The Irascible Gentleman

Edgar Allan Poe abroad

Paris, 1835

The tavern, nestled in a narrow alley in the shadowy heart of Paris, was a haven for the city’s nocturnal souls. Its name, Le Sombre Reflet, or “The Dark Reflection,” was etched on a weathered wooden sign swinging silently above the door, speaking to the mysteries that lay within. The atmosphere inside was thick, redolent of tobacco smoke and the faint, underlying scent of damp cobblestones seeping through the walls.

Inside, the lighting was dim, provided by candles nestled in colored glass holders that cast an array of surreal hues across the rough-hewn wooden tables. The bar itself was a long slab of mahogany, scarred and dented from years of use, doused with small pools of alcohol like some ritual baptism, behind which rows of bottles of liquor were scattered in a careless fashion...the amber of the whiskey and brandy, the ruby red and pale gold of the wines, and the emerald of the absinthe…a jewel shop in a haunted house, an Alladin’s cave guarded an unshaven genie in soiled attire, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

The music was a melancholic accordion played by an old man seated in a corner. Though gnarled with age, marred with arthritic bumps, his fingers moved with a fluid grace born of years of repetition, weaving a haunting melody that seemed to echo the very soul of a furtive search for truth. The music set a reflective mood, drawing in a crowd that matched the spirit of the tunes — tortured artists sketching frenzied visions on scraps of paper, theater people loudly recounting tales of their latest performances, and women of the night, their laughter unconvincing as they sought a brief respite from the streets.

Petty criminals also found refuge here, skulking in the darker corners under broad-brimmed hats, their faces obscured by shadow. They stared moodily into their glasses of ale. Occasionally, their eyes flicked up, sharp and calculating, taking the measure of the room before returning to their solitary contemplations.

The patrons spoke in hushed tones, as if the act of revealing too much could shatter the delicate balance of their existence. Conversations fluttered from poetic expressions of despair to the harsh realities of Parisian life, creating a tapestry of voices, a sinister murmuring like waves breaking against cliffs at midnight.

In this environment, Edgar Allan Poe lounged both an observer and a participant, his presence adding another layer of depth to the already thick atmosphere, in a solemn mood, pondering existence, slouched in a corner. His gaze darted from one figure to another, moth-like, as though seeking a light not be found in its dim recesses, despite all the seeking.

A local tavern-goer showed an interest in Poe. His name was Henri, a Frenchman through and through,( a caricature, an essence, a chalk drawing and a complete portrait), with a rugged face that bore the marks of life’s many chapters — a scar tracing down his left cheek, from skirmishes with royal guards during the heady times of the October days revolts, and deep-set eyes that glimmered with a mix of wisdom and weariness under bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrows. His hair was a disheveled mass of graying curls that seemed to have a life of their own, contributing to his somewhat wild and eccentric appearance.

Henri’s stature was tall and slightly stooped, suggesting years spent over books or laborious tasks. His clothes were well-worn and of indifferent cleanliness, consisting of a loose-fitting shirt under a dark, patched vest, and trousers that boasted gaping rips and tears. On his feet were scuffed boots that whispered of many a wander through the cobbled streets of Paris.

As Henri spotted Poe from across the room, his face lit up with a recognition that quickly gave way to concern upon seeing the somber expression on the American writer’s face. He began to make his way towards Poe, his gait unsteady, not from inebriation but from an old injury that left him with a permanent limp. Each step seemed measured and cautious, yet there was a certain grace to his movements, a testament to his adaptation to the impairment over the years.

Navigating through the crowded tavern, Henri carefully maneuvered around tables cluttered with glasses and bottles, and clusters of patrons engaged in animated discussions. His approach was slow but determined, each step a careful negotiation of space and balance. His eyes remained fixed on Poe, his intent clear amidst the shifting shadows and flickering candlelight of the tavern.

“Monsieur Poe, you seem particularly forlorn today. May I ask why the gloom on such a fine evening?”

Poe lifted his eyes, their usual sharp gleam tempered by a veil of sadness. “I have been to the funeral of a friend,” he replied, his voice a whisper lost in the crackle of the hearth.

“A friend?” The man’s eyes widened in a mix of curiosity and concern. “Ah, yes, Arsène Moreau, a great man, indeed. I’ve read his biography. His life was as rich as his tales.”

A bitter smile flicked across Poe’s lips. “You have read what he chose to share, nothing more. The biography of a man is often a portrait painted by a biased hand.”

