The Poe Shadow

  You will perhaps judge me harshly for not immediately relating my adventures to Duponte, and yet you have seen yourself the frequent inflexibility of his philosophies. I am not of a particularly philosophical cast. Duponte was born an analyst, a reasoner; I, an observer. Though it may occupy only a lower rung of the ladder of wisdom, observation requires practicality. Perhaps Duponte, and our investigations generally, needed a light shove toward the pragmatic.

  I should have explained above, when I was searching for the mention of Henry Reynolds, how it was I had free access to the newspapers we kept in the library without Duponte taking notice. Since the first day we had disembarked in Baltimore, Duponte had inhabited the library and oversaw all the contents of his sanctum. However, when he was reading other things he would remove himself from the increasingly cramped library to different chambers and bedrooms of Glen Eliza I had forgotten existed. He would choose the odd book that I had on my shelf; or one of my father’s atlases of an obscure province of the world; or a pamphlet in French that my mother had brought from abroad. Duponte also read Poe, a practice that did not escape my interest.

  At times the concentration with which he read Poe reminded me of the sheer nourishment the tales had provided me for so many years. But usually it was far more scholarly than that. Duponte read mechanically, like a literary critic. The critic never lets his reading overtake him; he never pulls the pages promiscuously close to his face and never wishes to be brought into the crevices of the author’s mind, for such a journey would relinquish control. Thus, often a reader will read a magazine critic’s notice of a book, after having already read the book himself, eager to compare perspectives, and think, “This cannot be the book I read! There must be another version, in which everything has changed, and I shall have to find it, too!”

  I thought a dispassionate survey of Poe’s works by Duponte quite fitting. I believe it allowed Duponte crucial insights into Poe’s character and into the mysterious circumstances that we had begun to examine.

  “If only it was known which ship Poe arrived to Baltimore on,” I said one afternoon.

  Duponte became instantly animated. “The local papers speak of it as the unknown details of his arrival. That they do not know, monsieur, certainly does not confine it to the bounds of the unknown. The answer is plainly presented in the articles from the Richmond newspapers published in the last months of Poe’s life.”

  “When Poe was lecturing on various subjects of poetry and literature.”

  “Precisely. He was doing so in order to raise money for his proposed magazine The Stylus, as he mentioned also in his letters to you, Monsieur Clark. We may not know on which ship Poe sailed from Richmond to Baltimore, but this is hardly what is important, and hardly qualifies as making the purpose of his trip unknown. His reason for coming to Baltimore is quite knowable to any person employing thought. From the rumors in the newspapers over the last two years before his death, Poe had been involved in various romantic unions since his wife’s death. In this last period, he had just engaged himself to a wealthy woman in Richmond, and so his trip to Baltimore would likely not have been for the purposes of any romantic interlude. Now, in view of the fact that his intended, one Mrs. Shelton, was known as wealthy by all periodical editors, and thus naturally by everyone else (for editors rarely know something the mob does not know first); in view of this fact that her wealth was widely known, Poe might properly feel the need to deflect any perception by the public that he was set to marry her because she was ‘bankable.’”

  “He would certainly never marry someone for money!”

  “Whether or not he would, and your indignation on the question is quite beside the point, the result is exactly the same. This makes it easier for our review. If Poe were marrying her for money, it would be all the more reason to deflect the perception of it in order to avoid ruining the engagement if she suspected it. If his motives were pure ones, as you believe, his goal would remain identical—to raise money, this time in order to provide for his own expenses rather than rely unjustly on hers. Either way, finding he had not earned as much as he hoped in Richmond, he would come to Baltimore to gain professional support and subscribers for The Stylus, and thus bolster his financial prospects independently of Mrs. Shelton’s.”

  “Which explains why he went first to see Nathan Brooks, for Dr. Brooks is a well-known magazine editor. Except,” I said grimly, “that, as I saw for myself, Dr. Brooks’s house had caught on fire.”

