at all sure I’d be
able to remain upright much longer. As I sat down again,
Mrs. Clemm moved over to the cupboard and, crouching
carefully, as though in pain, opened the lower doors to
fetch a bundle of clothing and a sewing tin. She set them
down on the tabletop, then went over to the stove to stir
the stew, which now boiled heartily and thickened the air
with moist aroma.
As her mother sat down and undid the brown twine
around the bundle, Virginia fished inside the sewing
basket and pulled out a paper of pins and several spools
of white thread.
“Mrs. Jamison has asked that we add lace to the collars
and cuffs of her daughters’ dresses,” Mrs. Clemm said as
she spread the garments out across the table.
As mother and daughter busied themselves with the
preparations for sewing, I found myself unable to keep
my gaze from Virginia. I marveled at the supple lines of
her mouth, a pink tulip against the ivory of her skin.
She looked up to see me staring, and smiled. Did she
mock me, or was she offering the gentlest
encouragement? I dared not hope for the latter.
“Tell me, Mr. Delaney,” Virginia said after we had
gazed at each other a few moments while Mrs. Clemm
cut lace. “What has brought you to our home?”
I found recounting how I had come to sit across from
her a welcome distraction. As I spoke she busied herself
threading two needles while her mother cut more pieces
of lace from a pattern that had been among the
garments. I finished by mentioning I was a student at St.
John’s.
“And what is it you’re studyin’?” Virginia handed her
mother a threaded needle. Mrs. Clemm seemed unaware
of our conversation as she carefully snipped the lace
patches that would be sewn onto the collars of the
Jamison girls’ dresses.
“Mainly Religion and Classical Literature,” I replied.
“Hmmm.” Her reaction remained in the air as she took
a piece of lace from her mother, picked up one of the
dresses, and began to sew the tatting onto the collar. I
was about to ask Virginia what her reaction signified
when she spoke up.
 “And what profession do you hope to pursue after you
complete your studies?”
“I have no idea.” Both women looked up from their
work. “What I mean is, I find myself in a quandary. Two
of my uncles—my mother’s brothers—are priests, and
my mother would love for me to follow in their footsteps.
When I began my studies I thought that was what I
wanted as well, but now I’m not sure.”
Virginia and her mother returned their attention to
their work, and without looking up again, Mrs. Clemm
said, “What you would really like to be is a writer.”
I started. How could she have known this? My
expression caused both women to chuckle.
“I taught school in Bal’more for several years,” Mrs.
Clemm said. “I could usually tell a student’s ambitions
after a few minutes of conversation. Your eagerness to
meet Eddie suggested that you might have ambitions of
your own as a writer.”
Did Mrs. Clemm sense as well that I hoped (against all
reason) that Mr. Poe might take an interest in my
writing, might help me get published? It was an absurd
dream, one I had little right to conjure.
“There is no reason to be embarrassed, Mr. Delaney,”
Mrs. Clemm said, her gaze softly meeting mine, her
voice that of a woman accustomed to consoling. “You
pay Eddie a great compliment—one I will pass on to him
and which he will, I can assure you, receive with
gratitude.”
I smiled, and saw that Virginia now studied me. “You
look like a writer,” she said. “You remind me of a print I
once saw of Lord Byron. So handsome. And you both
have a romantic quality—one that you share with Eddie,
if I do say so.”
I looked away, my face hot. But before long I found
myself revealing more than I normally would to virtual
strangers. “Were I to achieve even a fraction of Mr. Poe’s
success I could be a help to my mother financially. I
could pay her back for all the sacrifices she has made to
send me to college. There isn’t much money to be had
by following the calling. But literary success like Mr.
Poe’s, well . . .”
Virginia did not respond to the comment. Mrs.
Clemm’s mouth pursed slightly and she looked up at me
for just a moment before returning her gaze to her
sewing. I sensed that they did not want this strain of
conversation to continue, and so the three of us fell into
silence as mother and daughter continued to sew
patches of lace onto the satin collars of the dresses. I
tried not to let Virginia catch me staring at her; to my
relief her concentration on her work kept her from
looking up for some time. Mrs. Clemm stitched briskly,
although her hands were gnarled with rheumatism and
she several times stopped to rub them; Virginia went
about her task more slowly. Somehow they completed
each collar in the same amount of time.
A few minutes later a skinny tortoiseshell cat entered
the room, mewed, and slunk over to a tin bowl near the
door. After a sniff at the few food scraps it contained, the
animal turned around and, with an air of melancholy,
padded back out into the parlor.
“That was our Catterina,” Mrs. Clemm said. “She does
not eat much when Eddie is away.”
“Happily he is never gone more than a day or two at a
time,” Virginia added. “We all miss him so terribly when
he is not home.”
I turned my gaze back to Virginia and asked, “How
long have you and your mother worked for Mr. Poe, Miss
Clemm?”
