The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [56]
Having overheard authors discussing reviewers, Annie could believe it.
“It’s such a shame that Griswold could not have patterned himself after our dear Agatha. Although, of course, he couldn’t, since he was alive first. But you know what I mean …”
Annie had no desire at all to know what her mother-in-law meant.
“When you think of that really intemperate essay by Edmund Wilson—and how many people today recognize his name—but dear Dame Agatha never, to my knowledge, made any comment at all about the nasty piece. However, her sterling example came much too late to help Edgar. Although Griswold was so ‘literary,’ perhaps he wouldn’t even have read her. In any event”—Annie’s head definitely ached—“worse was to come. In 1843 an unsigned review sharply criticized Griswold’s anthology. Griswold was convinced Poe wrote the review, though no one’s ever known for certain.”
“So Griswold didn’t like Poe. So he said so. So what?” Annie asked, but her tone was more amiable because the coffee was ready. She poured each of them a cup and never in her memory had there been a scent to compare with the heady, heavenly aroma of the French roast brew.
“Oh, my dear. It is even worse than our present instance because dear Edgar trusted Griswold. Before they became enemies, Poe even asked Griswold to serve as his literary executor, and Griswold accepted.” Laurel’s spectacularly lovely blue eyes flashed. “Griswold began his character assassination of Poe two days after the poor man died in 1849. He wrote an account of Poe’s life and career for the New York Tribune that began this way, ‘Edgar Allan Poe is dead. He died in Baltimore the day before yesterday. This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved by it.’” A soulful sigh. “Annie, it was a vicious diatribe against the greatest poet America ever produced. Griswold wrote that Poe ‘had no moral susceptibility … and little or nothing of the true point of honor.’”
Annie swallowed a wonderful warming jolt of coffee and began to pay attention. It slowly dawned on her that Laurel was drawing a parallel between the past and the present. She looked sharply at her mother-in-law. “Are you saying all this stuff that’s hung on Poe all these years—drink, drugs, less than honorable relations with his mother-in-law—that none of it’s true?”
“None of it. Oh, it’s accurate that the poor boy didn’t handle liquor well. He had an extremely low tolerance for it. But according to many of his friends, he rarely drank. And certainly not when he was working. As for the rest, it is a fraud upon his memory.”
Laurel’s quiet words hung between them.
“He was a dear boy, and he tried so hard,” Laurel said softly. “Such a sad life. His mother deserted by his father when Edgar was but a year old. His mother, a wonderful young actress, dying of tuberculosis, when he was not quite three. A wealthy, childless Richmond, Virginia couple, John and Frances Allan, adopted Edgar. Oh, there are so many interesting stories about his youth. He was a handsome, athletic teenager, good at running, swimming, boxing. But he and his foster father were never close. A merchant, John Allan couldn’t understand a young man so interested in poetry. But Annie, the way Griswold twisted the facts …”
Laurel ticked the charges off on her fingers. “In his biography of Poe, Griswold claimed he had been expelled from the University of Virginia because of drinking. Not true. Griswold said Poe deserted from the army and was expelled from West Point. Not true. He insinuated Poe was an opium addict. Not true. He wrote—and this was utterly without foundation—that Poe ‘had criminal relations with his mother-in-law.’ No one had ever