by Avi
Mr. Middleditch, taken by surprise, actually stammered. “Why, I certainly consider myself a . . . a religious man. . . .” His words drifted off inconclusively. (After being with him for some months, I had never noticed his attendance at any church—not once.)
“No,” she said softly, her eyes wide and welling with tears. “I mean, do you believe in . . . ghosts?”
FIVE
MR. MIDDLEDITCH WAS AT a momentary loss for a reply. I too was startled. “I . . . confess,” he managed to stammer, “I’ve had no . . . personal contact with . . . spirits.”
Mrs. Von Macht found a lacy, black-edged handkerchief in her reticule and carefully daubed her eyes before continuing. “Mr. Middleditch,” she confided, “I readily acknowledge that I am uncertain about such deep matters. Yet . . . yet if it is true . . . why then—” Her eyes grew teary. She seemed unable to speak.
“It has been suggested to me,” she went on when she recovered, “that souls, or ghosts, what some now call the ectoplasm of the departed, linger where they have been laid to rest. I have a feeling”—she put a hand to her heart—“that my daughter, Eleanora, is restless.” These last words she all but whispered.
The room was silent for a moment, as if we were all listening for movement from elsewhere.
“How do I know this?” she continued softly. “A mother’s heart knows.
“Mr. Middleditch,” she continued in a stronger voice, “I have decided that you must make a pleasing photograph of me, which I will frame suitably and affix to Eleanora’s tomb. Then, if it is true—if her spirit lingers in melancholy sorrow, missing her grieving mother—why, then, she might see me and thus gain, in her infinite solitude, some comfort.”
Hearing Mrs. Von Macht speak, I had no doubt that the woman was talking of her own loneliness and grief.
I suspect Mr. Middleditch observed the same. “Madam,” he said, “I fully grasp your perfectly reasonable request. Indeed, I am moved. It’s a commission which shall give me honor to fulfill.”
“After all,” the woman went on, as if feeling the need to justify her request, “I have painted images of her about my house. They comfort me. Why shouldn’t I do the same for poor Eleanora? Now that she has died,” she added with what I considered an odd afterthought.
“Of course,” said Mr. Middleditch, and then, shifting slightly, he looked at me and winked.
For her part Mrs. Von Macht sat there as if lost in her own grief. That was when the servant girl leaned forward and whispered something into her ear. The woman nodded.
“I have been reminded,” said the woman, “of another request. I wish the photograph to be taken in my own rooms. It is to be hoped,” she added, “if my surroundings are familiar to Eleanora, it will bring her that much more comfort.”
“A kind thought,” agreed Mr. Middleditch. “I would like to oblige. However, the art of photography being what it is, the photographic plates have to be processed and used when wet. This is why most of my photographic images are made here, in my studio.”
“Could you not set up a temporary studio in my home?” asked the woman. “I should be much obliged.”
“I fear water is required.”
“I have a scullery with running water which could be placed at your disposal.”
“Perfect!”
“Then we have an understanding?” asked the woman.
Mr. Middleditch considered. Then, gently, he said, “I’m afraid your requests add to the expense.”
“Cost,” replied the woman, “is not a concern.”
“Very good,” Mr. Middleditch said quickly. “In that case we shall need a two-day appointment, one for establishing a studio in your home and preparing the photographic plates. The second appointment will be used for taking the photographs.”
“That will be fine,” Mrs. Von Macht assured him.
In deference to the sad feelings aroused, both she and Mr. Middleditch observed a moment of silence.
Then, to my surprise, Mr. Middleditch said, “I suspect your daughter must have been a beautiful young lady. Do you, perchance, have an image of her with you?”
“Not with me,” said Mrs. Von Macht, blushing slightly with what I assumed was the fullness of her emotions. “But as I said, there are many in my home.”
“Of course!”
A date and hour to take the photographic portrait was set—one week from that day—and a Fifth Avenue address provided. Moreover, Mrs. Von Macht promised to send her carriage round the day before to facilitate the transport of our apparatus.
Agreement reached, Mrs. Von Macht stood up.
Mr. Middleditch hastened to stand and with many thanks and many bows, promised that he and his assistant would be there promptly.