  “Poe came here with plans, Monsieur Clark, to remake his life. I think we shall find that he died in a state of hope, not in despair.”

  But I remembered Dr. Moran’s statement about Poe: he did not know when he had come to Baltimore or how he came to be here. How did this conform to the other particulars now before us?

  The above conversation with Duponte occurred a few days after my secret call to the hospital. Meanwhile, in my visits to the reading rooms and my various errands around the city, I felt an increasing number of eyes on me. I thought that perhaps it was an unconscious product of my guilt at hiding my previous discoveries from Duponte, or my distraction whenever I remembered Hattie’s distressed behavior in my last encounter with her at the gates to her house.

  There was one man in particular, a free black of about forty years old, whom I observed near me on more than one occasion in crowds on the street or from the window of a carriage I was riding in. He had sharply angled features and was of solid physical dimensions. It was usually easy to differentiate between the free and enslaved blacks by the superior and often quite fashionable dress of the former, although certain city slaves—slave dandies, as they were known—were provided exquisite clothing to fashionably match that of their owners.

  I thought of the Phantom who had followed me once, long before I had dreamed of finding a man like Duponte or hiding from a man like the Baron Dupin; I thought, too, of the dead stare of the Baron’s man Hartwick as he trailed me through the halls of Versailles, preparing to grab me. Once, I saw this new stranger standing across from where I was walking on Baltimore Street. I was not surprised to see this presumed freeman speaking quietly with the Baron Dupin. The Baron took his arm enthusiastically.

  That same evening, Duponte was reading Poe’s tale “Ligeia” on a sofa in the drawing room. Von Dantker had left with his brushes some hours before in a state of high irritation. Duponte had announced that he no longer wanted to see Von Dantker’s staring face whenever he looked up, and had informed the artist that he would have to sit behind him. Von Dantker had naturally protested on the basis that he could not paint Duponte’s back, but Duponte had refused to argue, and a system had soon been devised whereby a mirror was placed in front of Duponte and Von Dantker sat behind the analyst. He had positioned another large mirror by his easel, facing the first mirror, to transfer the original reflection back to the correct orientation. I thought both men quite mad. But Von Dantker, taking bites from the “olycoke”—a strange cake fried in lard—he always brought with him, had continued on with his project.

  I busied myself reading a copy of Thomas Moore’s Irish Melodies, which I had procured from a book-stand. Dr. Carter, Poe’s friend in Richmond, had told the newspaper there that Poe had been reading Moore’s poems when he visited his office. It was also said that during his stay in Richmond Poe quoted this verse of Moore’s to a young lady he befriended: “I feel like one / Who treads alone / Some banquet hall deserted.”

  My thoughts floated to the distracting subject of Hattie. “I wonder,” I said, interrupting Duponte’s reading.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I am wondering whether a woman who says that things are ‘different’ means to say that her emotions, that is, affections, have changed, or rather refers to other, less profound matters.”

  “Are you,” Duponte asked, putting aside the book, “soliciting my opinion on the subject, monsieur?”

  I hesitated, hoping he would not believe that I was attempting to misdirect his skills of ratiocination at
a purely personal concern, although that was precisely what I was doing.

  He continued without an answer from me. “Do you, Monsieur Clark, believe it is the larger or smaller concern that her words refer to?”

  I considered this. “Well, which is the larger and which the smaller of the concerns?” I asked.

  “Exactly the quarrel, monsieur. To persons who are not the direct recipients of her affections, the question of her emotional state would be the smaller one; the state of the roof of her house, or a loan she may have secured from the bank, and whether these are different from some previous state of affairs would be the larger and most crucial question. To the person who seeks or has sought her affections, those emotions would be by far the more significant question to unravel, whereas if her roof were sinking entirely it would make little difference to that suitor. Therefore, your answer is that the meaning of her words would vary depending very much on whom she is addressing.”

  I was quite flabbergasted by the coolness of Duponte’s advice on love, if that is what this was, and I did not pursue the subject any further.

