The Literary Genius
Henry Peterson's poems vanish unless he can write them down at once, in ink. A story first published in The Pen Fancier's Newsletter in November 1981.
"If I don't write it down, I'll forget it."
This is what he said to himself all his life. And it was true. If Henry Peterson did not write it down, he was sure to forget it. It wasn't that Henry was brilliant in any way except for one singular gift. He was able to generate poetic compositions of inordinate quality. However, without a pen, ink and paper he was unable to neither capture this elusive beauty nor hold it tenaciously in his mind to record at a later time.
Marvelous compositions and literary gems germinated in his thoughts. They appeared on a mental screen fully intact, line for line, replete with perfect punctuation. He was often observed mumbling to himself, starting off into invisible borders of landscape and pointing to unseen objects in the air. He could not train his mind to hold, even fractionally, such literary pearls as they raced in and out again. They never paused long enough for him to get ready with paper, pen and ink. Was it any wonder that his neighbors viewed Henry as eccentric?
Despite volumes of lost opportunity, gone forever in time and originality, he pursued the elusive Muse. Antiquated writing tools further hampered his endeavors. In his lifetime, however, Henry did succeed in producing several slim volumes of poetry. They were exquisite in content but all of them seemed to lack cohesiveness.
Well now, you may ask, why did he not use a pencil? Oddly enough, no matter what he wrote, and he wrote voluminously when he did use a pencil, the quality of his work was so impaired as to render it worthless. Ordinary and nonsensical dribble emanated from the smudgy carbon of the pencil. This he recognized. Whilst he was frustrated and lamenting of the thousands of treasured words he could not capture, he was indomitable enough to attempt some preparation for the ties that he was away form his writing table. To this end he purchased a small traveler's ink well. It was a clever contrivance. With small pressure against a metal button, the cover would spring open. Thus, by uncorking the tiny bottle in it, one could utilize the ink, providing of course that the writer had a tiny straight pen accessible.
Henry Peterson lost a whole ode one day simply because the metal button of his ink box would not release the spring of its cover. Las, during this distraction, as he grappled with the lid, he then fumbled with the cork stopper. It split apart in his fingers leaving the other half tightly sealed below the tiny neck of the bottle. The Pindaric ode he had been visualizing on the screen of his mind slowly diffused forever.
Another time, he recalled sadly, he had begun to see and to hear rhymed couplets reminiscent of Alexander Pope. So perfectly rhymed in meter and foot — the couplets arranged themselves in his mind, each set slowly appearing on unfurling yards of spindled parchment. In his haste to remove the straight pen from his pocket, he tugged at it, catching the nib in the heavy weave of the cloth. Irreparably, the bent prongs of the point rendered it useless and the rhymed couplets were lost to the world.
Henry's life had been a series of frustrations. So often, he would sit at his table awaiting the Muse...pen, ink and paper standing in readiness. But, alas, no great compositions would appear. The capriciousness of creativity is selective in time and can not be cajoled from its reticent lair. And yet, at the most inopportune of times, there, unfolding in his mind, would come the great epic, the unwritten themes, the never before assembled words which bespoke of still to be described imagery. Thus, the tantalizing Muse would shut the door of memory almost as simultaneously as she opened it.
The day he stepped into the Apothecary was the day that changed his life. He met Charlie Higgins I the store buying headache powders for his wife. The chemist had prepared the powders in six neat little tissue wrapped flat packages. Charlie was putting these packages into his pocket when he noticed Henry came through the clanging door.
"Well, well, well," he smiled, "why if it isn't Henry Peterson. How are you Henry?"
"Fine, just fine." answered Henry guardedly. Charlie and he had been classmates. Their families continued to live in this small town on the outskirts of Chicago. Henry remembered Charlie as the effusive and bombastic person he was. Charlie remembered Henry as the odd bookworm which he appeared to be.
"What can I do for you Mr. Peterson?" asked the chemist.
"Would you be so kind to fill this ink pot?" asked Henry.
The chemist retreated to a far corner of the store where he kept a large stoneware keg of ink. The keg sat upon a cradle made of rough wood. When tilted forward, ink would pour out a small spout. Over the years, splattering blots of ink in various shades of purple, indigo, brown and red sepia stained the wooden floor boards beneath the keg's small spigot. The blots formed a vivid picture as the inks bled into one another. Henry recollected his fascination with these the day the chemist was too busy to fill the ink pot. Voluntarily, Henry helped himself. His eyes riveted upon the ink stains and he saw pictures of butterflies, birds, flowers and assorted distorted shapes which evolved and metamorphic ally reshaped themselves. It was when the chemist shouted out that Henry saw his hands covered with ink which drained through the open spigot.
"Say, Mr. Peterson," shouted the chemist form behind the oak cabinets. "Take a look at the newfangled invention a salesman left today."
"Where?" asked Henry.
"Right here by the nibs and pencils." He answered.
Henry walked over to the counter he knew so well. Easily, he spied the leather box.
"The Mackinnon Pen" he read, stamped in gold letters across its lid. He picked up the oblong box, slid a claw hook from its eyelet and opened the box. In the red velvet lined box were two grooves. One groove held an eyedropper with a white rubber bulb and the other groove held the new invention.
