The Poe Shadow

'Pardon me!' I cried.

'Say, the man in that illustration, I think I'd seen him a while ago. Sometime in September, like you said to the conductor.'

'Truly, sir?' I asked.

He explained that he rode the same bus almost every day and remembered someone who looked just like the man in the portrait. It happened as they were leaving the omnibus.

'I recollect it because he asked for help-wanted to know where a Dr. Brooks lived, if I remember. I'm an umbrella mender, not a city directory.'

I readily agreed with the point, although I did not know if the latter comment was meant for me or Poe. N. C. Brooks's name was familiar enough to me-and certainly would have been to Edgar Poe. Dr. Brooks was an editor who had published some of Poe's finest tales and poems, which had helped introduce Poe's work to the Baltimore public. Finally, some real proof that Poe had not entirely disappeared into the air of Baltimore after all!

The horses' rumbling was starting to slow, and I jumped out of my seat as the vehicle began rolling to its next stop.

I hastened to my law chambers to consult with the city directory for Dr. Brooks's address. It was six in the evening, and I had assumed Peter had retired already after finishing his appointments at the courthouse. But I was wrong.

'My dear friend,' he bellowed over my shoulder. 'You look startled! Nearly jumped out of your skin!'

'Peter.' I paused, realizing when I spoke that I was out of breath. 'It is only-well, I suppose I was presently on my way out again.'

'I have a surprise,' he said, grinning and lifting his walking stick like a scepter. He blocked my way to the door, his hand groping for my shoulder.

'There is to be a grand blow-out this evening at my home, with many friends of yours and mine, Quentin. It was very lately planned, for it is the birthday of one who is most-'

'But you see I'm just now…' I interrupted impatiently, but stopped myself from explaining when I saw a dark glint in my partner's eyes.

'What, Quentin?' Peter looked around slowly, with mock interest. 'There is no more to do here this evening. You have somewhere you must rush to? Where?'

'No,' I said, feeling faintly flushed, 'it is nothing.'

'Good, then let us be right off!'

Peter's table was overrun with familiar faces, in celebration of Hattie Blum's twenty-third birthday. Shouldn't I have remembered? I felt a terrible tinge of remorse at my insensitivity. I had seen her for every one of her birthdays. Had I strayed so far from my ordinary path to forsake even the most pleasurable affairs of society and intimate friends? Well, one visit to Brooks, and I believed my preoccupation could be happily concluded.

There were as highly respectable ladies and gentlemen there that night as could be obtained in Baltimore. Yet wouldn't I have preferred to be in Madame Tussaud's chamber of murderers just then, anywhere just then but caught in slow and smooth conversation, when I had such a momentous task tempting me!

'How could you?' This was spoken by a large, pink-faced woman who appeared across from me when we sat down to the elaborate supper.

'What?'

'Oh dear,' she said with a playful and humble moan, 'looking at me-plain old me!-when there is such a specimen of beauty next to you.' She made a gesture at Hattie.

Of course, I hadn't been looking at the pink-faced woman, or not intentionally. I realized I had fallen into one of my staring fits again. 'I am surrounded by pure beauty, aren't I?'

Hattie did not blush. I liked that she did not blush at compliments. She whispered to me with a confidential air, 'You are fixated on the clock, and have overlooked our most fascinating guest, the duck braised with wild celery, Quentin. Will not that demon Mr. Stuart allow you one evening free without work?'

I smiled. 'It is not Peter's fault this time,' I said. 'I'm just picking, I suppose. I have little appetite these days.'

'You can speak to me, Quentin,' Hattie said, and seemed at that moment of a gentler cut than any woman I had ever met. 'What do you think about now with such trouble on your face?'

'I am thinking, dear Miss Hattie…' I hesitated, then said, 'Of some lines of poetry.' Which was true, for I had just reread them that morning.

'Recite them, won't you, Quentin?'

In my excessive distraction I had taken two glasses of wine without eating properly to balance the effects of the spirits. So with a little persuasion, I found myself agreeing to recite. My voice hardly sounded familiar to me; it was round and bold and even resonant. To convey the style of presentation, the reader should stand wherever he happens to find himself and venture to pronounce in solemn and moody tones some of the following. The reader must also imagine meanwhile a cheery table exhibiting that species of abrupt, grating silences that accompany imposed interruptions.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!-for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home, the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.