The Spirit Photographer

by Jon Michael Varese

  It was there, plain as day—to whom the girl belonged.

  You had to look for it, and you had to have an eye—a trained eye. One that was accustomed to looking for such things. Joseph had always been able to sniff those matters out, even when the matter wasn’t obvious. But Vivi was obvious—she was entirely Isabelle, and yet she wasn’t. And so all of it made sense now … the danger she presented. The house of cards that, with the simple and gentle purity of her face, she had the power to strike down.

  They would know. All of them would know.

  But did Moody know? Of course he did! Why else would he have brought Isabelle’s daughter back to Boston? They had discussed it—escaping. Joseph wanted to escape. During one of those lingering moments, Joseph had put forth his vision: San Francisco … the West … a photography studio. They would take Vivi far away, where she would finally be safe from her past.

  Moody had not quite responded. He had merely nodded in his mysterious way. At Yellow Henry’s, even after he had awakened, he had remained in a kind of stupor. It was hard to tell what Moody was seeing and hearing as he hatched his own plans in his head.

  They had parted, in the swamp. And now the secret had come back.

  “Vivi,” Joseph said, “you do understand what is happening?”

  She nodded.

  “You understand that Edward is now in greater danger than he has ever been before?”

  Again, she moved her head.

  “I tried to stop him,” Mrs. Lovejoy said. “I tried to stop him from going out those doors—with the girl. But he was resolute. There was no standing in his way. I have never seen Mr. Moody so … determined.”

  But Joseph had seen it, and Joseph thought he understood.

  “What drove him out the door?” he asked.

  “We were upstairs, in the gallery,” Mrs. Lovejoy said, “which was, we thought, perhaps the safest place for the time being. They hadn’t been here very long. I expected them to stop and rest. But Mr. Moody was pacing, and he looked out the window, and—”

  Joseph waited.

  “It was as if he saw something,” Mrs. Lovejoy concluded.

  “Or someone,” Joseph said.

  “Perhaps.”

  That was it then. Moody did know. Moody had seen everything.

  Joseph turned to Vivi.

  “You were here,” he said. “You saw what he saw?”

  Vivi nodded, and in that moment, she was the very picture of her mother. All traces of anything else in her had vanished, and now, here she was again—Isabelle.

  Vivi held Joseph’s gaze. But something else lingered … a sound from the depth of her enormous eyes that almost screamed, and demanded to be heard. What it said was not a word, or a group of words, or anything else like language. It was instead a cry that reached back through time, and returned to tell Joseph that she would save him.

  XLII

  Boston Daily Journal

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Thursday, August 18, 1870

  SPIRITUALISM IN COURT—GHOSTLY DEVELOPMENTS

  YESTERDAY THERE WAS reached another step in the interesting case of the People against Edward Moody, the alleged “Spiritual” photographer, charged with obtaining money by “trick and device.” At a much earlier hour than that fixed for the hearing, the Suffolk County Court was overcrowded. Persons of all classes, professions, and shades of opinion were present: journalists, lawyers mighty in criminal proceedings, authors, physicians, artists, and sculptors … all deeply interested in a question that can only be answered by one of two alternatives—“A fraud” or “A miracle.” And patiently during four or five hours, the audience, one of the most intelligent that ever assembled in Boston, sat watching each point made by the pleaders and testified to by the witnesses …

  “PLEASE TELL US,” Eldridge Appleton said, “who you are and what is your business.”

  The witness at the front of the courtroom wore an elegant black suit and a distinguished white beard.

  “My name is Abraham Bogardus,” the man said, “and I have been a photographer for nearly twenty-three years. I am connected with the Photographic Section of the American Institute, which was formed to protect honest people in the trade from false patents, and from any other kind of humbug we could discover.”

  “And is the defendant, Mr. Moody, a member of that institute?” Appleton asked.

  Bogardus looked over at Moody, frowned, and looked back at the prosecutor.

