“A contamination which afflicts you as well.”
“You seek money, sir. A great deal of it. I am referring to your attempts to finance a magazine which you would publish and edit. ‘The Stylus’ I believe you propose to call it, and I ask you now, is it your intention to squeeze money from Rachel-”
“Sir, you are objectionable!” Poe was on his feet, soft southern voice trembling. The part of him that loved violence wanted to take a whip to this pompous fool and slice him into bleeding strips. Poe’s nostrils flared with rage; a vein throbbed on his high pale forehead.
He fought for control, forcing himself to speak slowly. “You are accusing me of using my relationship with a lady for personal profit. That is something I cannot forgive.”
Miles Standish touched his steel-rimmed spectacles with manicured fingers, then hooked his thumbs into the pockets of a green silk waistcoat. Poe was poor, a walking bundle of rags, the writer of unprofitable books. Failure is the only crime, thought Standish and Poe was guilty of it and therefore should be despised.
Standish said, “She is a woman quite rich. Need I say that she is also vunerable at the moment, having lost her husband both in life and in death. I am given to understand that you prefer she not pay the ransom-”
“The money to be snatched from the outstretched palms of the ghouls and pressed into mine. I believe that is your train of thought.”
“It is no secret, Mr. Poe, that you have tried for years and failed to get the money to publish your own magazine. Your personal problems are, of course, your concern. But we are discussing my client and she represents a possible upturn in your, let us say, sorry fortunes.”
Standish inhaled snuff from between his thumb and forefinger, sneezed to clear his head, then wiped his nose with an orange silk handkerchief. “That is, if she agrees to help you and let me say I shall do all in my power to see that she does not.”
Poe looked down at his worn, snow-wet boots. Battered leather on a spotless, pearl gray carpet. He and Miles Standish were in the billiard room of the lawyer’s Washington Square mansion, a large room with a billiard table, rocking chairs, huge desk, fireplace and stained glass windows alive with the morning sun. The room represented money, something which had eluded Poe all of his life. He didn’t need Standish to remind him of this.
Poe stared at a stained glass window, losing himself in its sensuous beauty, in its bright green, red, purple. He’d always been poor. Practically all of his writing had been short pieces-stories, poems, criticisms, journalism. Quick writing for quick money; he’d never known the luxury of enough cash to attempt longer works. Fast Eddy. Do it in a hurry, collect your few coins and stand ready to do it all over again. Run like a frightened deer. Live from dollar to dollar and watch your wife starve because you couldn’t feed her.
His eyes went to the walls covered with red wallpaper, expensive oil paintings and several highly polished gas jets. No cheap tallow candles for Miles Standish. No oil in a wooden dish with a wick tossed in to furnish the most meager of lights. He had excellent lighting and now he wanted the best of women. He wanted Rachel and that’s why he was attacking Poe. He wanted Poe to know his place. Miles Standish was a fleshy fool who believed himself better than Poe, and Poe, always with a need to prove his superiority, was now going to show Standish that he’d made a mistake with this assumption.
Poe sat down. “I assume you know what a Barnburner is. If not, allow me to enlighten you. A Barnburner is a member of that fool faction of the Democratic Party who is against slavery. These rather meddlesome fools are quite willing to destroy this country by seeking active conflict with slave interests. They are like the farmer anxious to rid his barn of rats and does so by burning the barn down. So much for the origin of the name. ”
Poe steepled his fingers under his chin. “How much money would it cost you, Mr. Standish, if those southern cotton growers you represent on Wall Street for high fees were to learn that you, sir, are a Barnburner, that you contribute money, secretly of course, to anti-slavery causes? Would they be pleased to hear that their New York lawyer is a hypocrite, that he only pretends to favor slavery while secretly doing whatever he can to bring it to an end.”
Standish frowned. Some of the arrogance was gone from his voice. “And you, sir, are in favor of slavery?”
“Indeed. Now and forever more. I was raised in Virginia where my family owned and sold slaves and I say to you that there is no shame in this. Had God preferred the Negro to be freed, he most certainly would have done it before now. Since our darker brethren continue in servitude, it is logical to assume that this is in harmony with divine providence. Negroes represent a danger-”
“Danger?”
“Insurrection, sir. Insurrection. There have been more than a few in the history of the republic and each one has meant hazard to the white man and all that he holds dear. Servitude is preferable to the dangers of insurrection. I might add most slaves are loyal and most masters responsible. I see no reason to damage this acceptable balance.”
“And you now threaten to expose what you refer to as my abolitionist sympathies.”
“I remind you, sir, that I am neither your dog nor the carpet beneath your feet and your attempts at putting me in my place go unheeded.”
Standish, standing near the fireplace, took another pinch of snuff. God above, the man was indeed “mad, bad and dangerous,” which is what they said of Byron, who at least had the decency to be dead these past twenty-four years and consequently was less of a burden than he ordinarily might be. Poe was very much alive, unfortunately. And how did he find out about Standish’s anti-slavery activities? How.
He said, “Rachel says you are not pleased about her association with Dr. Paracelsus.”
Poe snorted. “Spiritualism may be as new as the morning sun but I believe it to be fraud. Complete. Utter. Fraud.” With each word, he slammed his right palm down hard on his knee. “Your spiritualism, sir, thrives on those possessing open mouth, open eyes, open purse. These parasites, for what else can one call them, present more jeopardy to your client than I do.”
“You have not met Dr. Paracelsus.”
“An honor I am prepared to forego.”
Poe sneered, making no attempt to hide his contempt for Miles Standish. Here stands a lawyer in clothing the color of carrot and cabbage telling me of his belief in table rattlings and ghostly noises emanating from avaricious charlatans. Said lawyer then draws a breath or two and uses it to push forth freedom for Negroes. Stupidity compounded.
Poe said, “Are you still entertained by watching the medical profession carve rotting cadavers?”
Standish clenched his fists at his side. He aimed his red-bearded chin at Poe and spoke from behind clenched teeth. “You morbid little bastard. How dare you? How dare you! The world knows you crawl about in the night on your hands and knees baying at the moon like a crazed hound and your own soul is none too stable. You live in a most peculiar world, which is why your writings have failed to fill even your belly.”
“Rachel will never love you, Standish. Even supposing you lacked a wife, which you do not, Rachel would not love you.”
Standish fought for control. He snorted, aiming a trembling forefinger at Poe. “What does a freak like you know of love. Everyone is aware that you bow before every woman you meet, like some whimpering schoolboy. You adore them, worship them, place no other gods before them and we men laugh at you, yes laugh. Behind your back, when you leave the room, when you walk towards us. We laugh, for you are a romantic ass.”
Standish took one step forward. The corners of his mouth were white with saliva. His eyes gleamed with menace. “You married your first cousin did you not?”