The woman turned to her servant. “Come along, Pegg.”
But before the woman could leave Mr. Middleditch said, “Mrs. Von Macht, may I ask how you found me?”
The woman turned with a full swirl of her dress. “Mr. Middleditch,” she said sweetly and with a flirtatious blinking of her eyes, “surely you are aware of your very high reputation.”
I glanced at the servant girl. Once again I caught her slightly shaking her head.
Mr. Middleditch, however, only glowed with pleasure at the woman’s words, thanked her kindly, and followed closely to hand her into the carriage.
I remained behind, as did the servant girl. I wanted to ask her what her head-shaking meant, yet didn’t know where to begin. But as the girl started out the door, she abruptly turned about—as if having read my mind—looked fiercely at me, and said, “That is not how Eleanora died! And we’re here because Madam wanted an unknown photographer. I found you by walking the streets and seeing your sign!”
I was taken aback, but before I could respond, the girl fled the house.
SIX
I WAS STILL TRYING to make sense of what the girl, Pegg, had said, not even certain I’d heard correctly, when Mr. Middleditch returned to the parlor. All smiles, he was actually rubbing his pudgy hands together.
“Well, Horace,” he said gleefully, “what do you make of that?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, trying to sort out what had happened. “It’s a sad story.”
“No doubt,” he agreed. “Absolutely. But don’t fret. I think I can profit greatly from it.” He flung himself on the sofa, fully extended his legs, and put his arms behind his head—all the while grinning broadly.
“Profit, sir?” I said.
“Business lesson number one, Horace! There’s no room for sentiment.”
“You mean a good portrait shows a person as they really are. The scientific way.”
“Oh, piffle. Something more.”
“More, sir?”
He sat up, leaned forward, and said, “Horace, didn’t you see that woman’s clothing? Her carriage? Her address?”
“She’s wealthy.”
“Exactly! With one of the richest addresses in the city. I suspect she’s very rich, Horace. With a name which suggests one of the Old Dutch families. They still have money, you know. As for Green-Wood Cemetery, where her daughter . . . what’s her name . . . ?”
“Eleanora.”
“. . . is buried, nothing could be better. Just the other day the Times was saying, to be fashionable, you must live on Fifth Avenue, be seen in Central Park, and be buried in Green-Wood Cemetery.” He laughed. “Consider, too, that Mrs. Von Macht came to me because of my very high reputation.”
My thoughts went to what the servant girl claimed, that she found my master because Madam wanted “an unknown photographer.”
“But, sir, the girl told me that—”
He cut me off with a wave of his hand. “Horace, I’m not interested in a servant’s opinions. I need to think how to take best advantage of this situation.” With that he jumped up, and brimming with energy—unusual for him—he bolted from our rooms.
I went about my business, which was dusting our rooms and checking to see that various photographic chemicals were in go
od supply, camera apparatus clean, and lenses free of oily smudges. I hoped that doing these mundane tasks would calm me, for I could not get Mrs. Von Macht’s unsettling words—nor the girl’s—out of my head.
What troubled me was this: Since nothingness is not a notion that is easily accommodated by a young person’s mind, children often believe there is no complete departure from life. Therefore, a child raised with superstition readily accepts the existence of lingering spirits or, in other words, ghosts.
Not me, of course. In my home we considered such beliefs fairy tales. “Let the dead bury the dead” was something my father said often. He meant it in jest. But he also taught me that as long as no harm was being done, it was polite to tolerate such ignorance.
Here, however, I was confronted with the notion of ghosts as believed by an adult. That made me uneasy. Mr. Middleditch’s response that, to quote him, he would “greatly profit” from the woman’s grief made me even more uncomfortable.
Finally there were the servant’s words: “That is not how Eleanora died!” Had I heard correctly?
When Mr. Middleditch returned, he took me to dinner at O’Tooly’s Oyster and Chop House on lower Broadway. O’Tooly’s was not a place he frequented, for, though only a few cuts above a rum hole, it was expensive. On those rare occasions when Mr. Middleditch went, I usually was not invited.