  “Not that I am aware of,” Bogardus replied.

  “Tell us, Mr. Bogardus, if you will,” Appleton went on, “how many processes do you believe there are for taking these so-called spirit photographs?”

  “I cannot say—we might count them by scores, as the science is still developing, so to speak. But I can take a photograph of a man with an angel over his head, or with a pair of horns on his head—just as I wish.”

  A noise murmured throughout the crowd in the gallery. The Spiritualists did not like such implications.

  Appleton, who was pacing, returned to his table and picked up a photograph.

  “Can you tell me …” he said, approaching the witness box. “Can you tell me, and all those assembled here, what exactly this is?”

  Bogardus took the photograph, quickly glanced at it, and answered.

  “This is a picture I took at the Institute in an effort to duplicate Mr. Moody’s methods.”

  “Ah,” Appleton said, “so this ‘spirit photograph’ is one you yourself produced?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Let this stand on record as exhibit eighteen. Tell us, Mr. Bogardus, how did you take it?”

  Bogardus frowned again.

  “As I said, there are a number of ways to achieve this effect, but this particular photograph was done by taking a plate and coating it in the usual manner, and then taking a picture of the ‘ghost’ for later use. You can return the prepared plate back into the coating bath, and leave it there as long as you like. When the sitter came in, I simply used the same plate, and the first impression appeared alongside the sitter.”

  “So there were no ‘spiritual’ influences upon this photograph?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “And this is easily done?”

  “This is very easily done.”

  Again the Spiritualists in the audience made their unsettled noises, while Edward Moody remained still. Moody’s attorneys were scribbling and whispering. This witness was an expert—and a problem.

  “I would like to submit two more exhibits—nineteen and twenty—for The People,” Appleton said. “Now these are very strange ones, Mr. Bogardus. Please explain to us what these are, if you will.”

  “Happily. These photographs are the result of more experimentation. The first, as you can see, depicts the hand of the shadowy figure as placed in the hair of the sitter. This was not the effect that I ultimately desired, so I reshot this ghost, and then re-shot the sitter. The effect, as you can see in the next exhibit, is that the arm is encircling the sitter’s waist.”

  “And this was done by … ?”

  “As I said, I re-shot the spirit—who was of course no more spirit than I am—and did a little maneuvering of the glass to position the hand and arm somewhat lower.”

  “Was this a complicated exercise?”

  “It was not complicated at all.”

  “And the ‘ghostly’ effect,” Appleton asked. “How were you able to achieve this?”

  “We first take a dim impression from figures prepared for our purpose,” Bogardus replied. “Sometimes this is a lady dressed in white and veiled over, sometimes a draped infant, and so on. I can take the figure less distinct by not having a proper focus, as the more out of focus the figure is, the more indistinct the picture. I might also focus the picture more properly if I want the figure to be more perfect—with distinct eyebrows, lips, etcetera. In the end, the recognition of the spirit likenesses depends upon the imagination of the sitter.”

  “Objection, yo
ur honor,” one of Moody’s lawyers called out. “The ‘recognition’ of spirit likenesses by individuals has nothing to do with the questions that Mr. Bogardus has been qualified to answer.”

  Judge Downing looked at Appleton.

  “I would argue differently,” Appleton said. “Through his experimentation with these fraudulent spirit photographs, Mr. Bogardus has come into contact with a number of gullible persons who have given him insight into the life of this crime beyond the taking of the actual photograph.”

  “I will overrule the objection,” Judge Downing said.

  “Mr. Bogardus, please tell us,” Appleton went on, “what you have seen in terms of people’s response to your ‘spirit photographs.’”

  “Frankly, Mr. Appleton, during our investigation, I have seen everything, and it disgusts me.”

  Moody’s main counsel leapt up.

  “Objection, your honor.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Please, proceed—” Appleton said.