  At length the doorbell rang. The servants had left for the day, and I had gone downstairs. After several moments, Duponte clapped his book closed, rose from his place with a sigh, and descended to the street door. There on the other side stood a short, bespectacled man peering inside expectantly.

  “What is it you wish for me, sir?” the man asked politely.

  “Is it not you who has come to the door?” replied Duponte. “I should think I would have asked you that very question, had I any interest in the answer.”

  “Why—?” said the visitor, flustered. “Well, I’m Reynolds. Henry Reynolds, may I come inside?”

  I watched this from the kitchen corridor. Mr. Reynolds found a place for his hat. He showed Duponte the card he had received from me earlier that day.

  I had planned that Duponte might have a greater degree of interest if he were to unexpectedly greet Reynolds at the door, and thus be the proprietor of the discovery and, finding the opportunity irresistible, pursue all information that could be extracted from the visitor.

  This was not to be. Duponte, his hand cupping his book of Poe tales, bid a polite good evening to the guest and walked past me to the stairs. I rushed after him.

  “But where are you going?”

  “Monsieur. You have a caller, a Monsieur Reynolds, I believe,” Duponte answered me. “I suppose you gentlemen wish to talk together.”

  “But—!” I fell quiet.

  “Someone did call for me?” asked Reynolds loudly and impatiently from the bottom of the stairs. “I have other appointments too. One of you fellows is Clark?”

  I caught up to Duponte with a sheepish shrug. “I know I should have told you about leaving word for Reynolds to call. I saw the Baron Dupin speaking with this fellow, and found out that he was an election judge at the voting place where Poe was found. But this man wouldn’t give the Baron any information. Just hold for a moment! Come to the drawing room. I thought you might refuse at first, and this is why I have done this secretly. I believe it is a matter of utter importance that we interview him.”

  Duponte remained impassive. “What do you wish me to do?”

  “Sit in the room. You needn’t say a single word.”

  Of course, I hoped that Duponte, incited by whatever knowledge was held by the carpenter, would not only say a single word; I hoped he would intervene with extensive interrogatories once I began the dialogue. The analyst assented to come with me to the drawing room.

  “Well, how are we today?” The carpenter forced a friendly smile as he looked around the gigantic room and up at the impressive dome that rose to the height of the third floor. “Planning on bettering the structure of your home, Mr. Clark? Its beauty is a bit in decay, if I may take the liberty to say. I’ve appreciated not a few mansions this year with betterments.”

  “What?” I demanded, perturbed, forgetting for a moment his profession.

  Duponte sat in the corner armchair by the hearth. He propped his head in his hand, and his fingers spread in a web over the side of his face. He sucked his tongue, as was his habit.

  Instead of feeling compelled by the situation to speak, Duponte directed his glare beyond Reynolds and me to some indefinite point of the room’s horizon, and yet betrayed a look of distant enjoyment at how the conversation progressed.

  “I am in no need of carpentry,” I said.

  “Not carpentry? Why have I been requested to make this visit, gentlemen?” Reynolds frowned and then fed himself some chewing tobacco, as though to say that if there was no carpentry, there might as well be tobacco.

  “Well, Mr. Reynolds, if I may…” My mouth felt dry, and my words dribbled out uncertainly.

  “If I made this visit for you gentlemen’s amusement—” he said indignantly.

  “We require some information,” I said. This seemed like a good start to me. Duponte’s mouth twitched, and I waited for him to speak, but it was a yawn. He crossed his legs at a different place.

  Reynolds was speaking over me. “—well, because I shouldn’t like to think I have wasted my time. I am a key figure to the future dignity of Baltimore. I have helped erect the athenaeum, have lent my hand to raising the Maryland Institute, and directed the first iron building in the city for the Baltimore Sun.”

  I tried to pull him to the primary subject. “You served as a ward judge for the Fourth Ward polling station at Ryan’s hotel in 1849, is that true?”

