The Portable Edgar Allan Poe (6 page)

Poe’s contributions to the tale as a literary genre include what is often regarded as the earliest theory of the short story form, four paragraphs (see pp. 534-36) tucked in a review of Hawthorne’s
Twice-Told Tales
. His emphasis on “single effect” to intensify Gothic sensation led him to compose unified narratives in which orchestrated actions, images, and impressions culminate in a striking conclusion. In such tales as “Ligeia,” “The Fall of the House of Usher,” or “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar,” the ending produces horror through shock: a sudden, final transformation exceeds expectation. If Poe did not originate surprise endings in the tale, he popularized and perfected them. More significantly, perhaps, he experimented with first-person narration and demonstrated the unsettling effect of an irrational, unreliable narrator, whose gradual, seemingly inadvertent betrayal of derangement undermines his own version of events while implying another. From “Berenice” to “The Cask of Amontillado,” Poe created I-narrators who calmly and methodically disclose their mad compulsions, producing in “The Tell-Tale Heart” and “The Black Cat” his most penetrating analyses of psychopathic violence.

Poe also developed narrative prototypes for science fiction and the modern detective story. In an early work (“The Unparalleled Adventure of One Hans Pfaall”), he mixed science and satire to describe a balloon flight to the moon, but in a later, more plausible narrative (“The Balloon Hoax”), he embraced strict verisimilitude, extrapolating from scientific data to chronicle an imagined flight across the Atlantic. In “MS. Found in a Bottle” he traced an incredible voyage toward an immense vortex at the South Pole, and in his only full-length novel,
The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym,
he incorporated (and plagiarized) scientific observations by actual South Sea explorers to “authenticate” a fantastic account of the polar region. Such scientific hoaxes as “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar” illustrate his credo that “the most vitally important point in fiction” is that of “earnestness or verisimilitude.” Poe used the semblance of reality to mystify his reader, serving up palpable fiction as positive fact. His fascination with criminology and investigative ratiocination, already apparent in “The Man of the Crowd,” yielded a trio of Parisian crime tales featuring C. August Dupin. Exercises in rational analysis also figure in “A Descent into the Maelström,” “The Gold-Bug,” and “The Oblong Box.”

Although often associated with Gothic tales of terror, Poe devoted roughly half of his fiction to humor, producing satires, burlesques, parodies, and spoofs. Several of these pieces now seem too silly, affected, or topical to engage modern readers, and a handful appear to be dashed off for the sake of money alone. But certain comic narratives cleverly lampoon the sensational tale as popularized in
Blackwood’s Magazine,
and other farces mock national myths and illusions. Even supposedly serious tales include grimly comic touches: Poe’s love of jokes and puns gives manic hilarity to “The Cask of Amontillado,” and a similar sardonic humor animates “Hop-Frog,” while “The Premature Burial” ends with an unexpected joke on the reader.

During the first decade of his magazine career, Poe devoted himself almost exclusively to foreign subjects: predicaments or conflicts grounded in Old World places—Venice, London, Paris, and other locales vaguely European. Nearly all of his greatest tales—such as “Ligeia,” “The Fall of the House of Usher,” or “William Wilson”—impute to foreign settings a strangeness that supplements the uncanny effect of narrative events. From “Metzengerstein” through “The Masque of the Red Death” and “The Pit and the Pendulum,” Poe portrayed a distinctly imaginary Europe marked by decadence, rivalry, tyranny, and corruption—by the very evils from which the young republic naively supposed itself liberated. But by the early 1840s, literary nationalism had made American subjects and materials nearly obligatory, and beginning with “The Gold-Bug,” set in South Carolina, Poe pragmatically shifted his fiction toward domestic scenes and situations. Yet he refused to rewrite history for the sake of American mythmaking and argued defiantly that national literature was a contradiction in terms. Convinced that “the world at large [is] the true audience of the author,” Poe continued to prefer foreign themes and crafted several late European tales—such as “The Cask of Amontillado”—dramatizing universal human passions.

Predicaments

In an 1838 satire (“How to Write a Blackwood Article”) Poe mocked the formula for sensation that he used in his own magazine writing. His fictional “Mr. Blackwood” advises an aspiring author: “Get yourself into such a scrape as no one ever got into before” and then “pay minute attention to the sensations.” In the sequel, a would-be writer, Psyche Zenobia, climbs a clock tower, gets her head stuck in a narrow opening, and suffers decapitation by the clock’s “scimitar-like minute-hand,” but in Poe’s farce this predicament poses no obstacle whatsoever to the narrator’s talking head, which prattles on about the plight of her headless torso. The plot carries to absurdity a premise crucial to Poe’s sensationalism: No subject rivets an audience more than impending death by natural force or human contrivance.

