Our next pause was at the word "beast," through which he ran his pencil.
"Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above my chamber door."
"I must get rid of that word," he said; "for, of course, no beast could be expected to occupy such a position."
"Oh, yes; a mouse, for instance," I suggested, at which he gave me one of his rare humorous smiles.
Leaving this point for future consideration, we passed on to a more serious difficulty.
"This and more I sat divining, With my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining, with the lamplight gloated o'er."
The knotty point here was in the word "lining"—a blunder obvious to every reader. Poe said that the only way he could see of getting over the difficulty was by omitting the whole stanza. But he was unwilling to give up that "violet velvet" chair, which, with the "purple silken curtain," he considered a picturesque adjunct to the scene, imparting to it a character of luxury which served as a relief to the more sombre surroundings. I had so often heard this impossible "lining" criticised that when he inquired, "Shall I omit or retain the stanza?" I ventured to suggest that it might be better to give up the stanza than have the poem marred by a defect so conspicuous. For a moment he held the pencil poised, as if in doubt, and I have since wondered what would have been his decision.
But just here we were interrupted by the tumultuous entrance of my little dog, Pink, in hot pursuit of the family cat. The latter took refuge beneath the table at which we were seated, and there ensued a brisk exchange of duelistic passes, until I called off Pink and Mr. Poe took up the cat and, placing her on his knee, stroked her soothingly, inquiring if she were my pet. Upon my disclaiming any partiality for felines, he said, "I like them," and continued his gentle caressing. (Was he thinking of Catalina, his wife's pet cat, which he had left at home at Fordham, and which after her death had sat upon his shoulder as he wrote far into the night? Recalling his grave and softened expression, I think that it must have been so. But at that time I had never heard of Catalina.)
But now came the final and most difficult "tangle" of all—the blunder apparent to the world—the defect which mars the whole poem, and yet is contained in but a single line:
"And the lamplight o'er him streaming casts his shadow on the floor."