Poe in the Tavern

In the squat Richmond tavern, having claimed a comfortable seat by a crackling fire, Edgar Allan Poe bent over his work. In the dim light of the oil lamps, with night quickly falling, his figure receded in a wisp of smoke. This, combined with his dark clothing, his shaggy head of hair, and his scowling expression, made him seem like a figure formed from the sulphury flames of the underworld, but to those around him, well accustomed to the scene, he was no more intimidating than the owner’s fat grey cat, who dozed on the hearth.
“Hello Edgar,” someone greeted him, and Edgar blinked, looked up, and nodded to his acquaintance Rufus. Seeing this as an invitation, Rufus came and brought his ale to the table.
“Working on something?” He asked.
“Yes, a new tale.”
Rufus sipped his ale meditatively.
“Mind giving me a sense of it? A little…advance notice?”
“Why certainly,” said Edgar. He picked up his papers and began to read aloud.

Edgar and Rufus

The Overcoat

Silas Marsh was an unpleasant fellow. A blight, a wastrel, a loiterer. He was a ne’er do well and a petty thief. In his youth, he was a hail-fellow-well-met, and a general fool, but these lively times represented the peak of his existence. In middle age, he had exhausted the good will of all his acquaintances, and was reduced to a common state of beggary.

One dark and cold Virginia night, when he could not find lodgings, it began to snow. Rather dispiritedly, he began to walk towards the woods, thinking he might at least find some sort of shelter. He saw a young woman in a fancy blue velvet coat. She was hurrying home as fast as her legs would carry her. Suddenly, Silas was gripped with an idea. The snow dampened his footsteps, and he was very near to her before she could notice. Finally she did sense another presence, and turned, with large, alarmed brown eyes. Silas clutched at her coat. She screamed, she fought, but Silas, out of desperation, was able to yank the coat from her back and flee. She ran after him, but fell on the road. Silas made for the woods, not turning back. Placing the coat on his back, he found a cluster of brush, and was quite warm, like a badger in his den.

The very next day, rising, brushing the debris from his blue velvet coat, he carefully fastened the brass buttons, and felt almost a new man.
The road was coated with a glittering dust of snow, but the sky was clear. The sun shone cheerfully. The birds were chirping. Silas walked back to town.

“Silas!” he heard someone call out. He jerked. He craned his head about and spotted a fashionable man in a carriage. He vaguely recognized the face.
“Hello,” he said weakly, approaching.
“Why, it’s been years!” cried the fellow. He opened the carriage door. “Climb in, we’ll go to breakfast.”
“But I-” objected Silas. He looked down at his clothes, automatically. The plush blue coat covered his rags. To be sure, his shoes were worn, and his beard was scraggly, but there was a vestige of prosperity afforded to his person by the impressive raiment. He climbed in the carriage.

After a breakfast of eggs, ham, and coffee, Silas felt quite like a new man. Under the influence of the friends stimulating conversation, Silas revived and became convivial. To be sure, the friend noticed that things were not quite the same, but the coat, still exuding its radiance despite the wintry day, seemed to say that things were not irretrievably awful with Silas. The friend had been away for many years, coming back now that his business interests were firmly established, and he sought to renew his old circle of acquaintances. He was hosting an evening party, and invited Silas. Silas accepted with goodwill.
As Silas and the friend parted ways, Silas was passing a shop, where the door stood ajar, and two men stood arguing within. A shop owner was at odds with his clerk. “Why anyone could do better!” he said, and, seeing Silas pass, he called out, “You there! Are you seeking employment?”
“Why-yes!” breathed Silas, surprised.
“You start tomorrow, then. Be here at eight, prompt.”
“Yes sir!” cried Silas. He paused a moment, plucked at his blue coat, marveling at the second stroke of good fortune to come to him that day, and wondering where it would all end.

That evening, Silas attended his friend’s party. The man had recently purchased an elegant mansion house. It was of brick constitution, with white shutters, graceful columns, and wide windows. Torches lit the gravel drive, where the guests arrived piecemeal in their fancy carriages. The ladies wore silk dresses, had flowers and ribbons in their hair…the men wore suits and smoked cigars, talked of the state of the country, and the upcoming Presidential election. For entertainment, there was a small orchestra. The dinner was oysters and terrapin soup, and fine wine. Silas found himself cornered by an elegant young miss from Charleston. Under the influence of the refined atmosphere, Silas felt something of his old self return. He was witty, and he made jokes. The young miss laughed and said he was a card. She said, with fawning admiration, that she could not remember an evening party when she conversed so easily and amusingly. She complimented Silas on his originality. At the end of evening, she even held his hand, concealing the brazen gesture with her fan. Silas was exhilarated. He expected to be shaken from his incredible dream at any moment.

As the evening wore on and the guests began to depart, Silas felt a pang of worry. Unlike the other fashionable guests, Silas had nowhere to go. However, his host provided a solution. Full of wine and genial good cheer, he offered Silas the use of a carriage, as it had begun to snow, and suggested that Silas spend a few days at his remote country lodge, which was kept in readiness, but which, at that moment, was unoccupied. Silas was much relieved. The snow had begun to fall once again, and he dreaded another night on foot.
As he rode in the carriage, Silas reflected on the chain of circumstances that had brought him to his current state. What a change a mere day had brought! He had been utterly transformed from a piteous creature on the verge of despair, to a man of substance, surrounded by affluent friends…and all because of a stolen coat.

Once out of town, however, these pleasant meditations were interrupted when the carriage jerked to a sudden stop. Silas pounded on the roof of his compartment, trying to attract the attention of the footman, but this was to no avail. Gathering his coat tight, he stepped out. To his astonishment, the footman had utterly departed. The horse stood stock still, flicking it’s tail. Seeing no alternative, Silas climbed up on the box and tried to get the beast to move…but it would not. He untied the horse from the carriage and mounted the horse, intending to ride, but this, too, was to no avail. The horse would not be budged.

Silas turned this way and that on the road, trying to get his bearings, but in every direction, there was but a glistening field of white. The snow fell steadily, only with moderate intensity…but ever in ever increasing heaps. Perhaps it was better to get back into the carriage compartment, he thought. At least he would be out of the weather. He grasped the handle…somehow the door would not budge. As he yanked, he felt something brush his shoulder. He turned. There was the young woman, the owner of the coat…her face was pallid, white as the sheets of snow, and he dark hair was damp, matted to her head. She was no human, living thing…she was possessed of unearthly strength. With a skeletal hand, she reached out, clutched him, retrieved the coat, and with a second demonic stroke, disavowed him of his soul.