Repeatedly, Poe conjured different scenarios of annihilation, sometimes dramatizing the spectacle of death, sometimes allowing horrified victims a last-second reprieve. An early tale, “MS. Found in a Bottle,” prefigures Poe’s own emerging relationship to writing. Stranded on a phantom ship caught in an immense vortex, the narrator believes himself to be “hurrying onward to some exciting knowledge—some never-to-be-imparted secret, whose attainment is destruction.” The manuscript in the bottle, the story itself, represents the deepest desire of writing: to bridge the abyss of mortality by imparting secret knowledge of what lies beyond.

In a later version of the whirlpool motif, “A Descent into the Maelström,” Poe endows his Norwegian fisherman with both dangerous forgetfulness—he fails to wind his watch and so miscalculates the onset of the vortex—and saving recollection of the scientific laws that preserve his life. But his brush with death has aged him and whitened his hair; he tells his tale, appropriately, from the brink of a cliff that may represent the edge of oblivion.

The predicament of Prince Prospero in “The Masque of the Red Death” stems from the vain belief that he can thwart death—and deny his own mortality—by walling out the contagion sweeping his country. By staging a masked ball for the privileged few while the plague ravages the common folk, the prince reveals his arrogance and inhumanity. The appearance of a stranger disguised as a bloody corpse, however, signals Prospero’s inevitable fate.

Evoking the Spanish Inquisition, “The Pit and the Pendulum” presents a plethora of torments. The narrator initially supposes himself buried alive but then confronts in succession a pit, a blade-sharp pendulum, and converging, red-hot walls. Poe’s opening line alludes to a “sickness unto death” that suffuses the narrative, producing a meditation on the “long agony” of dread. Throughout, the narrator observes his own sensations as closely as he does the devices of his executioners. The contrived ending explains the survival of the narrator and hence the tale itself.

Poe exploits a widespread anxiety in “The Premature Burial,” introducing his first-person narrative with apparently factual instances of living inhumation. Embalming had not yet become common, and epidemics necessitated hasty interments. In the year Poe’s tale appeared, an inventor exhibited a “life-preserving coffin” equipped with a bell. The narrator, fearful of being buried alive, awakens to find himself apparently entombed. But here Poe turns the story back upon the reader, subverting sensation by revealing the “burial” to be a case of premature panic.

In “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar,” Poe brilliantly explores the predicament of arrested mortality, as an experiment in mesmerism leaves the tubercular Valdemar suspended on the verge of death. The symptoms of his protracted death-in-life horrify even the medical figures who attend him. When the narrator finally breaks the hypnotic spell, the sufferer responds in a way that no reader of this tale ever forgets.

—QUINAULT—ATYS.
¹

 

 

Of my country and of my family I have little to say. Ill usage and length of years have driven me from the one, and estranged me from the other. Hereditary wealth afforded me an education of no common order, and a contemplative turn of mind enabled me to methodise the stores which early study very diligently garnered up. Beyond all things, the works of the German moralists gave me great delight; not from any ill-advised admiration of their eloquent madness, but from the ease with which my habits of rigid thought enabled me to detect their falsities. I have often been reproached with the aridity of my genius; a deficiency of imagination has been imputed to me as a crime; and the Pyrrhonism
²
of my opinions has at all times rendered me notorious. Indeed, a strong relish for physical philosophy has, I fear, tinctured my mind with a very common error of this age—I mean the habit of referring occurrences, even the least susceptible of such reference, to the principles of that science. Upon the whole, no person could be less liable than myself to be led away from the severe precincts of truth by the
ignes fatui
of superstition. I have thought proper to premise thus much, lest the incredible tale I have to tell should be considered rather the raving of a crude imagination, than the positive experience of a mind to which the reveries of fancy have been a dead letter and a nullity.

After many years spent in foreign travel, I sailed in the year 18—, from the port of Batavia, in the rich and populous island of Java, on a voyage to the Archipelago of the Sunda islands. I went as passenger—having no other inducement than a kind of nervous restlessness which haunted me as a fiend.

Our vessel was a beautiful ship of about four hundred tons, copper-fastened, and built at Bombay of Malabar teak. She was freighted with cotton-wool and oil, from the Lachadive islands. We had also on board coir, jaggeree, ghee, cocoa-nuts, and a few cases of opium. The stowage was clumsily done, and the vessel consequently crank.