Intrigued, Henri reached for a seat, shifting his weight (much like a pelican struggles to balance on the post of a dock, with little room to spare) onto his stronger right leg while he swung the chair into position with his left arm. The flicker of interest in his eyes encouraged Poe.

“Since you are a man of letters and perhaps in a mood to share your opinions, would you care to tell the story he never penned for the public?” He asked delicately.

Poe nodded, and began to speak again.

The Real Story

My friend, whom you so admire, was indeed a brilliant writer. But beneath the veneer of his literary success lay a realm of shadowed truths and moral quandaries. His life was a duel with demons both real and conjured, and his greatest works were born from these battles.

It began with his childhood, marked by abandonment and abuse. These early scars molded his view of the world, a panorama filled with distrust and fear. As he grew, so did his ambition, but so too did his penchant for self-destruction. Opium, gambling, and the occasional dalliance with criminal elements.

If this sort of devious life would have continued, my friend might have been just another sad footnote to history, just another undistinguished prisoner in the Bastille, indiscriminate from the rest with a hallowed face, wasting body, and gaping, toothless mouth, with just a few years of hard labor separating him from a sudden death in the stone quarries. But as it happened, a much worse fate lay in store for him. He met a woman and reformed.

Pretty…ambitious…these described Elise adequately enough. The daughter of a lawyer of moderate financial means, she was raised with social aspirations.

Elise, determined as she was, pushed Arsène into the circles of commerce and trade. With her encouragement, he invested in a thriving merchant company. For a time, it seemed as if they were ascending the very steps of society itself, with Arsène becoming a man of note among the Parisian elite.

Elise thrived in this new world. The salons of Paris, which glittered with intellectual discourse and the finer pleasures of high society, were her arenas. She loved the admiration, the respect afforded to her as the wife of a successful businessman. Arsène, however, felt out of place. The rough-edged man who had once navigated the underbelly of Paris was now clad in fine suits, attending operas and soirées. He played the part well enough, but his soul was restless.

In the quiet hours of the night, when the parties had ended and Elise slept, Arsène would retreat to his study. There, amidst ledgers and business correspondence, he scribbled — stories, reflections, confessions. These writings were his only escape, the only remnants of his true self. Elise found them foolish, a waste of time that could be better spent consolidating their social standing.”

However, the winds of change swept through France, as you recall. The Revolution, with its fiery ideals and ruthless actions, disrupted everything. The seas became dangerous, laden with pirates emboldened by the chaos. Revolts broke out on the sugar plantations, cutting off the lifelines of many a merchant venture, including that of Arsène’s company.

Arsène watched as his fortunes crumbled, the company’s shares plummeting as trade halted. The wealth he had amassed vanished like smoke. With it went the admiration, the respect, and the false identity he had constructed. He was left with nothing but his pen, the one thing Elise resented.

Elise could not withstand the downfall. She, who had been so proud of their ascent, could not bear the drop. Her dreams shattered, she grew bitter, lamenting not only the loss of wealth but also the loss of the life she had so meticulously crafted. Her disdain for Arsène’s writings turned to outright scorn. She saw them not as an escape for him, but as a reminder of their failures.

In her eyes, if he had not wasted those nights on what she deemed trivial pursuits, perhaps he could have saved their fortunes. She understood drinking, gambling — vices that were tangible. But writing, a quiet, introspective rebellion against his circumstances, was beyond her comprehension. It was a betrayal of sorts, a failure to fight for their place in society.

Having sympathy for her, I decided to meet Arsène and discuss what he could do. They might even reconcile, I reasoned. After all, they had been reasonably compatible before.

Luncheon and a Bargain

The café where I met Arsène was a popular spot nestled in the bustling heart of Paris, known as Café de la Paix. It was an open, airy space, flanked by wide, tree-lined boulevards that bustled with the constant hum of city life, boasting a sprawling outdoor seating area, where rows of wrought iron tables and chairs were laid out beneath colorful striped awnings. I thought the relaxed atmosphere would bring out the best in this fitful misanthrope.

Ah, yes, I recall it well. The tables were adorned with small vases of cheerful posies, which sometimes the men secured for their buttonholes. Waiters in crisp, white aprons maneuvered skillfully between the tables, balancing trays laden with steaming cups, delicate pastries, and the occasional glass of wine. My nostrils flare even now as I recall the aroma of freshly ground coffee, mingling with the dust from the street thrown up by the horse-drawn carriages.

