“You do know,” said Eliza, “that Fanny is writing an article on him for the
Tribune
.”
“Yes. And I regret that. I think you should consider abandoning that project.”
“Russell,” said Eliza, “you are scaring us.”
“Good.” He sat back. “I meant to.”
Had
he seen us? Why should he be so alarmed about my involvement with Mr. Poe if he had not?
Martha brought me a soft-boiled egg. I began to crack it with the blade of my knife. “Thank you for your concern,” I said evenly. “But I have seen nothing of this in Mr. Poe. In all the time that I have been with the Poes, interviewing them for my article, he has been patient and kind, even when Mrs. Poe is . . . not feeling well.”
“You do not see behind their closed doors,” Mr. Bartlett said
gravely. “Things may be different than they seem. I wouldn’t be surprised if his wife is terrified of him.”
“This is frightening,” Eliza murmured. “Like his stories.”
“Where do you think Poe gets his ideas for them?” said Mr. Bartlett. “Haven’t you ever noticed that men are always mourning the deaths of their beautiful young wives or lovers in his tales, that is, when they are not actually murdering them? Doesn’t it make you wonder if he is plotting or at least wishing for the death of his wife?”
I lifted the severed top from my egg. The man I knew was kind to his wife, even when challenged. With Mrs. Poe’s odd propensity for boasts and inappropriate comments, he’d had many occasions to correct her but had been scrupulously courteous. Not many husbands would humor such foolishness. The closest I’d seen him come to losing his temper was when Mrs. Poe and her mother were speaking of his foster father. Even then, his outburst had been brief and directed toward Mrs. Clemm, quickly followed by an apology.
“Mr. Poe has been nothing but a gentleman.” I dipped my spoon into the liquid yolk. “I would trust him with my life.”
“You might not want to put him in that position,” said Mr. Bartlett.
“Now you’re going too far, Russell,” Eliza said. “The man is a writer, not a murderer.”
I stared at Mr. Bartlett, the yellow yolk dripping from my spoon. “I can’t just shun the Poes. I haven’t finished my article, and to be frank, I need the money.”
He held my gaze. “Then tread lightly, my dear. Tread lightly.”
• • •
At the conversazione that evening, I was so agitated by my desire that Mr. Poe should arrive, and by Mr. Bartlett’s warning that I should have nothing to do with him if he did, that I could do little more than to observe and drink my tea. Even so, it struck me, as I sipped from my cup, that Miss Lynch’s utopian forum for ideas was no longer quite working as she’d hoped. Her guests had taken to sorting themselves by status. The established poets and writers and darlings of the stage held forth in the front parlor, where they were courted by politicians and society wives and deep-pocketed consumers of art. Poorer sorts, including upcoming poets and rising actors, and those with
unpopular views, such as Mr. Stephen Pearl Andrews and his Free Love, congregated in the back parlor. There they proclaimed loudly and showed off, trying to catch the attention of the denizens of the front, as did young Mr. Walter Whitman in his loud ruffles and Mr. Herman Melville with a cigar that was more formidable than he was. Only an open archway separated the two parlors, but the haves and have-nots were divided as effectively as if walled off by bricks. One key unlocked the invisible gate between them: fame.
How keenly the lack of fame was felt by the back parlor residents, of which I, as a children’s author, was part. Even in my distracted state, I knew too well how envy lay on the back of one’s tongue, weighing down one’s every word, sickening one with its taste. As I choked that evening on Mr. Melville’s aggressive smoke, I couldn’t help but consider which parlor I would have inhabited if Samuel were still in town: the front, if Samuel had anything to do with it.
Now I redirected my sights upon Mr. Melville, who was regaling our group of second-raters with his tales of the Pacific. I felt sorry for him, for though his was a fair enough story, if you liked ships, most of our group kept glancing toward the front parlor, where the wealthy poet and newspaper editor, William Cullen Bryant, was declaiming about the need for a park for all New Yorkers. Judging from the interested expressions on the faces of his congregation, it was obvious that he had struck a chord. But even if Mr. Bryant’s “central” park had not been sinking Mr. Melville’s ships, I would have had difficulty in giving Mr. Melville my full attention. My gaze kept slipping from Mr. Melville’s anxious young face to the entrance hall, looking for Mr. Poe.
Reverend Griswold stepped up next to me, cradling his teacup with lilac-gloved fingers heavy with rings. I flashed him a polite smile, then returned my attention to Mr. Melville.
Reverend Griswold pinged his rings against his cup. “Have you been listening to Mr. Bryant?” he said loudly.