  Duponte was now most fixedly looking at absolutely nothing. Sometimes a cat coils into such a careless, comfortable position as to fall soundly asleep but forgets to close her eyes. This was Duponte’s current appearance.

  “As I say,” I babbled on, “the information I seek, about that night at the polls, I mean, at the Fourth Ward, there was a man named Poe—”

  “Now, see here,” Reynolds interrupted. “You’re something to do with that fellow, Baron Whatnot, who’s been bothering me, leaving me letters and notes, aren’t you?”

  “Please, Mr. Reynolds—”

  “Talking of Poe, Poe, Poe! What is all this about Poe anyway?”

  “It is true,” said Duponte philosophically to me, “as Mr. Reynolds implies, that the decease of a person of some interest to the public will be looked at for the person rather than the death, and thus will obtain larger holes of error and misperception. Very good, Reynolds.”

  This helped nothing except to confound our guest’s line of thought. Reynolds wagged his finger at me, and then at Duponte, as though the analyst was an equal culprit in this attempted interview. “Just see here.” Black tobacco juice was sent flying around the room by the venom of his speech. “This bangs all things! I do not care that the other fellow’s a baron, or that you are lords and kings. I don’t have nothing to say to ’im, and I have much to do! I don’t have a word to say to you two! Is that it? Well, my good princes, please never call for me again or I shall send for the police.”

  When I came down for breakfast, there was a note from Duponte that I should find him in the library at noon. He had not said a word to me before parting for the night. To my surprise, he was more interested in the fact that I had seen the Baron Dupin than that I had surreptitiously sent for Reynolds.

  “So,” he said when I met him in the library, “you found yourself following the Baron Dupin.”

  I recounted all that had passed between the Baron and Reynolds and what I had seen at the cemetery and hospital. I pleaded my side for leaving my card for Reynolds. “Understand, monsieur. Poe called out for ‘Reynolds’ again and again when he was dying. That Henry Reynolds was one of the election judges that day in charge of overseeing the Fourth Ward polls, which were held in Ryan’s—where Poe was found! Do you not think this was too remarkable a connection?” I answered for him: “It is too remarkable to ignore!”

  “It is, at most, incidental, and to a lesser and more forceful degree coincidental.”

  Incidental! Coincidental!
Poe calling for Reynolds at his hour of judgment, and here one Henry Reynolds had been in the very same place as Poe days before. But you see, Duponte was a persuasive personality, even when he said little. If he had said Baltimore’s cathedrals were incidental to its Catholics, one would be inclined to find reason to agree.

  He agreed to my suggestion of a walk. I hoped it would render him more willing to consider my latest suppositions. I had fallen into a rather concerned state about our inquiry, and not only because of Duponte’s refusal to consider Mr. Reynolds as the Baron had. It seemed to me there was much else we could be missing, insulated as we were—for instance, the probability that Poe had traveled from Baltimore to Philadelphia and was in that city before his death. I made reference to this point as we walked.

  “He was not.”

  “Do you mean he was not in Philadelphia that week he was discovered?” I asked, surprised at his certainty as to the point. “The newspapers have been throwing their hands up wondering about it.”

  “It is easily in front of their eyes, too accessible to such frantic minds as the public press, who never lose confidence that they are able to find some true detail, as long as it is at all times far from them. They are surprised at everything, when they should be surprised at nothing. If a fact is said once, we may pay attention, but if a fact is fixed in four places, ignore it, for along the way its replication has stopped all thought.”

  “But how could we know positively? After his attempt to visit Dr. Brooks, we hardly possess a solitary fact about Poe’s days in Baltimore until he was nearly five days later seen at Ryan’s. How do we know Poe did not, sometime between these times, board the train to Philadelphia, and, further, if he did, can we dismiss the possibility that there, in that other city, lie all the chief keys to the right understanding of the events that followed?”

  “Let us settle your worries on this point. You do recall the reasons Monsieur Poe had planned to visit Philadelphia, I suppose,” said Duponte.