There, one could see all the world in miniature. Patrons of Café de la Paix ranged from hurried businessmen discussing contracts over espressos, to ladies marveling at statuary and gardens, to the men who stood near them, with their hands in their pockets, bored and tired, trying to appear cosmopolitan, to locals like Arsène, who seemed to blend into the background, observing the world with a cynical eye. The murmur of conversations, the clinking of silverware, and the occasional laughter created a lively backdrop to our own serious discussion. A street musician sawed out a melancholy tune on his violin with an exaggerated expression of suffering meant to induce patrons that he was a sad figure indeed, and considering Arsène was seated nearby, looking sour, the effect was almost comical.

Arsène’s appearance markedly less refined than the last time I had seen him. His clothes were tattered, and his gaze was fixed on the passersby with a mix of disdain and resignation. When he spotted me, his expression changed momentarily to one of relief, which he quickly masked with a sardonic smile.

“Ah, you’re here,” he greeted me, his voice tinged with a bitterness that had become his usual demeanor. “I presume you’re paying for this indulgence?”

I assured him, with a slight nod, that I was indeed covering our lunch, but I couldn’t resist probing him a bit. “Arsène, aren’t you a bit ashamed at not making an effort to find work? Relying on others isn’t like you.”

He snorted, stirring his coffee with more force than necessary. “Out of sorts, my friend. The world owes me far more than a lunch. And women,” he added with a scowl, “are the architects of my current despair.”

Seeing his distress, I offered a solution. “Why don’t you come stay at my boarding house? The landlady might agree to it, and it could give you a place to focus on your writing, away from these distractions.”

Arsène’s eyes lit up with a calculating gleam. “On one condition,” he stipulated. “I must be financially supported so I can dedicate myself entirely to my writing. I am, after all, a genius, and it is society’s duty to nurture such rare talent.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at his audacity. “Is arranging housing not enough, Arsène? I have no obligation to sponsor your life.”

Unfazed, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze steady. “If not, I might as well end it all. Then you can ponder whether your reluctance cost society a genius.”

Despite his melodramatic threat, I was partly amused and partly impressed by his unwavering self-belief. “Very well, I think I can arrange a small pittance, but let’s first discuss this with my landlady.”

The landlady of the boarding house, Madame Blanchard, was a woman who, despite the passage of years, retained a certain allure. Though no longer in the flush of her youth, she carried herself with an air of quiet dignity and a keen attention to her appearance. On the day we arrived to negotiate Arsène’s stay, she wore a dress of soft lavender, the fabric draped elegantly to flatter her still-graceful figure. The dress was cinched at the middle with a belt of ribbon. About this decoration the housekeys dangled from a loop, and these tinkled pleasantly in accompaniment to her movements, drawing attention to her youthful waistline. Her hair, once a vibrant chestnut, now bore streaks of silver, and was pulled back into a neat chignon, a few wispy curls framing her face, softening her features.

Madame Blanchard’s demeanor was as meticulous as her attire, but she betrayed her attention to presentation. Her hands, embellished with thin gold rings, were never still, always adjusting a stray lock of hair or smoothing the fabric of her skirt, gestures that spoke of a woman who valued order and propriety.

When we first presented our request, her initial reaction was one of reluctance. Her boarding house was her domain, a place she managed with strict rules and expectations. The sight of Arsène, with his worn clothes and haggard appearance, did not inspire confidence. She frowned slightly, her eyes assessing him with a mix of disapproval and concern. Her eyes narrowed a little as she took in his frayed coat, the tired slump of his shoulders, and the hollows beneath his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and troubled thoughts.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot disrupt the harmony of my house with a gentleman of his… current standing,” she said, her voice firm yet not unkind.

Shrugging, Arsène went to leave, but I grabbed his coat.

“Please Madame,” I said. “Monsieur is a great writer, maybe even a genius, and needs a place to work.”

“There is no ‘maybe’. I am a genius,” stated Arsène flatly.

“There is no place for him. Besides, he appears ill.”

“That is all the more reason,” I persisted. “You cannot turn out a sick man, who maybe lingers only to finish a great work that will give his entire life meaning?”

