William Carlos Williams, another "pure product of America," wrote a scintillating chapter on Poe in his book In the American Grain (1925).
To understand what Poe is driving at in his tales, one should read first NOT the popular, perfect— Gold Bug, Murders in the Rue Morgue , etc., which by their brilliancy detract from the observation of his deeper intent, but the less striking tales—in fact all, but especially those where his humor is less certain, his mood lighter, less tightly bound by the incident, where numerous illuminating faults are allowed to become expressive, The Business Man, The Man That Was Used Up, Loss of Breath, BonBon, Diddling, The Angel of the Odd— and others of his lesser Tales.
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The Man That Was Used Up (1839)
"The Man That Was Used Up" is a clever story -- though not as droll as Poe clearly hopes -- in which our narrator interviews various acquaintances about the career of living legend and fine figure of a man, Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith "in the late tremendous swamp-fight away down South, with the Bugaboo and Kickapoo Indians."
The narrator interviews Miss Tabitha T. We at the Church of the Reverend Doctor Drummummupp, the Misses Arabella and Miranda Cognoscenti as they attend the Rantipole theatre to take in a performance by that fine tragedian Climax as Iago, the social butterfly and lovely widow Mrs. Kathleen O'Trump, the graceful Mrs. Pirouette, and finally Mr. Theodore Sinivate.
Ultimately the narrator goes in search of the general himself:
....It was early when I called, and the General was dressing, but I pleaded urgent business, and was shown at once into his bedroom by an old negro valet, who remained in attendance during my visit. As I entered the chamber, I looked about, of course, for the occupant, but did not immediately perceive him. There was a large and exceedingly odd looking bundle of something which lay close by my feet on the floor, and, as I was not in the best humor in the world, I gave it a kick out of the way.
"Hem! ahem! rather civil that, I should say!" said the bundle, in one of the smallest, and altogether the funniest little voices, between a squeak and a whistle, that I ever heard in all the days of my existence.
"Ahem! rather civil that I should observe."
I fairly shouted with terror, and made off, at a tangent, into the farthest extremity of the room.
"God bless me, my dear fellow!" here again whistled the bundle, "what—what—what—why, what is the matter? I really believe you don't know me at all."
What could I say to all this—what could I? I staggered into an armchair, and, with staring eyes and open mouth, awaited the solution of the wonder.
"Strange you shouldn't know me though, isn't it?" presently resqueaked the nondescript, which I now perceived was performing upon the floor some inexplicable evolution, very analogous to the drawing on of a stocking. There was only a single leg, however, apparent.
"Strange you shouldn't know me though, isn't it? Pompey, bring me that leg!" Here Pompey handed the bundle a very capital cork leg, already dressed, which it screwed on in a trice; and then it stood upright before my eyes.
"And a bloody action it was," continued the thing, as if in a soliloquy; "but then one mustn't fight with the Bugaboos and Kickapoos, and think of coming off with a mere scratch. Pompey, I'll thank you now for that arm. Thomas" [turning to me] "is decidedly the best hand at a cork leg; but if you should ever want an arm, my dear fellow, you must really let me recommend you to Bishop." Here Pompey screwed on an arm.
"We had rather hot work of it, that you may say. Now, you dog, slip on my shoulders and bosom. Pettit makes the best shoulders, but for a bosom you will have to go to Ducrow."
"Bosom!" said I.
"Pompey, will you never be ready with that wig? Scalping is a rough process, after all; but then you can procure such a capital scratch at De L'Orme's."
"Scratch!"
"Now, you nigger, my teeth! For a good set of these you had better go to Parmly's at once; high prices, but excellent work. I swallowed some very capital articles, though, when the big Bugaboo rammed me down with the butt end of his rifle."
"Butt end! ram down!! my eye!!"
"O yes, by the way, my eye—here, Pompey, you scamp, screw it in! Those Kickapoos are not so very slow at a gouge; but he's a belied man, that Dr. Williams, after all; you can't imagine how well I see with the eyes of his make."
I now began very clearly to perceive that the object before me was nothing more nor less than my new acquaintance, Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. The manipulations of Pompey had made, I must confess, a very striking difference in the appearance of the personal man. The voice, however, still puzzled me no little; but even this apparent mystery was speedily cleared up.
"Pompey, you black rascal," squeaked the General, "I really do believe you would let me go out without my palate."
Hereupon, the negro, grumbling out an apology, went up to his master, opened his mouth with the knowing air of a horse-jockey, and adjusted therein a somewhat singular-looking machine, in a very dexterous manner, that I could not altogether comprehend. The alteration, however, in the entire expression of the General's countenance was instantaneous and surprising. When he again spoke, his voice had resumed all that rich melody and strength which I had noticed upon our original introduction.
