Roselia stood silently, her expression as cold as before. Jiwoon felt a twinge of disappointment.
Was it too childish? But it’s the most beautiful among Poe’s poems…
Jiwoon sighed inwardly. Annabel Lee was a masterpiece among poems of love and loss, written by Poe in remembrance of his late wife Virginia, who had died of tuberculosis. Its beauty was deeply rooted in its rhythmic language, a fact hard to capture in translation. When recited in its original form by someone with a good grasp of rhythm, even those unfamiliar with English could appreciate its musicality.
Jiwoon had first realized this when a Canadian friend, a literature major, recited the poem in a bar in Hongdae. The poem’s bright and ethereal beginning, contrasted by the somber depth of the final word “Tomb,” felt like the lowest note on a piano, encapsulating the sorrow of a man grieving at his wife’s grave.
Despite Jiwoon’s earnest effort to capture that essence, Roselia’s reaction was lackluster.
“…”
“I apologize. My poetry must be lacking,” Jiwoon said, forcing a smile as the silence stretched. Had Poe heard this, he might have risen from his grave in outrage at such self-deprecation.
“This poem…” Roselia’s lips parted slowly.
“Yes?”
“Did you write this poem, Sir Jiwoon?”
“Yes, I did,” Jiwoon confirmed, preparing himself for critique.
“Amazing…”
“Ah, sorry… Pardon?”
“I said it’s amazing. It’s the most perfect poem I’ve ever heard. So sad and beautiful. Sir Jiwoon, you are a genius. I can’t believe such a perfectly rhythmic and beautiful poem exists. Truly remarkable.”
Jiwoon could only respond with a sheepish laugh, feeling a mix of embarrassment and surprise at her praise. Though her face remained impassive, her words were filled with admiration. Much of what she said included specialized terms from literary studies, which Jiwoon didn’t fully grasp, but one thing was clear.
It worked!
Indeed, it had. Modern poetry resonating with a medieval young lady was unexpected, but the universal theme of true love transcended time. Moreover, Poe was a genius, and his heartfelt expression of grief found its way to a sensitive noblewoman’s heart.
Thank you, Mr. Poe. You’re truly a genius!
Roselia was in a daze. When she heard the title Annabel Lee, she had initially dismissed it as another love poem, the kind written by noble poets dedicated to their ladies. She had expected it to be no different.
But her thoughts shifted as Jiwoon’s deep, resonant voice unfolded the poem, erasing her earlier assumptions entirely. She was captivated by the perfect rhythm and the mysterious, profound vocabulary.
Though the poem’s structure differed from what she was used to, and she couldn’t fully understand it, it was worlds apart from the usual insipid love songs filled with exaggerated metaphors.
Her heart trembled. How much must this man have loved Annabel Lee to create such a poem? The deceased lady became a figure of envy, stirring jealousy within Roselia.
The modesty with which Jiwoon downplayed his own poem, apologizing for its supposed inadequacy, nearly brought her to tears. Suppressing the urge to cry, she found herself praising the poem’s greatness endlessly.
Jiwoon’s brief, indifferent responses, a simple “yes” or “no,” only seemed to confirm her belief that he was suppressing his own sorrow, reliving the anguish of a lost love. This painted him as a genuine, sincere man in Roselia’s eyes.
For someone who believed that poetry and language reflected a person’s character and nobility, Jiwoon seemed to embody the essence of true life and love—a sage, perhaps.
This image was a result of Jiwoon’s deliberate deceit mixed with a series of unintentional actions that had created a perfect storm of serendipity.
“Sir Jiwoon,” Roselia called.
“Yes, Lady Frederick.”
“My name is Roselia, and I am younger than you. Would you call me by my name from now on?”
“Ah, yes. I will, Lady Roselia.”
With her face still expressionless but her eyes filled with warmth, Roselia left the room, leaving Jiwoon smirking to himself. Her expression radiated the intellectual satisfaction of discovering a new world. Though he felt a pang of guilt for deceiving the young lady, the success of implanting a favourable impression outweighed the sting of conscience. In a world where he had to navigate without any connections or support, securing allies who could aid him was paramount, not the moral discomfort of minor fabrications. Moreover, his lies did not harm anyone directly.
“Nobody’s getting hurt, right?” Jiwoon rationalized, though he knew deep down that someone might object—Edgar Allan Poe. In an instant, Poe’s creation had been rebranded as the work of a 21st-century fantasy novelist. It was an outright theft, transcending mere intellectual property infringement. But what could be done? The dead do not speak. Jiwoon consoled himself, believing that a genius like Poe would understand the necessity of his actions.
Jiwoon began tidying the items strewn across the table. Just as he finished, there was a knock at the door. Could it be the young lady again? Jiwoon wondered, indulging in a pleasant thought before adopting a serious tone. “Who is it?”
To his surprise, the voice on the other side belonged to someone else entirely. “Sir Jiwoon, I am Christian Lawrence, a knight in the service of Lord Frederick. May I have a word with you?”
Lawrence? That stern knight? Jiwoon quickly deduced the purpose of this visit. He had expected Lord Frederick to approach him after speaking with Roselia, perhaps by tomorrow. But having a knight, likely influential, visit instead was unexpected. Realizing the importance of seizing this opportunity, Jiwoon took a deep breath and responded. “Come in, Sir Lawrence.”
The door creaked open, revealing Lawrence’s sharp features. Meeting his piercing gaze, Jiwoon felt a wave of tension. This knight was undoubtedly a formidable figure, not easily swayed. “May I sit?” Lawrence asked.
“Please do, Sir Lawrence.” Jiwoon gestured to a chair, then took a seat opposite. He watched Lawrence carefully as the knight’s gaze wandered over the scattered books and items on the table.
Feeling uneasy under Lawrence’s scrutinizing stare, Jiwoon chuckled nervously. “Pardon the mess. Let me clear it up.” He quickly began gathering the items into his bag. As he did, his elbow accidentally nudged a book, sending it tumbling to the floor near Lawrence’s feet. The knight bent down, picked it up, and examined the cover.
“What is this book titled, Sir Jiwoon?” Lawrence inquired, his curiosity piqued. Jiwoon, feigning embarrassment, replied, “It’s called The Art of Politics and the Justifications of War.”
A lie. The book’s actual title was The Political and War History of Medieval Europe. Lawrence’s eyes sharpened, glancing between Jiwoon and the book. “An impressive title,” he remarked. “The Art of Politics and the Justifications of War. Quite a grandiose title. And the book’s craftsmanship is remarkable. Are such books common in your homeland?”
Detecting Lawrence’s probing intent, Jiwoon calmly answered, “Not particularly. That’s because I authored it myself. It was published in limited quantities.”
Lawrence’s brow twitched slightly at Jiwoon’s response. “I see. The craftsmanship is indeed exceptional. I’m curious about its content. Could you share some insights?”
“I’d like to, but my language skills aren’t yet refined enough to explain it properly. It’s rather complex. I apologize, Sir Lawrence,” Jiwoon said, feigning linguistic struggle.
Lawrence smiled faintly at Jiwoon’s awkward speech. After a contemplative pause, he furrowed his brow slightly, as if reaching a decision.
“Understood. May I ask you a few simple questions instead?”
Here we go. Jiwoon straightened his posture, bracing for what was to come.
(To be continued)
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