Here she wavered a little. She hesitated, her gaze flitting between me and the disconsolate figure of Arsène. She fussed with the lace at her cuff, a personal habit she demonstrated when in contemplation or distress, weighing the risk against her compassionate instincts. I plunged forward, convinced that my efforts would earn me a seat in Heaven.

“Just for two weeks, until he gets his strength back with some of your strong broth and good wishes?”

“The maid’s quarters are, at present, unoccupied. He can stay there. Perhaps it is for the best, if he is ill. I can attend to him there. But two weeks! And you must promise to pay.”

I thanked her and gave her my word. She took Arsène to his room, and I went back to mine.

Winning Her Over

Madame Blanchard proved as good as her word. On cold nights, she brought him blankets and tea. She cooked his meals by his instructions. He soon enjoyed the best of everything, with he accepted with a condescending air, as though he were doing her a favor. She did all these things without his encouragement. As far as I could tell, he ignored her nearly completely. He did, however, out of furious vanity, share his writing, and also used her as his audience on any number of opinions…out of apathy, I suppose, for I cannot think he sought comfort from her, selfish as he was, as inviting as an icicle.

I soon enough regretted my generosity. One day, when I went to pay my rent, I found her packing her trunks, her husband pacing the floor. Arsène sat in a corner chair with a blanket over his knees, apparently unconcerned at the commotion around him.

“What is going on?” I asked.

“I am in love with Arsène. I am leaving him,” she said, jerking her head towards her husband, who wrung his hands and moaned.

“But he doesn’t love you. This is idiocy! He is a beast!”

“Women are the beasts,” said Arsène calmly. “Blast if I can help it. If she wants to follow me, who am I to stop her?”

“But this is madness!” I cried out to Madame. “Reconsider, kind woman. This man takes no regard of you.”

Madame looked very somber.

“If he were to beat me, spit on me…still I should love him. My heart tells me I must go where he goes, even if I sleep in the gutter outside his house.”

Arsène rolled his eyes.

“This is what you would protect, Edgar, these little fools. I tell you, they are the most foolish creatures alive, and one should take less notice of them then mice in the floorboards. A damned nuisance, with their glowing philosophies.”

He stood, folding his blanket and placing it back on the chair.

“Monsieur Blanchard, if I didn’t think I was doing you a service, I should feel sorry for you. In time, you will realize, as I did, that women are very silly and stupid, that they are only trouble, and you will be grateful to me for ridding you of this one.”

Then, as Monsieur Blanchard, stunned out of his misery, gaped in amazement, they filed out. Madame Blanchard struggled a little with her trunk, which she tugged behind her, but Arsène deigned to notice.

Unfortunately, the episode had a sad but inevitable conclusion. Arsène, unwilling or unable to contain his disdain for Madame, and indeed all the women that he perceived in her kind and graceful form, barred his door against her and refused her entrance. Despite her resolution that if he did so, she should sleep in the streets, instead she decided to sleep for all time in the watery bowels of the Seine. Following this news and realizing my own part in introducing the viper to a good woman, I felt renewed in my hatred of the man, and vowed never to speak to him again.

Reversals

If that were all to the tale, it would hardly be worth the telling. A cheat of a man, abused and abusing. But as long as we continue living, things keep happening, and sometimes those things are rather surprising.

It happened that he hired a housekeeper, a woman of desperate circumstances. It also happened that she had a daughter, who was employed as an artist’s model.

In a desperate bid to secure a better future for her daughter, she approached Arsène with a proposal that seemed more like a plea: marry her daughter and in return, provide her a sanctuary from the predatory aspects of her profession.

Arsène, initially dismissive, scoffed at the notion. The art studios where she posed were often rife with men whose intentions went beyond the artistic, and he questioned the mother’s plan to shield her daughter from such realities. However, the mother’s response caught him off guard. She spoke of her daughter’s innate purity and innocence, qualities that somehow shielded her from the corruption around her. This intrigued Arsène enough to meet the young woman.

When he did, he was unexpectedly taken aback. She indeed possessed a kind of luminous innocence; her eyes, clear and poignant as a rain-washed sky, seemed to reflect an inner light. Her hair, a cascade of reddish-gold waves, framed her face in a fiery halo, enhancing her ethereal beauty. There was a dignity about her, a quiet strength that seemed to set her apart from her surroundings, reminiscent of an untouched Eden.