"D-n the vagabonds!" said he, in so clear a tone that I positively started at the change, "D-n the vagabonds! they not only knocked in the roof of my mouth, but took the trouble to cut off at least seven-eighths of my tongue. There isn't Bonfanti's equal, however, in America, for really good articles of this description. I can recommend you to him with confidence," [here the General bowed,] "and assure you that I have the greatest pleasure in so doing."
I acknowledged his kindness in my best manner, and took leave of him at once, with a perfect understanding of the true state of affairs- with a full comprehension of the mystery which had troubled me so long. It was evident. It was a clear case. Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith was the man—the man that was used up.
* * *
The Business Man (1840)
Narrator Peter Proffit recounts his successful careers in Tailor's Walking-Advertisement, Eye-Sore owner, Assault-and-Battery artist, Mud-Dabbler, Organ-Grinder (sans monkey), Sham-Postman, and finally:
....My eighth and last speculation has been in the Cat-Growing way. I have found that a most pleasant and lucrative business, and, really, no trouble at all. The country, it is well known, has become infested with cats—so much so of late, that a petition for relief, most numerously and respectably signed, was brought before the Legislature at its late memorable session. The Assembly, at this epoch, was unusually well-informed, and, having passed many other wise and wholesome enactments, it crowned all with the Cat-Act. In its original form, this law offered a premium for cat-heads (fourpence a-piece), but the Senate succeeded in amending the main clause, so as to substitute the word "tails" for "heads." This amendment was so obviously proper, that the House concurred in it nem. con.
As soon as the governor had signed the bill, I invested my whole estate in the purchase of Toms and Tabbies. At first I could only afford to feed them upon mice (which are cheap), but they fulfilled the scriptural injunction at so marvellous a rate, that I at length considered it my best policy to be liberal, and so indulged them in oysters and turtle. Their tails, at a legislative price, now bring me in a good income; for I have discovered a way, in which, by means of Macassar oil, I can force three crops in a year. It delights me to find, too, that the animals soon get accustomed to the thing, and would rather have the appendages cut off than otherwise. I consider myself, therefore, a made man, and am bargaining for a country seat on the Hudson.
* * *
Loss of Breath (1840)
Mr. Lackobreath, while trying to strangle his bride on the morning after their wedding, loses his breath. "Loss of Breath" recounts, in whimsically grotesque picaresque form, his attempts to recapture it. On his search he is crushed in a carriage, hung for a thief, autopsied by a surgeon, and experimented on by an apothecary with a Galvanic battery, before being interred in the "public vault." There he meets his neighbor, Mr. Windenough, who inadvertently acquired his breath while passing the Lackobreath house that morning.
As with "The Man That Was Used Up" and "The Business Man," there is an almost mathematical arrangement to these stories. Iteration and reiteration pulse as the narrator begins and then pursues his quest via interactions with various characters (out of Daumier, or Goya's late sketches). Humor in each episode is negation of terror. Rigorous stylistic trigonometry of framework supports the drollery.
There is no earthly commiseration in this schema for victims of what Poe terms life's "quantum of absurdity."
* * *
Bon-Bon (1840)
The devil, perennial devourer of and commenter upon philosophers, makes an evening visit to the brilliant Parisian chef/philosopher/wheeler-dealer Pierre Bon-Bon.
But in "Bon-Bon" Poe sets himself a few too many rhetorical hurdles in the chase after laughs, dulling the piece's overall conceit. It is a minor but clever conceit, as Bon-Bon tries to maneuver the devil into negotiations for his own soul.
("Hic-cup!")
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Diddling Considered as One of the Exact Sciences (1843)
"Diddling" is another acid anatomy of US business psychology.
....Your diddler is minute. His operations are upon a small scale. His business is retail, for cash, or approved paper at sight. Should he ever be tempted into magnificent speculation, he then, at once, loses his distinctive features, and becomes what we term "financier." This latter word conveys the diddling idea in every respect except that of magnitude. A diddler may thus be regarded as a banker in petto —a "financial operation," as a diddle at Brobdignag. The one is to the other, as Homer to "Flaccus"—as a mastodon to a mouse—as the tail of a comet to that of a pig.
The tale is a catalogue of some of the "modern instances"' of diddling.
....A neat diddle is this. A friend holds one of the diddler's promises to pay, filled up and signed in due form, upon the ordinary blanks printed in red ink. The diddler purchases one or two dozen of these blanks, and every day dips one of them in his soup, makes his dog jump for it, and finally gives it to him as a bonne bouche . The note arriving at maturity, the diddler, with the diddler's dog, calls upon the friend, and the promise to pay is made the topic of discussion. The friend produces it from his escritoire , and is in the act of reaching it to the diddler, when up jumps the diddler's dog and devours it forthwith. The diddler is not only surprised but vexed and incensed at the absurd behavior of his dog, and expresses his entire readiness to cancel the obligation at any moment when the evidence of the obligation shall be forthcoming.