We got under way with a mere breath of wind, and for many days stood along the eastern coast of Java, without any other incident to beguile the monotony of our course than the occasional meeting with some of the small grabs of the Archipelago to which we were bound.

One evening, leaning over the taffrail, I observed a very singular, isolated cloud, to the N.W. It was remarkable, as well for its color, as from its being the first we had seen since our departure from Batavia. I watched it attentively until sunset, when it spread all at once to the eastward and westward, girting in the horizon with a narrow strip of vapor, and looking like a long line of low beach. My notice was soon afterwards attracted by the dusky-red appearance of the moon, and the peculiar character of the sea. The latter was undergoing a rapid change, and the water seemed more than usually transparent. Although I could distinctly see the bottom, yet, heaving the lead, I found the ship in fifteen fathoms. The air now became intolerably hot, and was loaded with spiral exhalations similar to those arising from heated iron. As night came on, every breath of wind died away, and a more entire calm it is impossible to conceive. The flame of a candle burned upon the poop without the least perceptible motion, and a long hair, held between the finger and thumb, hung without the possibility of detecting a vibration. However, as the captain said he could perceive no indication of danger, and as we were drifting in bodily to shore, he ordered the sails to be furled, and the anchor let go. No watch was set, and the crew, consisting principally of Malays, stretched themselves deliberately upon deck. I went below—not without a full presentiment of evil. Indeed, every appearance warranted me in apprehending a Simoon. I told the captain my fears; but he paid no attention to what I said, and left me without deigning to give a reply. My uneasiness, however, prevented me from sleeping, and about midnight I went upon deck. As I placed my foot upon the upper step of the companion-ladder, I was startled by a loud, humming noise, like that occasioned by the rapid revolution of a mill-wheel, and before I could ascertain its meaning, I found the ship quivering to its centre. In the next instant, a wilderness of foam hurled us upon our beam-ends, and, rushing over us fore and aft, swept the entire decks from stem to stern.

The extreme fury of the blast proved, in a great measure, the salvation of the ship. Although completely water-logged, yet, as her masts had gone by the board, she rose, after a minute, heavily from the sea, and, staggering awhile beneath the immense pressure of the tempest, finally righted.

By what miracle I escaped destruction, it is impossible to say. Stunned by the shock of the water, I found myself, upon recovery, jammed in between the stern-post and rudder. With great difficulty I gained my feet, and looking dizzily around, was at first struck with the idea of our being among breakers; so terrific, beyond the wildest imagination, was the whirlpool of mountainous and foaming ocean within which we were engulfed. After a while, I heard the voice of an old Swede, who had shipped with us at the moment of our leaving port. I hallooed to him with all my strength, and presently he came reeling aft. We soon discovered that we were the sole survivors of the accident. All on deck, with the exception of ourselves, had been swept overboard; the captain and mates must have perished as they slept, for the cabins were deluged with water. Without assistance, we could expect to do little for the security of the ship, and our exertions were at first paralyzed by the momentary expectation of going down. Our cable had, of course, parted like pack-thread, at the first breath of the hurricane, or we should have been instantaneously overwhelmed. We scudded with frightful velocity before the sea, and the water made clear breaches over us. The frame-work of our stern was shattered excessively, and, in almost every respect, we had received considerable injury; but to our extreme joy we found the pumps unchoked, and that we had made no great shifting of our ballast. The main fury of the blast had already blown over, and we apprehended little danger from the violence of the wind; but we looked forward to its total cessation with dismay; well believing, that, in our shattered condition, we should inevitably perish in the tremendous swell which would ensue. But this very just apprehension seemed by no means likely to be soon verified. For five entire days and nights—during which our only subsistence was a small quantity of jaggeree, procured with great difficulty from the forecastle—the hulk flew at a rate defying computation, before rapidly succeeding flaws of wind, which, without equalling the first violence of the Simoon, were still more terrific than any tempest I had before encountered. Our course for the first four days was, with trifling variations, S.E. and by S.; and we must have run down the coast of New Holland. On the fifth day the cold became extreme, although the wind had hauled round a point more to the northward. The sun arose with a sickly yellow lustre, and clambered a very few degrees above the horizon—emitting no decisive light. There were no clouds apparent, yet the wind was upon the increase, and blew with a fitful and unsteady fury. About noon, as nearly as we could guess, our attention was again arrested by the appearance of the sun. It gave out no light, properly so called, but a dull and sullen glow without reflection, as if all its rays were polarized. Just before sinking within the turgid sea, its central fires suddenly went out, as if hurriedly extinguished by some unaccountable power. It was a dim, sliver-like rim, alone, as it rushed down the unfathomable ocean.