"How's it work?" called Henry.
"Here, let me see it," interposed Charlie Higgins. "Mmmm, just your cup of tea" he said turning to Henry, "see'en you're always writin' somethin' or other."
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Henry gazed at the pen. It was made of chased hard rubber polished to a gleaming brightness. A small gold cap covered the narrow end. "Let me show both of you how it works." Said the chemist as he came from behind the counter. "You uncap this end and a small wire comes down through the open end. You fill it with this eyedropper, this way." He demonstrated as he unscrewed the barrel of the pen. Then, as deftly as he had disassembled the pen he reassembled it. "Supposed to be able to write and write. You don't have to stop and dip...you can carry it around with you...you can write anytime and any place just as long as you keep ink in it and fill it when it runs out." He was repeating, almost verbatim, the words the salesman had used that morning.
"That's for you!" chuckled Charlie Higgins, "Maybe now you won't be getting ink all over your clothes."
Henry Peterson could not take his eyes of the new invention. He examined the pen closely. It was a wonderful invention. He took the pen to the sunlit window and turned it about in his hands. Around the upper end of the barrel he could read the words "D. Mackinnon Pat Mar. 21. '76" He had to have this pen; this was the solution to his problems. Now he could write the master works. He would now be able to defy his mind's lack of tenacity, a lifetime of memory fault. This pen would vanquish the barriers to fame and perhaps, to fortune.
"How much is it?" asked Henry timidly.
"One dollar and seventy five cents," answered the chemist.
"I'll take it!" said Henry eagerly. He could not do otherwise.
I'll be back in an hour with the money." Henry hurried out the door. The bell on the door clanged behind him. In his haste to get back to his room, to count the coins which he kept in a small leather pouch and to hurry back to the Apothecary, he had forgotten to say goodbye to Charlie. Was it any wonder that he was considered absent minded?
Within the hour, Henry was back at the store. He waited impatiently for Mrs. Merrian to finish her purchase. He stood his weight first on one foot and then on the other. The pen sat waiting. Its gold embossed caps shone in the late afternoon sun. The chemist was advising Mrs. Merrian on the use of ear drops for her baby. "And don't forget," he said to her, "only one drop at a time. The Laudanum should stop the pain."
Finally Mrs. Merrian was ready to go. "Good day," she said to the chemist and nodded politely to Henry who, in turn tipped his hat accordingly. The bell, fastened to the "S"
Shaped wire on the door, clanged as she went out.
"Well, Mr. Peterson. Here's you pen and your ink pot. Charlie Higgins suggested we fill your pen and have it ready for you," he said. The barest flicker of a wry smile crossed his lips. "That'll be one dollar and seventy five cents. I gave you two pennies worth of ink." Yes, Henry was forgetful. He had forgotten the ink until the chemist reminded him of it.
Once inside his room and at his writing table, Henry sat down to admire his new pen. He marveled at the ingenuity of the invention. The late sunlight of the afternoon beamed upon him and his pen. So absorbed was he that he hardly noticed a familiar beckoning call awakening in his mind.
The words began to form in commanding order. Holding the pen in his hand, Henry struck his wrist smartly against his knee, just as the instructions ordered, and then put the pen to paper. Excitedly, he saw the words begin to flow. The pen glided over the paper as Henry wrote words which filled one page after another. His arm moved unceasingly; his brain poured forth in literary abundance; the papers accumulated; a great and masterful poem was taking shape! He hurried his work forcing his cramped fingers to move the pen in what seemed a never ending flow of thoughts. Then, when the pen had used its ink, Henry impatiently and clumsily fumbled with filling it. He knew that he had lost some valuable stanzas as they appeared and then disappeared. Yet, once started again, the thoughts continued to flow. Except for one missing section, Henry wrote and wrote and wrote. It was the finest work he had ever conceptualized and the first to be recorded in practically its entirety. He was filled with gratitude as he neared the finish of his epic. The pen continued to write to the last line which ended in perfect synchronization.
Totally fatigued, Henry fell upon his bed. For the first time in his life, he fell asleep happily knowing that on his table lay the papers upon which he had written a poem to surpass all others.
It was morning when he awakened. He remembered and felt again the excitement of the previous day. He jumped from his bed and ran to the table eager to read his poem. Blinking his eyes to focus them upon his masterpiece, he turned first one page and then another.
They were blank! He shuffled them, turning them this way and that, yet they were blank, totally and absolutely blank, each and every one of them.
Henry held his head, the heels of his palms pressed against his closed eyes. He searched his mind for answers. Again he looked, tossing the pages away from him till they glided on the air and came to rest, like so many rectangular squares upon the green painted floor.
"It can't be! It can't be!" he shouted, pounding his fists upon the table.
Charlie Higgins and the chemist roared with laughter. They held their sides and laughed so hard that tears formed in their eyes.
"Can't you see his face?" gasped Charlie.
"Can he take a joke?" guffawed the chemist.
"And you...with that straight face...all the time filling the pen with fading ink."
"Did you fill the ink pot, too?" asked Charlie.
"Yep, and the ink pot, too!"
Originally published in The Pen Fancier's Newsletter, November 1981. Reprinted with permission.