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The Angel of the Odd — An Extravaganza (1844)
Our drunken narrator has a hallucinatory nighttime encounter with the Angel: "....he said that he was the genius who presided over the contretemps of mankind, and whose business it was to bring about the odd accidents which are continually astonishing the skeptic."
The next day the narrator gets a special helping of such contretemps:
His departure afforded me relief. The very few glasses of Lafitte that I had sipped had the effect of rendering me drowsy, and I felt inclined to take a nap of some fifteen or twenty minutes, as is my custom after dinner. At six I had an appointment of consequence, which it was quite indispensable that I should keep. The policy of insurance for my dwelling house had expired the day before; and, some dispute having arisen, it was agreed that, at six, I should meet the board of directors of the company and settle the terms of a renewal. Glancing upward at the clock on the mantel-piece (for I felt too drowsy to take out my watch), I had the pleasure to find that I had still twenty-five minutes to spare. It was half past five; I could easily walk to the insurance office in five minutes; and my usual post prandian siestas had never been known to exceed five and twenty. I felt sufficiently safe, therefore, and composed myself to my slumbers forthwith.
Having completed them to my satisfaction, I again looked toward the time-piece, and was half inclined to believe in the possibility of odd accidents when I found that, instead of my ordinary fifteen or twenty minutes, I had been dozing only three; for it still wanted seven and twenty of the appointed hour. I betook myself again to my nap, and at length a second time awoke, when, to my utter amazement, it still wanted twenty-seven minutes of six. I jumped up to examine the clock, and found that it had ceased running. My watch informed me that it was half past seven; and, of course, having slept two hours, I was too late for my appointment "It will make no difference," I said; "I can call at the office in the morning and apologize; in the meantime what can be the matter with the clock?" Upon examining it I discovered that one of the raisin-stems which I had been flipping about the room during the discourse of the Angel of the Odd had flown through the fractured crystal, and lodging, singularly enough, in the key-hole, with an end projecting outward, had thus arrested the revolution of the minute-hand.
"Ah!" said I; "I see how it is. This thing speaks for itself. A natural accident, such as will happen now and then!"
I gave the matter no further consideration, and at my usual hour retired to bed. Here, having placed a candle upon a reading-stand at the bed-head, and having made an attempt to peruse some pages of the "Omnipresence of the Deity," I unfortunately fell asleep in less than twenty seconds, leaving the light burning as it was.
My dreams were terrifically disturbed by visions of the Angel of the Odd. Methought he stood at the foot of the couch, drew aside the curtains, and, in the hollow, detestable tones of a rum-puncheon, menaced me with the bitterest vengeance for the contempt with which I had treated him. He concluded a long harrangue by taking off his funnelcap, inserting the tube into my gullet, and thus deluging me with an ocean of Kirschenwasser, which he poured, in a continuous flood, from one of the long-necked bottles that stood him instead of an arm. My agony was at length insufferable, and I awoke just in time to perceive that a rat had ran off with the lighted candle from the stand, but not in season to prevent his making his escape with it through the hole. Very soon, a strong suffocating odor assailed my nostrils; the house, I clearly perceived, was on fire. In a few minutes the blaze broke forth with violence, and in an incredibly brief period the entire building was wrapped in flames. All egress from my chamber, except through a window, was cut off. The crowd, however, quickly procured and raised a long ladder. By means of this I was descending rapidly, and in apparent safety, when a huge hog, about whose rotund stomach, and indeed about whose whole air and physiognomy, there was something which reminded me of the Angel of the Odd,—when this hog, I say, which hitherto had been quietly slumbering in the mud, took it suddenly into his head that his left shoulder needed scratching, and could find no more convenient rubbing post than that afforded by the foot of the ladder. In an instant I was precipitated, and had the misfortune to fracture my arm....
"The Angel of the Odd" clearly looks forward to Poe's sublime 1845 story-essay "The Imp of the Perverse."
* * *
Poe's droll stories should be taken in small doses. Too much of his prehensile humor can set the reader's teeth on edge. Still, the material is rewarding. Poe clearly foresaw the all-against-all nature of post-Civil War capitalist exploitation, the way it permeated all social interaction, dissolved class solidarity, and bred perverse and contrary destructive and self-destructive behavior. The acid of Twain and Bierce is also germinated in these tales.
William Carlos Williams, not Eliot (or Harold Bloom) is the most sympathetic critic of Poe that I have read. As he closes his chapter on the writer in In the American Grain, he notes:
....Of this method in the Tales, the significance and the secret is: authentic particles, a thousand of which spring to the mind for quotation, taken apart and reknit with a view to emphasize, enforce and make evident, the method. Their quality of skill in observation, their heat, local verity, being overshadowed only by the detached, the abstract, the cold philosophy of their joining together; a method springing so freshly from the local conditions which determine it, by their emphasis of firm crudity and lack of coordinated structure, as to be worthy of most painstaking study—The whole period, America 1840, could be rebuilt, psychologically (phrenologically) from Poe's "method."
Jay
21 April 2021
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