The Spirit Photographer

by Jon Michael Varese

  But that, according to J. T. Townsend, was not the point of this trial. It was true that many of the exhibits entered into evidence depicted “indistinct and shadowy forms.” But what of the forms whose faces were so distinct that all those who knew those souls in life swore to their legitimacy? And what sort of man must Edward Moody have been if the Prosecution’s accusations were correct? “Such a man would require a gallery of immense proportions,” Townsend said. “He would be compelled to have on hand the negatives of parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and great-grandmothers of all the persons who called to get photographs. He would need to possess a dexterity surpassing that of the greatest magicians of the day. And he would need to be smarter than every photographer who had gone to inspect his method.” For over five years, Moody had been engaged in the business of spirit photography, and had submitted his process to the investigation of scientific men. Not one of them had ever pronounced him a deceiver, because there was no proof whatsoever that he had ever deceived anybody.

  “Because Marshall Hinckley and his men of science have encountered things that they cannot explain,” Townsend said, “the Prosecution has hunted down this prisoner, and fixed upon him the brand of cheat and humbug. Suppose that when Mr. Morse was struggling to convince us that persons hundreds of miles apart might communicate with electricity, some skeptic should have requested a message sent from New York to Boston … that Mr. Morse, confident in the truth of his discovery, should attempt to send the message, but that, owing to some cause not clearly known to him, the attempt to transmit the message should fail. Would such a failure be counted a fraud by any court or jury in Christendom? And yet these so-called men of science who have testified for the Prosecution charge Mr. Moody with fraud because they believe him guilty of producing ‘foggy dumplings.’”

  Townsend paused and stared squarely at the jury.

  “Men like these would have hung Galileo, had they lived in his day.”

  Far from the charlatan the Prosecution made him out to be, Moody was a revolutionary—a man ahead of his time.

  But would the jury believe that, and how would they vote?

  At last both counsels rested, and one final matter remained.

  “Mr. Moody,” Judge Downing said, “The People have pleaded their case against you, and your counsel has concluded with its defense. Before I send the jury away to deliberate upon your fate, is there anything you wish to say, relative to the charges that have been presented against you?”

  Moody had been listening to the closing arguments with some attention, but none of what he had heard had changed his determination.

  Moody stood.

  “I would indeed like to make a statement,” he said.

  The courtroom was silent. Moody turned toward the jury, but also faced the gallery that was crowded with Spiritualists. Many of them, he knew, had had a hand in composing the statement. This was to be a great moment for Spiritualism.

  Moody unfolded the paper.

  “In 1865, in the city of Boston …” he began.

  He read the first sentences about photographing Mrs. Lovejoy.

  “… but it was in the process of developing the plate that I first discovered the appearance of a second form …”

  A second form. Was that what it had all been about then? The paper trembled in his hand. He owed the Spiritualists nothing. The Spiritualists had misguided him, and he would not sacrifice himself for them. And yet if he did not read it—

  Moody let his arm fall, and released the sheet of paper.

  “We are all,” Moody said, “witnesses to those second forms, whether we have had spirit photographs taken or not.”

  Mr. Townsend leaned down toward the floor to retrieve the statement, but Moody stepped on the paper with the front of his boot.

  “We are witnesses,” Moody continued, “and it is all before our very eyes. We are in a great age of—”

  His voice quivered somewhat.

  “—spiritual truth.”

  In the audience, those who were aware of his departure from the statement moved uneasily in their chairs.

  “Yes …” Moody said. “We are in a great age of spiritual truth, and the signs are about us everywhere. I came to Spiritualism not as a believer, but as a skeptic. I was a broken man who believed in nothing but what his eye could see. And what my eye saw was horror—horror at what men could do to one another, and horror at our own denial of it.”

  Moody paused, and turned toward the audience.

  “But it was nothing compared to the horror revealed to me in the great miracle of the spirit photograph.”

  All eyes were upon him now. Not a soul breathed or stirred.

  “You there—all of you!” he exclaimed. “You have turned your eyes from the truth, as I did. And I do not speak merely of the spiritual truth … but the earthly truth as well, of which it is one and the same.”

  One and the same? More audience members shifted. What trick was Edward Moody up to now?

  “I knew a woman once, who was wise enough to understand that photographs possessed a power like no other. She believed that photographs possessed the power to make permanent those things that we all lose. They are the record keepers of the things that we want to see once we’ve lost them … and they are also the keepers of those secrets we do not want to see.”

  He was wavering. What was wrong with him? Somebody needed to stop him.

  “I did not want to see,” Moody said. “I did not want to see what the photograph showed me. I did not want to see how much I had misguided others. But I was forced to see—forced to see what a criminal I had been. And now I cannot un-see it.”

  Moody could feel the room beginning to move, but any Spiritualist who might approach him now was of little consequence at this point. There had barely been anything left of her when he had taken that last glance at the negative. In the darkness of Yellow Henry’s, one might have even said she was no longer there. He knew she was disappearing—that she would eventually disappear—and yet he had carried her back to Boston, as if she were as clear as the day she had come to him.