I pulled away from Mr. Melville’s circle. “No,” I whispered. Poor Mr. Melville. Must Reverend Griswold be so disrespectful?
“He proposes a park for all of New York, Knickerbockers and Irishmen alike. Imagine!”
I glanced at Mr. Melville to imply that Reverend Griswold should listen to him like the rest of us.
He continued on, uninhibited. “I am an admirer of Mr. Bryant’s poems—I’ve puffed enough of them, haven’t I? He’s had me to luncheon a good half a dozen times. But I cannot say that I like his idea about parks for the public. With all that mingling, soon our own dear children will be talking in the uncouth accents of County Cork.”
At that moment, Mr. Poe appeared in the entrance hall. I could feel heat surge into my face.
“We shall all be saying words like
ya
instead of
you
and cutting off the endings of our
-ing
words.” Reverend Griswold smiled archly, waiting for my comment.
“I wouldn’t mind.” I saw that Mr. Poe was talking to Miss Lynch. She was leading him into the front parlor. His wife was not with him.
“You wouldn’t mind!” exclaimed Reverend Griswold. “You would want your beautiful little girls speaking Hibernian trash?”
Eliza, in Mr. Bryant’s circle with her husband, saw Mr. Poe enter with Miss Lynch. She sought my gaze.
“I see nothing wrong with the Irish, Reverend Griswold,” I said. “They are good people, doing the best that they can in spite of their poverty. In fact, my girls spend much of their time with the Bartletts’ Irish maid and they do not speak ‘Hibernian trash.’ ”
I could feel Mr. Poe looking my way. I turned as does a flower to the sun. When our eyes met, I felt the heat of his intensity. Exhilaration poured through my veins like hot nectar.
Reverend Griswold blinked in alarm at my flushed face. “I did not mean to upset you! If you say the Irish are good, I must believe you. I should—I should like them, too!”
Mr. Poe excused himself from Miss Lynch. He was coming toward me. Should he seek me so openly? I glanced at Eliza and her husband. Both were watching intently. “I’m glad that you like them, Reverend Griswold.”
Delighted to have seemingly scored a point, Reverend Griswold beamed. “I have noticed some Irish girls to be of singular beauty—not nearly as great as yours, Mrs. Osgood—but they are pretty young things.”
I could feel Mr. Poe arrive at my side.
His expression was cool, belying the tumult I could feel within him. “Good evening.”
I forced all emotion from my face. “Mr. Poe.”
“Hello, Poe,” Reverend Griswold said sourly.
From across the room I saw Eliza’s concern and Mr. Bartlett’s scowl. I remained motionless even as my spirit joyously reached for Mr. Poe.
“We were talking about the Irish,” Reverend Griswold said belligerently. “Mrs. Osgood and I have much in common in our admiration for them.”
Mr. Poe flicked a glance at Reverend Griswold as if surprised to still find him there, then began to steer me away.
“What about the Irish?” Reverend Griswold demanded.
“We should stay,” I murmured.
Mr. Poe gave me a sidelong look, his face calm.
“Mrs. Osgood!” Reverend Griswold cried.
We kept going.
“Mrs. Osgood!”
Still we kept walking.
“Mrs. Osgood! What,” Reverend Griswold exclaimed shrilly, “about Mr. Osgood?”
I stopped. The groups in both parlors fell silent.
I turned to him. “Pardon me?”
Reverend Griswold was stunned only momentarily by his success. He threw a defiant gaze at Mr. Poe and me. “What does
Mr. Osgood
have to say about the Irish?”
I made myself smile. “I really don’t know.”
“Well!” the reverend sputtered. “You should!”
Conscious of all eyes upon me, I felt gentle pressure at my elbow. I let Mr. Poe guide me into the front parlor and to the place of pride next to Mr. Bryant.
Those of the upper circle stared at us, none more so than Mr. Bryant, displeased with having been interrupted. Even his side-whiskers, as tangled and stringy as an unwound ball of yarn, seemed to rise up in indignation. Although I held my head high, I writhed inwardly.
Mr. Greeley spoke up. “We’ve been talking about the necessity of a park in the city, something centrally located and—”
“—and good for driving horses, like in the great cities of Europe,” said Mr. Bryant, not yet ready to give up the reins of the conversation. “Something supremely civilized.”
“What say you to that, Mr. Poe?” said Mr. Greeley.
“As you always have an opinion,” added Mr. Bryant, not altogether kindly.
