I
remember the day it began because I was impatient for an important
letter to arrive. Also, because it was meant to be the day of my
engagement to Hattie Blum. And, of course, it was the day I saw him
dead.

The Blums were near neighbors of my family. Hattie was the youngest
and most affable of four sisters who were considered nearly the
prettiest four sisters in Baltimore. Hattie and I had been
acquainted from our very infancies, as we were told often enough
through the years. And each time we were told how long we'd known
each other, I think the words were meant also to say, "and you
shall know each other evermore, depend upon it."

And in spite of such pressure as might easily have pushed us apart,
even at eleven years old I became like a little husband toward my
playfellow. I never made outward professions of love to Hattie, but
I devoted myself to her happiness in small ways while she
entertained me with her talk. There was something hushed about her
voice, which often sounded to me like a lullaby.

My own nature while in society as it developed was markedly quiet
and tranquil, to the degree that I was often asked at any given
moment if I had only just then been stirred awake. In quieter
company, though, I had the habit of turning unaccountably
loquacious and even rambling in my speech. Therefore, I savored the
stretches of Hattie's animated conversation. I believe I depended
upon them. I felt no need to call attention to myself when I was
with her; I felt happy and modest and, above all, easy.

Now, I should note that I did not know that I was expected to
propose marriage on the afternoon with which we begin this
narration. I was on my way to the post office from the nearby
chambers of our law practice when I crossed paths with a woman of
good Baltimore society, Mrs. Blum--Hattie's aunt. She pointed out
immediately that the errands of retrieving waiting mail should be
assigned to one of my lesser and less occupied legal clerks.

"You are a specimen, aren't you, Quentin Clark!" Mrs. Blum said.
"You wander the streets when you are working, and when you're not
working, you have a look upon your face as though you were!"

She was your genuine Baltimorean; she suffered no man without
proper commercial interests any more than she would tolerate a girl
who was not beautiful.

This was Baltimore, and whether in fine weather or in this day's
fog it was a very red-brick type of place, where the movements of
the people on well-paved streets and marble steps were quick and
boisterous but without gaiety. There was not much of that last
quality in supply in our go-ahead city, where large houses stood
elevated over a crowded trading bay. Coffee and sugar came in from
South America and the West India Islands on great clipper ships,
and the barrels of oysters and family flour moved out on the
multiplying railway tracks toward Philadelphia and Washington.
Nobody looked poor then in Baltimore, even those who were, and
every other awning seemed to be a daguerreotype establishment ready
to record that fact for posterity.

Mrs. Blum on this occasion smiled and took my arm as we walked
through the thoroughfare. "Well, everything is quite perfectly
arranged for this evening."

"This evening," I replied, trying to guess what she could be
referring to. Peter Stuart, my law partner, had mentioned a supper
party at the home of a mutual acquaintance. I had been thinking so
much of the letter I anticipated retrieving, I had until then
forgotten completely. "This evening, of course, Mrs. Blum! How I've
looked forward to it."

"Do you know," she continued, "do you know, Mr. Clark, that only
yesterday I heard dear Miss Hattie spoken of on Market
Street"--this generation of Baltimoreans still called Baltimore
Street by its former name--"yes, talked about as the loveliest
unmarried beauty in all Baltimore!"

"One could argue the loveliest above all, married or not," I
said.

"Well, isn't that clever!" she replied. "Oh, it won't do at all,
twenty-seven and still living bachelor and--now don't interrupt,
dear Quentin! A proper young man doesn't . . ."

I had trouble hearing what she said next because a loud rumble of
two carriages grew behind us. "If it is a hackney approaching," I
thought to myself, "I shall put her into it, and offer double the
fare." But as they passed I could see both were private carriages,
and the one in front was a sleek, shiny hearse. Its horses kept
their heads low, as if in deference to the honorable cargo.

No one else turned to look.

Leaving behind my walking companion with a parting promise of
seeing her at the evening's gathering, I found myself crossing the
next avenue. A herd of swine swarmed past with belligerent shrieks,
and my detour ran along Greene Street and across to Fayette, where
hearse and mourning-carriage were parked together.