  All emotion then fell from Moody’s face, as if he had finally been granted resolution.

  “I cannot un-see it,” Moody repeated, “and like all of you—all of you—”

  He paused. Would they ever forgive him?

  “I am guilty.”

  The room erupted, and there was no way to distinguish the laughter of the men of science from the anguished cries of the believers. Judge Downing banged his gavel as the courtroom degenerated into chaos. The starvation was severe, and they fought with one another, because the truth was that they were all desperate to protect their own pieces of bread.

  And in this madness, in the pandemonium of the courtroom, Moody saw her, standing with Joseph, tucked into the front of the crowd. Her palm was up, and her lips were behind it. She looked at Moody, puckered, and blew.

  No one went blind this time—or at least it did not seem so—and Moody watched as both Vivi and Joseph disappeared. He would perhaps never see them again, for he would be going somewhere else now. And he knew that they too would be departing for another place.

  Judge Downing was finally able to restore order in the courtroom, and Moody’s attorneys, having given up on the matter, made no attempt to plead further. The extended deliberation that the Spiritualists had been hoping for was now a dead idea. The jury would return, and the decision would be read, and that would be an end to the question of Edward Moody.

  And so the jury did return, and so the decision was read, but when the foreman announced the verdict, the room did not explode. There was a quiet—almost respectful—acceptance of the verdict that surprised even the staunchest of the nonbelievers.

  XLVII

  IT WAS NIGHT, and the old leather case lay in his lap. He hadn’t opened it—had not been able to bring himself to open it—after Bolles had left him earlier that day. And now, as he stared down at the thing that held the spirit, he wondered if the inspector
had ever discovered what was inside. Had Montgomery opened the case and seen the shame that the negative revealed? Garrett’s shame … and his disgrace. These had been Elizabeth’s words. But what shame could there have been in loving the one person he was not supposed to love?

  Had he loved her? Had he ever been able to love her? Or did she just represent something he had wanted to possess?

  He opened it.

  The lip of the case was smooth, the surrounding leather cold. The edge of the glass shone like a blade. The glass sat comfortably within the stiff walls of its envelope … impatient. Did it want to come out?

  He touched it. The glass was hard. He was surprised at its durability. The glass’s edge pressed into his thumb as his other fingers settled along its sides.

  But there was something else. In the case—a folded paper. It was a note of some kind—a message that was not supposed to be there.

  Garrett pulled out the paper, unfolded it, and read:

  You are a great man. You will do great things for people. You will open their eyes. You will teach them how to see.

  She is all that is left of me now. She is yours. Keep her, guard her. She needs you. Everyone needs you. I left so that everyone could have you.

  Please forgive me.

  No, it could not be. Her speaking to him—even now.

  Her selflessness overcame him like a tide from which he could not escape. She had wanted to be gone so that he could be saved—so that his dishonest, ambitious self could be saved. Her child had been his, and the people would have punished him for it. Elizabeth was right—even after everything he had done in the name of progress, the people’s eyes would see only one thing.

  But there was the question that burned inside him hotter than anything he had ever felt:

  Had she loved him?

  Had she sacrificed herself, and her child—for him?

  His career had been meaningless. His life, one grand absurdity.

  He let the soiled note fall to the floor and removed the negative from its case … this odd piece of artistry, this mere bit of glass that had summoned a lifetime of memories. The night was dark, and the air outside was black. Garrett’s window had become a mirror, and he looked at himself, ashamed.

  He wanted to hold it up—to examine the negative—but he was afraid of what he would see. Would she be there? Would she scold him? Would his own face judge and scorn him? He did not want to behold the appalling things that he had turned his eyes away from for so many years.

  And then, there she was—in the window.

  His breath caught in his throat as he tried to cry out. She was not in front of the window, or beyond it, but in it somehow. Isabelle watched as he struggled to catch his breath, the soft folds of her hair at one with the rippled glass.

  His whole body trembled. He wanted to speak, but couldn’t. Then, finally—

  “By my own life …” he whispered. “I never knew …”

  But in speaking those words he faced his own dishonesty. There was something terrible that he had always known.

  He felt his heart begin to pound. What more could he possibly say?

  She was a dark shadow in the window. She was silver—black and white. Would that she would tell him what it was she wanted to hear.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Isabelle made no sound.

  “I will take care of her,” he said.

  But still she did not reply.

  Senator Garrett’s hand moved up toward his chest, for his heart was beating with such force that he could hear it. Garrett pressed his hand hard there, clutching at his nightclothes, until he felt the hot rush through every part of his body.

  “Isabelle!” he exclaimed.

  She appeared to smile, but her eyes were dark.

  And as if the strength of his younger self had possessed him, he jumped out of his chair, and leapt toward her.

  THE CRASH WAS a sound like no other the house had ever known. The night was hot, and the warm air swept in—the house was, strangely, not so determined to keep it out.