  “It disgusts me,” Bogardus repeated. “I have seen perfect pictures of figures taken, with perfectly recognizable ‘spirits,’ and heard four or five relatives of that figure standing by saying that there was no likeness whatsoever. By the same token, I have also known persons to have demanded the purchase of portraits of children, believing the children to be their own, when I have known them to be someone else’s. So I do stand by my conviction that the recognition of the spirit likenesses depends entirely upon the imagination—and a fanciful imagination at that.”

  It was nothing that the papers hadn’t said many times before—that Moody could put anything before a grieving mother, and she would see her child in that instant. But there had also been those examples—undeniable examples—that seemed to have confirmed Moody’s “gift.” Still, the prosecution proceeded with the introduction of yet more exhibits, including numerous photographs of sitters who had been visited by the “spirit” of President Grant.

  “Lastly, Mr. Bogardus,” Appleton said, “would you describe this exhibit for us—exhibit thirty-two.”

  Bogardus looked at the picture and almost smiled.

  “That is a picture of Mr. Barnum, which I—”

  “Excuse me,” the prosecutor interrupted, “you said Mr. Barnum. Do you mean Phineas T. Barnum—the great showman and impresario?”

  “The very same,” Bogardus said. “Mr. Barnum, as many know, has made a great career of exhibiting humbugs, but at the same time he has a severe distaste for those who adamantly declare their humbugs real.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he has no patience for those criminals who take advantage of others’ grief.”

  “I see. Briefly describe for us how you came to take this picture.”

  “Well, after Mr. Moody’s arrest, Mr. Barnum approached some of us at the Institute, and offered to pose for a spirit photograph to demonstrate the absurdity of this whole business.”

  “And you took the photograph?”

  “We took the photograph. And as you can see, we summoned an extraordinary spirit.”

  Gasps escaped the mouths of the onlookers. It was the spirit of President Lincoln.

  “You summoned him?” Appleton said.

  “Of course not,” Bogardus answered. “We placed him there, using one of the previously described methods—at Mr. Barnum’s request.”

  These final questions concluded Eldridge Appleton’s presentation for the day … the Barnum photograph being something that he knew would excite great passion amongst the audience. But J. T. Townsend, Edward Moody’s chief counsel, had a passion of his own to express.

  “You say that the photographing of spirits is impossible,” Townsend said, “and that anyone who claims to be able to do this is a fraud and a liar?”

  “As a photographer,” Bogardus replied, “I cannot produce the likeness of a person after death, unless it is from a copy. Neither can any other mortal.”

  “So, as a photographer and a man of science, you do not believe in the spiritual life at all then?”

  “I did not say that.”

  “Well then, Mr. Bogardus—what do you believe in?”

  “I believe in the Bible.”

  “Ah, how convenient!” Townsend said. “I happen to have a Bible right here with me.”

  Townsend walked over to his table, picked up the bible, and opened the book to a marked page.

  “Now Samuel was dead,” he began reading, “and all Israel had lamented him and buried him in Ramah, his own city …

  … and Saul had removed from the land those who were mediums and spiritists. So the Philistines gathered together and came and camped in Shunem; and Saul gathered all Israel together and they camped in Gilboa. When Saul saw the camp of the Philistines, he was afraid and his heart trembled greatly. When Saul inquired of the Lord, the Lord did not answer him, either by dreams or by Urim or by prophets. Then Saul said to his servants, “Seek for me a woman who is a medium, that I may go to her and inquire of her.” And his servants said to him—

  “Objection, your honor,” Appleton said, standing. “This theological detour is being put forward to confound the witness.”

  “Your honor, I assure you,” Townsend replied, “there is a point to this departure. The witness has stated that he does not believe the photographing of spirits is possible by any known means. But he has not stated whether or not he believes in spirits.”

  “It is immaterial,” Appleton said.

  “I will allow it for now,” Judge Downing said.