Despite his initial skepticism and his usual disdain for the entanglements of the heart, Arsène found himself drawn to her. They spent time together, during which he discovered her keen intelligence and the depth of her spirit. He brought her small tokens of affection — books, sketches from his own hand, and on rare occasions, wildflowers he picked during solitary walks. This burgeoning relationship, which he hesitated to label as love due to his past scars and cynicism, slowly transformed him. One dreamy evening, he proposed and was accepted.

The wedding was a small, intimate affair. The bride was radiant in white, with a little wreath upon her head of daisies and heather, and a trailing lace veil…rather pagan, some would say, but the woman made it seem like the most proper thing, being quiet and amenable in her person. Arsène was as I had not seen him in quite some time…subdued, even anxious. When they left the church, I chuckled, because he was so meek in his aspect, I could tell which of them was the virgin.

For a time, the pair lived happily. Arsène began to achieve some literary success and gather a reputation. His diligent work habits seemed to facilitate this, and for a time it seemed he was quite reformed.

However, the days grew colder. A chilling wind swept through the streets, gathering leaves and sending them shuddering in eddies and whirlpools, and with it, a malevolent spirit…Hecate, Hera.

It began with a subtle cough, barely noticeable at first, but it soon grew in force, shaking the young woman’s frame, causing her eyes to widen in alarm. Her once vibrant laughter and musical voice was replaced by hollow wheezes, like a gale whistling between the boards of a fence.

As the woman’s illness grew more severe, Arsène spared no expense in seeking the best medical care. Doctors and healers from far and wide were summoned to their modest home, their somber expressions betraying the gravity of the situation.

The doctor, (a stern-faced man with gray hair that stuck out from his temples like wiry porcupine quills), prescribed leeches, hoping to bleed out the illness. Arsène watched with a mixture of hope and dread as the grey creatures were applied to the woman’s skin, their bloated bodies a testament to the battle being waged within her.

Days turned into weeks, and still her condition worsened. Each visit from a new doctor, a wise woman, a friend, brought with it poultices, tinctures, potions and prayers, but still the woman coughed and grew weaker. One fateful night, as the flickering candlelight cast long shadows upon the wall that seemed like lines of mourners, she took her last breath in Arsène’s arms. With a grief too deep for words, written or otherwise, Arsène departed from Paris, and I heard no more of them, although I often wondered.

Endings

One day, some years later, I found myself in Tahiti, far from the bustling streets of Paris. The warm breeze carried the scent of exotic flowers as I strolled along the white sand beaches, feeling a sense of peace and serenity I had not felt in a long time…or since.

As I approached a lone grass hut set apart from the rest, the haunting melody of a familiar voice reached by ears. I started, instantly alert and on edge. Could it be? Impetuously, I rushed inside. There, laying on narrow cot, my eyes fell upon the emaciated form of Arsène. His eyes were wild, and peered out of cavernous sockets…he was a jutting, bony thing. He was quite as shocked as I was at this unexpected meeting, but seemed to take it in stride, having adopted, as became apparent, a hardy, weed-like fatalism that sprang up nearly everywhere.

In a weak voice, he said he that soon after coming to the island, seeking release from his pain, an illness had fallen upon him. Unlike most illnesses, he welcomed it, he said, even glorying in its mysterious nature. It was a penance, he said, for his years of bitterness and scorn. The memory of his love, (for now he did not hesitate to use the word), haunted him like a specter, and prostrated himself before it, begging for atonement.

With tears glistening in his eyes, he spoke of a desire to cheat death and reunite with his bride. He turned his gaze to the open door of the hut, where the vast expanse of brilliant blue sea was visible, its endless waves a symbol of eternity and the beyond.

In a voice filled with longing, he spoke of a bond that transcended time and space, that would endure even beyond the grave. He spoke of tragedy turned into comedy…Pyramus rescued from the lion, Thisbe rushing to greet him, at ease in an Eastern bower.

He spoke until the sun dipped low. A cool breeze fanned his brow, and he closed his eyes. In one long breath, he sent his soul to the horizon, to mingle with the mists, and dance with the stars.

Legacy

“That’s quite the tale,” said the tavern goer. “And how is it that such a different version of his life should be written?”

“Only I know the full secret,” admitted Poe. “Perhaps someday I’ll write it. for now…I tell it to myself, and a few curious souls, but if there is a lesson in it, I cannot say, other than a tale of the whimsical human spirit, its childish desire for love and acceptance, its wounds and scars…and the balm of time.”

“I agree,” said Henri.