When Mr. Poe did not immediately reply, Eliza, seemingly aware of her husband’s grim stare upon him, and my own discomfort, said in mollifying tones, “Mr. Bryant says that if space for such a park is not created now, soon there won’t be a blade of grass left in New York, as fast as the city is growing.”
Mr. Poe gazed at the expectant faces gathered around us. At last he said, “I like the notion of a park.” His sights came to rest upon Eliza. He gave her a slight smile. “As long as there are no ravens.”
The circle laughed in appreciation, save for Mr. Bartlett, on principle, and Mr. Bryant, who must have felt his hold loosening on his audience.
“Mr. Poe,” said Miss Lynch, “could you be convinced to recite ‘The Raven’ for us now? There are some people here who’ve not yet heard you and it’s such a treat. Mr. Bryant, have you heard Mr. Poe’s recitation?”
“I read the poem,” Mr. Bryant said shortly.
Mr. Poe nodded at Miss Lynch. “Thank you for your interest, but I’m publishing a far better poem next week in the
Journal
. Perhaps you’d rather hear it.”
Miss Lynch’s elfin face brightened with enthusiasm. “Oh, yes, Mr. Poe, please! I think we should all like that.”
All in the upper echelon clapped in encouragement, except Mr. Bartlett and Mr. Bryant, and Reverend Griswold, who had marched up, his nostrils flaring in righteous anger. The back parlor crowd eased toward the separating arch to listen.
Mr. Poe reached into his coat. He drew out a paper, then handed it to me. “As it is your poem, Mrs. Osgood, you should read it.”
Someone gasped. Surprised smiles followed on the faces of many. No one was more surprised than I.
I shook open the paper. It was my poem “So Let It Be,” in which I had scolded Mr. Poe for not believing that his wife would trust us. I felt the blood prickling in my face as I began to read.
When I finished, I was afraid to look up. The room reverberated with silence. Then: the sound of a single pair of gloved hands
clapping. This pair was joined by another and then another, until the parlor rang with applause. Slowly, I looked up. Every woman in the gathering was clapping.
Mr. Poe waited until they were done. Quietly, he said, “Mrs. Osgood assured me that my women readers would understand her poem. She said it was vanity for a male friend to feel the need to slight his lady friend just to prove to his wife that he is faithful. It appears that she was right.”
“Yes!” cried Miss Lynch. “Thank you for speaking up, Mrs. Osgood. We women are so often misjudged by our men. Our every move is not a means to entrap a male, you know.”
After the other guests laughed, she said, “Let’s discuss this over some refreshments.” Linking arms, she led me to the table, then allowed me, with an Italian ice in hand, to receive the praise and acclaim saved for the most famous of her guests.
Fifteen
Skirt flounces, bonnet brims, coattails, and shop awnings flapped in the sharp April wind. The laughter of children punctuated the crashing of hooves against the cobblestones as huge-wheeled phaetons drummed past, driven by bachelors intent on showing off to young ladies squeezed to the point of breathlessness by their corsets. Sunday-afternoon-promenade season had returned.
The poor tumbled along, their bright ready-made clothes announcing the very poverty that they wished to forget. The middling sort sailed by in plain dark clothes that showed their grasp of taste and refinement. If
they
had a salary of two thousand a year,
they
would know what to do with it. The rich floated past as if on swans’ vaunted wings, their costumes showcasing their wearers’ wealth and importance. Incomes could be calculated by the number of yards of glossy silk in a skirt or in the height of a gentleman’s collar. Even the poor in their gaudy checks could read the signs of a healthy ledger, or at least they thought they could. But who really was to know if a man was actually bankrupting himself by putting his wife in diamonds? Who knew if he could not pay for the glossy beaver hat perched upon his head? As I joined the Nile of humanity pouring down Broadway during the customary hour between three and four, I thought to myself:
Is there anyone alive who is not hiding something?
Now I flowed amid the human current with Eliza and her husband. Our children—Eliza’s blond trio and my dark pair—bobbed just ahead of us with the pretty young Mary. Among the crowd we greeted Mr. Clement Clarke Moore, known, much to his chagrin, for his children’s poem “A Visit from Saint Nicholas” which famously began “ ’Twas the night before Christmas . . .” and not for his professorship in Oriental
languages at the seminary that he founded. We nodded at Mr. Philip Hone, who as mayor had come up with the idea of covering over the paupers’ burial ground in Greenwich Village to make it into a fashionable park. The land in Washington Square is still unstable; cannons on military parade have been known to sink into the settling graves.