Favorite Thing No. 2d

 My cottage is filled with books.
There are five book cases in my parlor.
There are also stacks of books piled neatly on top of vintage luggage,
rickety side tables, cane-benches, the mantle, and the floor.
There's a bookcase in the kitchen hallway,
there's a bookshelf in the kitchen,
there's another on the 2nd floor landing,
there's a large bookcase in the guest room,
and there are four bookcases in the upstairs den.
(There are none in my bedroom, oddly enough. I shall have to remedy that...)
When it comes to books: More is seldom enough.

I love books.  Books are indeed my FAVORITE thing.

To paraphrase Frederick Fleet: this is just the tip of a very large iceberg.

Put down that book and come to Claudia's FAVORITE THING party.

Poe's Lovelorn Corner of New England

I always think of Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) at this time of year.  To me he was the undisputed king of horror and the macabre when I was a child. And still is, for that matter.  (With apologies to Mr. King and Mr. Lovecraft.)

One of my favorite places to visit in New England (although I haven't been there in quite awhile) is the Athenaeum, which will forever be associated in my mind with the sad Mr. Poe.

 

The Athenaeum—a membership library built in 1838—is everything a library from that period should be: atmospheric, full of lovely oiled wood, polished brass and well-worn leather and, of course shelf after shelf of priceless books.

They say if you drink from the Athenaeum's fountain,you will never leave the city...

And the Athenaeum loves dogs!

According to the library's archives: 'In June of 1953 the board of the Athenaeum authorized a change in regulations: "A shareholder's dog, if on a leash, may accompany his master or mistress into the library." In September, Annie Cooke, the librarian, reported "no startling results to date" involving the Athenaeum's hairy new patrons. Since then, two of the Athenaeum's executive directors have brought their dogs to work. Dogs of members are still very much welcome in the Athenaeum today. All repeat canine visitors head directly for the jar of dog biscuits kept below the Circulation Desk upon entry to the library.'

But back to Mr. Poe. In the years just prior to his death, he was engaged to Sarah Helen Whitman (1803-1878), a poet in her own right.  Again, according to the library's historical records, 'The Athenaeum was the backdrop for several turning points in the romance between Edgar Allan Poe and Sarah Helen Whitman. A lifelong resident of Providence, Whitman was considered one of the "best female poets of America" and enjoyed an almost three-quarters of a century relationship with the Athenaeum. Greatly admiring the writings of one another long before they had corresponded or met, Poe, on a visit to Providence, saw Whitman for the first time in her rose garden behind her house on Benefit St. Poe later claimed that it was upon this first glance of Whitman that he fell in love with her.'  Alas, their love song would soon end, as a direct result of Poe's inability to stop drinking.   

It is poignant to wander through the Athenaeum's corridors, wondering where Edgar and Sarah might have had their trysts.  Did they hold hands in a dark corner, stealing kisses amidst the dusty tomes? 

Was there a favorite area of the library where they met?

Would they read to one another, as lovers from that era sometimes did? Did he bring drafts of his most recent poems for her to hear, and did she do the same?










According to the archives: 'The two would visit the Athenaeum together during their brief yet intense courtship. The relationship even met its end among the alcoves of the library. On December 23, 1848, Poe and Whitman were visiting the Athenaeum when an unnamed someone handed her a note that said Poe had broken his promise and had been drinking again. Whitman immediately called off the wedding, left the library and rushed back to her house. The two would never see each other again and Poe was dead within a year. Whitman would live for almost thirty more years, continuing to spend much of her time at the Athenaeum.'


Sarah spent much of her later years trying to champion Poe's work and nullify the sting of his critics who saw him as a dissolute failure.  She responded by writing and publishing a book: Edgar Poe and His Critics (1860).
  
French poet Charles Baudelaire was an admirer of Poe. According to the Harris Collection, he related to Poe on many levels:  'Both lived in poverty, suffered from addictions and depression. Both were under appreciated by the literary establishment of their times. Both embraced mysticism, the fantastic, the macabre and the grotesque in their writings. Finally, both were searching for answers to philosophical questions in their aesthetic and literary pursuits.'
Baudelaire translated many of Poe's stories and poems during Poe's lifetime. And many years after both men had died, his translation of "THE RAVEN" was published with illustrations by Jean Gabriel Daragnès (1918). 

In 1868, French author Stephen Mallarmé, also an admirer of Poe, published his own translation of "THE RAVEN" with illustrations by french artist Edouard Manet. I had the good fortune of seeing both his and Baudelaire's manuscripts last Halloween and was captivated by the illustrations!










I was also able to view a bookplate, inscribed by Mallarmé to Sarah Whitman featuring one of Manet's illustrations. In a letter he sent to her with the bookplate he wrote, "Your name mingles with his."  And indeed at the Athenaeum, their two names are forever linked.

 Sarah Helen Whitman bequeathed the inscribed bookplate to the Athenaeum...

a place that held memories of her love as well as her disappointment.

Interior photos taken several years ago on a trip to the Athenaeum.

Dog photo from the Athenaeum's website.

Manuscripts of "THE RAVEN" from the Harris Collection and the Athenaeum's website.

A little rain goeth a long, long way

Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?

— Charlotte Brontë 

Our fourth day of rain in five days. With more tomorrow.

The sweet scent of moulding leaves and seed pods fills the air

and there is the constant drip, drip of rain falling into shallow puddles.

The downspouts gurgle, the rain barrel gently overflows,

and all the flowers lower their sodden heads. 

The rain is falling all around,

It falls on field and tree,

It rains on the umbrellas here,

And on the ships at sea.

— Robt. Louis Stevenson 

 

 

October's Bright Blue Weather

O SUNS and skies and clouds of June,
And flowers of June together,
Ye cannot rival for one hour
October's bright blue weather;

    

When loud the bumble-bee makes haste,
Belated, thriftless vagrant,
And Golden-Rod is dying fast,
And lanes with grapes are fragrant;

    

When Gentians roll their fringes tight
To save them for the morning,
And chestnuts fall from satin burrs
Without a sound of warning;

When on the ground red apples lie

In piles like jewels shining,
And redder still on old stone walls
Are leaves of woodbine twining;

    

When all the lovely wayside things
Their white-winged seeds are sowing,
And in the fields, still green and fair,
Late aftermaths are growing;

    

 When springs run low, and on the brooks,
In idle golden freighting,
Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush
Of woods, for winter waiting;

   

 When comrades seek sweet country haunts,
By twos and twos together,
And count like misers, hour by hour,
  October's bright blue weather.

    

O suns and skies and flowers of June,
Count all your boasts together,
Love loveth best of all the year
October's bright blue weather. 

—Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)