In a quiet burial ground there, a ceremony began and ended
abruptly. I strained through the fog at the figures in attendance.
It was like standing in a dream--everything blurred into
silhouettes, and I swallowed down the vague feeling that I should
not be there. The minister's oration sounded muffled from where I
stood at the gates. The small gathering, I suppose, did not demand
much effort from his voice.

It was the saddest funeral ever seen.

It was the weather. No: the mere four or five men in
attendance--the minimum needed to lift an adult coffin. Or perhaps
the melancholy quality came chiefly from that brisk, callous
completion of the ceremony. Not even the most impoverished pauper's
funeral that I had observed before this day, nor the funerals of
the poor Jewish cemetery nearby, not even those exhibited such
unchristian indifference. There wasn't one flower, wasn't one
tear.

Afterward, I retraced my steps only to find the post office had
bolted its doors. I could not know whether there was a letter
waiting for me inside or not--but I returned to our office chambers
and reassured myself. Soon, I'd hear more from him soon.

That evening at the social gathering, I found myself on a private
stroll with Hattie Blum along a field of berries, dormant for the
season but shadowed with summer remembrances of Champagne and
Strawberry Parties. As ever, I could speak comfortably to
Hattie.

"Our practice is awfully interesting at times," I said. "Yet I
think I should like to choose the cases with more discrimination. A
lawyer in ancient Rome, you know, swore never to defend a cause
unless he thought it was just. We take cases if their pay is
just."

"You can change your office, Quentin. It is your name and your
character hanging on the shingle too, after all. Make it more like
yourself, rather than make yourself more suited to it."

"Do you believe so, Miss Hattie?"

Twilight was settling and Hattie became uncharacteristically quiet,
which I fear meant that I became insufferably talkative. I examined
her expression but found no clues to the source of her distant
bearing.

"You laughed for me," Hattie said absently, almost as though I
would not hear her.

"Miss Hattie?"

She looked up at me. "I was only thinking of when we were children.
Do you know at first I thought you were a fool?"

"Appreciated," I chuckled.

"My father would take my mother away during her different
sicknesses, and you would come to play when my aunt was minding me.
You were the only one to know just how to make me smile until my
parents returned, because you were always laughing at the strangest
things!" She said this wistfully, while lifting the bottom of her
long skirts to avoid the muddy ground.

Later, when we were inside warming ourselves, Hattie talked quietly
with her aunt, whose entire countenance had stiffened from earlier
in the day. Auntie Blum asked what should be arranged for Hattie's
birthday.

"It is coming, I suppose," Hattie said. "I should hardly think of
it, typically, Auntie. But this year . . ." She trailed off into a
cheerless hum. At supper, she hardly touched the food.

I did not like this at all. I felt myself turn into an
eleven-year-old boy again, an anxious protector of the girl across
the way. Hattie had been such a reliable presence in my life that
any discomfort on her part upset me. Thus it was perhaps from a
selfish motivation I tried to cure her mood, but at all events I
did wish her to be genuinely happy.

Others of the party, like my law partner, Peter, joined in
attempting to raise her spirits, and I studied each of them
vigilantly in the event that one of them had been responsible for
bringing Hattie Blum into a fit of blues.

Something was hindering my own role in cheering her on this day:
that funeral I had seen. I cannot properly explain why, but it had
thoroughly exploded my peace. I tried to call to mind a picture of
it again. There had been only the four men in attendance to listen
to the minister. One, taller than the others, stood toward the
rear, his gaze floating off, as though the most anxious of all to
be somewhere else. Then, as they came toward the road, there were
their grim mouths. The faces were not known to me but also not
forgotten. Only one member delayed, staying his steps regretfully,
as though overhearing my private thoughts. The event seemed to
speak of a terrible loss and yet to do it no honor. It was, in a
word, Wrong.

Under this vague cloud of distraction, my efforts exhausted
themselves without rescuing Hattie's spirits. I could only bow and
express my helpless regrets in unison with the other guests when
Hattie and her Auntie Blum were among the first to depart from the
supper party. I was pleased when Peter suggested we bring an end to
the evening, too.