Both women started, and then laughed merrily. They
stopped only when they saw my distress.
“Mr. Delaney,” Virginia said in a tone of voice that
mortified me, “my mother and I are not in Mr. Poe’s
employ. We are his family. I haven’t been Miss Clemm
for almost ten years now. I am Mrs. Poe.”
Shame swept over me. I had so awfully misunderstood;
I had insulted this young lady and her mother, who had
treated me kindly. What was worse, I had come into the
home of a man I admire and coveted his wife! My face
burned hotter than the fires of hell to which I knew I
would be condemned.
I stood up so abruptly I knocked over my chair. “Mrs.
Clemm, Mrs. Poe, I–I can’t expect you to forgive me but
please accept my apologies. I did not—”
I was stopped short by the bang of the kitchen door as
it swung open and crashed against the wall. In the
doorway loomed a mustachioed man dressed in a black
frock coat, gray waistcoat, blue cravat, black trousers
and boots. He had a high expanse of forehead, and his
dark disheveled hair fell almost to his shoulders. His
finely cut features were contorted into an angry grimace,
and his large, luminous gray eyes shot his rage into the
room like a cannon.
I had never seen an image of Edgar Allan Poe, but I
had no doubt he now stood before me.
“Muddy, Sissy!” he wailed in a voice quaking with
outrage. “I have been vilified—libeled— in the most
egregious manner!”
He dropped his carpetbag, threw his hat on the floor,
and strode into the room, his stare burning into the
newspaper page he held close to his face. He took no
notice of me.
I had seen before the way he moved, the way he
spoke, the look in his eyes—seen them when my father
swilled his whiskey and erupted into rages. I drew away
until I backed into the wall.
“Who has defamed you, Eddie?” Mrs. Clemm asked,
alarm shaking her voice.
“What has he said?” Virginia pleaded.
“It is that blackguard Thomas Dunn English! Listen to
what he has written—in the Mirror, for all New York to
read!”
Virginia and Mrs. Clemm watched him anxiously as he
circled the table like an angry cougar pacing its cage.
“Eddie, please,” Mrs. Clemm said, “it does no good to
upset yourself like this—”
But he read on, his tone pitching higher with every line
he read. “‘I hold Mr. Poe’s acknowledgement for a sum
of money which he obtained from me under false
pretenses. I ask no interest, in lieu of which I am willing
to credit him with the sound cuffing I gave him when last
I saw him.’
“Hah!” Mr. Poe bellowed, beads of sweat flying off his
face as he paced. “Who would believe this blatherskite?
It is I who cuffed him, and I will tell the world about it.
But there is worse!”
Spittle spewed from his mouth as he read on. “‘A
merchant of this city had accused him of committing
forgery.’
 “Can you believe this?” he cried. “The man has
accused me of a crime. This is the basest of libels! Oh,
the world will know that Mr. T. D. English is a liar, I swear
to that. I will sue for every penny the poor untalented sot
ever earned!"
He did not respond to the women’s continued pleas to
calm himself. “Listen to what he writes of me: ‘He really
does not possess one tithe of that greatness which he
seems to regard as an uncomfortable burden. He
mistakes coarse abuse for polished invective, and vulgar
insinuation for sly satire. He is not alone thoroughly
unprincipled, base and depraved, but silly, vain and
ignorant—not alone an assassin in morals, but a quack in
literature.’
“A quack! Ignorant!” He thrust the newspaper above
his head and shook it toward the ceiling. “As God is my
judge—”
The sound of the cruelest coughs from Virginia’s throat
stopped him cold. Mrs. Clemm sprang up and over to the
cupboard, where she grabbed a small unmarked bottle
and a spoon. Mr. Poe fell to his knees next to his wife as
her body convulsed with hacks.
“It will be all right, my darling Sissy, it will be all right
—Muddy has your laudanum.”
On her knees now as well, Mrs. Clemm attempted to
spoon some of the medicine into her daughter’s mouth,
but her outbursts were so frequent she could not. At last
Virginia was able to swallow some of the liquid as Mr.
Poe clung to her thin arm and continued to murmur
reassurances.
After another spoonful of the thick reddish-brown
potion, Virginia’s coughs subsided, and then stopped.
She sagged on her chair like an unstrung marionette. On
one side of her Mrs. Clemm stroked her hair and
repeated soothing words; on the other Mr. Poe rested his
forehead on her thigh and patted her arm while he
whispered his own soft reassurances.
Without the wall to support me I surely would have
crumpled to the floor. My heart wept at the sorrowful
scene before me. I longed to comfort Virginia myself, to
be of comfort to her comforters. But surely I had no right
to witness such intimacy.
 Dizzy with conflicted emotions, my heart and my legs
heavy, I slipped unnoticed across the room and out the
door.

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