  Jenny and Elizabeth emerged from their hiding places. The crash had come from Garrett’s room, yet they both hesitated before entering. Elizabeth eyed Jenny, and Jenny eyed her mistress, and there the two women stood, glaring at each other outside the door.

  But each face was pained. Only the worst could have happened.

  Elizabeth pushed the door open—Garrett had not locked it—and the warm air opposed her, like a barricade. The room did not stifle because the room had been exposed … and yet something still kept Jenny and Elizabeth from the broken window.

  The air had sucked the curtains out. Shattered glass lay on the floor.

  Jenny ran to the window, but Elizabeth did not follow. Elizabeth did not want to see what her husband had ultimately come to.

  “Oh, Senator!” Jenny shrieked.

  And she began to utter unintelligible cries.

  There was nothing that Elizabeth could have done to prevent this. She had given him everything. And he had been ungrateful.

  Elizabeth leaned out the window, feeling as if she herself were falling. There on the ground lay her husband’s shattered body, his blood seeping over the pavement like a slow, determined stain.

  “Oh, ma’am … ma’am …” Jenny was going on.

  But Elizabeth said nothing as she backed herself away.

  Banner of Light

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Saturday, August 27, 1870

  NO SUBJECT SINCE the days of the Rochester Knockings has stirred Boston, New York, and all of New England into so much discussion on the subject of Spiritualism as the late arrest of Mr. Edward Moody for pretending to take spirit photographs; and whatever is proved or disproved, and whatever Mr. Moody has done or not done, is all of little consequence in comparison to the vast amount of good results that must arise from getting such testimony as that of A. J. Davis, Mr. Livermore, Mr. Gurney (the oldest photographer in New York), and several others, into the daily papers, and bringing them under constant discussion. One thing is certain: The enemies of truth have learned a lesson that will be useful to them in the future, and probably will not again attempt to prosecute a subject until they know something about it—or at least have some credible authority to back themselves up, as they surely lacked both in this case. Whatever turn events take of late, every movement advances our cause and seems to be managed by our spirit-friends.

  Newsletter of the American Institute for the Encouragement of Science and Invention

  New York, New York

  Wednesday, August 31, 1870

  THE PHOTOGRAPHIC SECTION of the American Institute held its regular meeting on Monday. Mr. Abraham Bogardus, the newly elected Vice-President, in the chair, introduced the following, which was adopted without a dissenting voice:

  WHEREAS, recent investigations before the People of Boston, of so-called Spirit Photography, have failed to denounce the whole matter as trickery; therefore, be it

  RESOLVED, That the Photographic Section of the American Institute take the earliest opportunity to condemn all such methods of working upon the credulous and uninitiated, and that they receive with wonder and amazement the decision of the jury; and be it further

  RESOLVED, That to our worthy member, Mr. Marshall Hinckley, who initiated the complaint upon which the proceedings were based, we offer our thanks, for his praiseworthy though unsuccessful efforts in the cause of truth and common sense.

  XLVIII

  SO, THEY HAD acquitted him—absolved him of his crimes. And what was she to do with that now? What had she been left with in the wake of this verdict … a verdict that seemed designed to condemn her?

  She placed the black thing on her head. Its ruffles boxed her in—like a picture frame.

  “Ma’am,” Jenny said, “the carriage is around front.”

  For the past three days Elizabeth had endured her own trial, though it had not been so sensationalized in the papers. There had been talk of sending Garre
tt’s body down to Washington, to lie in state in the Capitol, but she had ultimately ruled against that. There had been arguments, and there were those in the Cabinet who thought her unreasonable, but she was not going to travel there—not after all of this. Governor Claflin had sided with her, proclaiming Garrett “a son of Massachusetts first,” and so that had determined it. Garrett’s body would remain in Boston.

  They came from Washington, from New York, from Philadelphia, from Richmond. They came from Delaware and Ohio and Rhode Island and from the South. The Senate’s Sergeant at Arms had taken charge of the body, attended by a committee of six of Garrett’s colleagues. On day two the president arrived with his Cabinet. On day three, the Supreme Court, and most of the Senate and the House.

  The crowds of public mourners numbered in the thousands. Elizabeth could not stand them, and wished that they would all be gone. She had spent over twenty years playing a role for Garrett, and yet this last role, she felt she could not play.

  But she played it.

  They had festooned Doric Hall with the most elaborate mourning garlands … beautiful and delicate strands of black crepe that hung like woven ivy from the hall’s columns. An artisan had fashioned a chandelier of flowers, and from its center he had suspended a white dove carrying an olive branch. The chandelier and the dove were in the very middle of the hall, guiding the shapeless crowd toward the coffin that held the senator.

  There were soldiers—colored soldiers—positioned around the catafalque. They competed with the wealth of flowers that every type of person in the country had sent along. In profusion—small bouquets from the freedmen and the poor, as well as large crosses made from hundreds of roses and carnations. At the foot of the coffin stood a magnificent design of tropical leaves and flowers—a gift from the Republic of Haiti.