"Well, Quentin? What has come over you?" Peter asked in an
eruption. We were sharing a hired carriage back to our
houses.

I thought to tell him of the sad funeral, but Peter would not
understand why that had been occupying my mind. Then I realized by
the gravity of his posture that he referred to something altogether
different. "Peter," I asked, "what do you mean?"

"Did you decide not to propose to Hattie Blum this evening, after
all?" he demanded with a loud exhalation.

"Propose! I?"

"She'll be twenty-three in a few weeks. For a Baltimore girl today,
that is practically an old maid! Do you not love the dear girl even
a little?"

"Who could not love Hattie Blum? But stay, Peter! How is it you
came to assume we were to be engaged on this night? Had I ever
suggested this was my design?"

"How is it I--? Do you not know as well as I do that the date today
is the very same date your own parents were engaged? Had this
failed to occur to you even once this evening?"

It had indeed failed to occur to me, as a matter of fact, and even
being reminded of this coincidence provided little comprehension of
Peter's queer assumption. He explained further that Auntie Blum had
been sagely certain I would take the opportunity of this party to
propose, and had thought I had even hinted such earlier in the day,
and had so informed Peter and Hattie of this likelihood so they
would not be surprised. I had been the unwitting, principal cause
of Hattie's mysterious distress. I had been the wretch!

"When would have been a more reasonable time than tonight?" Peter
continued. "An anniversary so important to you! When? It was as
plain as the sun at noon-day."

"I hadn't realized . . ." I stammered.

"How couldn't you see she was waiting for you, that it is time for
your future to begin? Well, here, you're home. I wish you a restful
sleep. Poor Hattie is probably weeping into her pillow even
now!"

"I should never wish to make her sad," I said. "I wish only that I
knew what seemed to be expected from me by everyone else." Peter
gruffly muttered agreement, as though I had finally struck upon my
general failing.

Of course I would propose, and of course we would marry! Hattie's
presence in my life had been my good fortune. I brightened whenever
I saw her and, even more, whenever we were apart and I thought
about her. There had been so little change all this time knowing
her, I suppose it had just seemed odd to call for it now with a
proposal.

"What do you think about?" Peter seemed to say with his brow as I
closed the carriage door to bid him good night. I pulled the door
back open.

"There was a funeral earlier," I said, deciding to try to redeem
myself with some explanation. "You see, I watched it pass, and I
suppose it troubled me for a reason I had not . . ." But no, I
still could not find the words to justify its effects on me.

"A funeral! A stranger's funeral!" Peter cried. "Now, what in
heaven does that have to do with you?"

Everything, but I did not know that then. The next morning I came
down in my dressing gown and opened the newspaper to distract
myself. Had I been warned, I still could not have predicted my own
alarm at what I saw that made me forget my other concerns. It was a
small heading on one of the inside pages that caught me. Death of
Edgar A. Poe.

I would toss the newspaper aside, then would pick it up again,
turning pages to read something else; then I'd read again and again
that heading: Death of Edgar A. Poe. . . . the distinguished
American poet, scholar, and critic in the thirty-eighth year of his
age.

No! Thirty-nine, I believed, but possessed of a wisdom worth a
hundred times that . . . Born in this city. No again! (How
questionable it all was, even before I knew more.)

Then I noticed . . . those four words.

Died in this city.

This city? This was not telegraphed news. This had occurred here in
Baltimore. The death in our own city, the burial, maybe, too. Could
it be that the very funeral on Greene and Fayette . . . No! That
little funeral, that unceremonious ceremony, that entombment in the
narrow burial yard?

At the office that day, Peter sermonized about Hattie, but I could
hardly discuss it, intrigued instead by these tidings. I sent for
confirmation from the sexton, the caretaker of the burial yard.
Poor Poe, he replied. Yes, Poe was gone. As I rushed to the post
office to see if any letter had arrived, my thoughts revolved
around what I had unknowingly witnessed.

Excerpted from THE POE SHADOW © Copyright 2011 by Matthew
Pearl. Reprinted with permission by Random House, Inc. All rights
reserved.