  Mr. Townsend went on:

  … and his servants said to him, “Behold, there is a woman who is a medium at En-dor.” Then Saul disguised himself by putting on other clothes, and went, he and two men with him, and they came to the woman by night; and he said, “Conjure up for me, please, and bring up for me whom I shall name to you.” But the woman said to him, “Behold, you know what Saul has done, how he has cut off those who are mediums and spiritists from the land. Why are you then laying a snare for my life to bring about my death?” Saul vowed to her by the Lord, saying, “As the Lord lives, no punishment shall come upon you for this thing.” Then the woman said, “Whom shall I bring up for you?” And he said, “Bring up Samuel for me.” When the woman saw Samuel, she cried out with a loud voice; and the woman spoke to Saul, saying, “Why have you deceived me? For you are Saul.” The king said to her, “Do not be afraid; but what do you see?” And the woman said to Saul, “I see a divine being coming up out of the earth.” He said to her, “What is his form?” And she said, “An old man is coming up, and he is wrapped with a robe.” And Saul knew that it was Samuel, and he bowed with his face to the ground and did homage.

  “Now, Mr. Bogardus,” Townsend said, “you have stated that you believe in that good book known as the Bible. And I have just read to you an interesting passage from that very book. So I ask you, do you believe the spirit alluded to in this passage possessed a form of its own?”

  The witness, somewhat baffled, glanced in the direction of the prosecutor.

  “Objection,” Appleton said. “This has nothing to do with the witness’s expertise as a photographer.”

  “Oh,” Townsend said, “it most certainly does.”

  “I’ll allow it,” the judge said.

  “I repeat, Mr. Bogardus … do you believe the spirit alluded to in this passage—this passage from the Bible—possessed a form of its own?”

  “I suppose that it must have.”

  “So then, from the reading of this chapter—again, from a book that you believe in—it seems clear that the spirit alluded to here appeared in form. Would you then consider it possible for that form to have been photographed, provided that photography had then existed?”

  A look of confusion spread over the face of the witness, as the audience remained hushed in silence.

  “Mr. Bogardus,” Townsend repeated, “would it have been possible to have photographed that form back then, had photography then existed?”

  “Perha
ps,” Bogardus said, “but—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bogardus,” Townsend said. “That is all I wanted to know.”

  XLIII

  INSPECTOR BOLLES AMBLED through the streets of Beacon Hill that day, even though walking directly up Pinckney or Mt. Vernon would have provided a more direct route to the square. The senator had been recovering for close to two weeks now, and Jenny had sent word—at Bolles’s request—that Garrett was finally out of bed. What had it been? None of the doctors could say exactly. But the senator’s episode on Washington Street was something that had been troubling Bolles since Moody’s return.

  What had the senator seen, and what did he now know?

  The trial had progressed with no mention of the senator’s name—which was precisely, Bolles knew, how Senator and Mrs. Garrett wanted it to be. The apprehension around the negative was still at the forefront of Bolles’s mind, as was the fixation of all concerned on finding and punishing Edward Moody. Mr. Dovehouse had been strangely absent since Moody’s arrest—an odd thing given his relentlessness during the investigation. And for Marshall Hinckley’s part … he cared little about Garrett. Hinckley’s main objective was to make an example of the Spiritualists.

  The negative, mysteriously, had not made its way into evidence. The negative had refused to go anywhere except for that one final place.

  As he walked, Bolles clasped his hand over his coat pocket, unsure of what he was about to do. Something was telling him to hurry, and yet the streets continually interrupted him: Spruce Street and Walnut, Willow and Chestnut. He re-traversed his own steps without realizing what he was doing.

  At last he came to the great house on Louisburg Square. In all those years of visiting those houses, he had failed to notice the aggression that characterized them—how, in the tranquility of the manicured square, their rounded bellies pressed away from them, like blisters. It was beautiful, this square, that he had known since he was a boy—and yet something was now making it unsightly.