That night O’Tooly’s was crowded with gentlemen, with a few ladies in attendance. The men, canes or walking sticks in one hand, tankard or shot glass in the other, wore dark suits with buttoned waistcoats along with bowler or top hats. Some had spats on their shoes. Ladies wore long dresses, hats, cheap lace, and jewelry.
Sawdust was on the floor, mirrors shone from the walls, layers of cigar smoke drifted through the air, and the stink of beer, rum, and whiskey irritated my nose. Loud talk and laughter filled my ears: a constant babble of business, politics, women, and horses—in no particular order or interest to me.
After finding us a corner booth, Mr. Middleditch tucked a large white napkin into his collar, ordered drink and oysters for himself, a chop and cider for me.
At first his talk was about New York politics, the doings of Tammany Democrats whom he admired for their ability to manipulate the “riff-raff,” and the radical Republicans whom he despised for their belief in social equality. Then the conversation shifted.
“Now then, young Horace Carpetine,” he began as he dried his mustache with his napkin, “when your esteemed father arranged that you be my apprentice, it was so that I might teach you what are known as the tricks of the trade. Very well; we are about to create a major trick.”
“Trick, sir?” I said. To me the word suggested dishonesty or even deception.
“Mrs. Von Macht is a grieving mother,” Mr. Middleditch went on. “It truly touches my heart.” He laid a hand on his waistcoat as if to prove he had one. “I assure you, Horace, it truly does. But I think we can use it to our advantage.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Horace, the lady desires a photographic portrait to be placed on her beloved daughter’s tomb. Well and good! Spiritualism is quite the rage these days. It’s as if the war dead have come back to haunt us. A woman like Mrs. Von Macht doesn’t want to appear lacking in fashion or sentiment. Society—her kind of society—demands it. What of it? Not so long ago people desired bells attached to the hands of the buried in case they had not died, that they might summon help if prematurely buried. No doubt profitable for bellmakers. No objections from me.
“Business lesson two: In your customers’ folly there is profit.
“Very well,” he went on, “Mrs. Von Macht further wishes the photograph taken in her own rooms. Horace, I went to look at that home of hers. Very large. Nothing could be better. Why? Because, Horace, I distinctly heard the woman say she had painted images of her daughter all about her house. You heard her, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, not following his drift.
“Now,” he continued, “the lady has made it clear that she believes in spirits. How can we put all this together?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, sir.”
“Business lesson three: Be inventive.” Mr. Middleditch sucked down two sopping wet oysters with considerable gusto, wiped his lips, chin, and mustache dry with his much-spotted napkin, cleared his throat, and said, “We shall provide Mrs. Von Macht with her photograph. But Horace, this photograph shall not only be of her, but also of her dear departed girl, or should I say . . . what’s her name?”
“Eleanora.”
“Her dear Eleanora’s ghost.”
“Ghost?” I said, taken by surprise.
“Exactly. I shall make a photograph of that woman, and in that photo there shall also be an image of her daughter—a ghostly image.”
“But . . . sir, there are no such things as . . . ghosts.”
“Horace, you’re either dense or a stiff Puritan! Of course ghosts don’t exist. All nonsense and superstition,” he said with an authority worthy of my father. “I know that. But”—he wagged a pudgy finger at me—“with the magic of photography I shall create a ghost.” He grinned with self-delight. “And she will believe it!”
“But Mr. Middleditch, sir!” I cried. “That would be a terrible thing to do!”
“Well, I don’t know,” he said, pouting. “I intend to make my fortune with just such items.”
“But . . .”
He leaned over the table. “And you, Horace Carpetine, shall have a large part in making it happen. A major part. Naturally you shall share in the rewards, too. Now, eat your chop. I must think it through.”
“But—”
“Horace, attend to your food!”
I looked at him and his fat, smiling face. Though full of discomfort, I did as I was bid.
SEVEN
OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS Mr. Middleditch busied himself with his photographic apparatus with far more energy than usual, but took no time to explain matters further. So it was not until the day before our appointment with Mrs. Von Macht that I learned his plan.
“All right, Master Horace,” he said to me that afternoon, “be a good fellow and sit down.”
He stood before me in the front parlor, a carpet bag at his feet, fairly well rocking back on his heels so that I had to look up at his burly frame and face.
“Horace,” he began, hardly able to suppress a grin, “please attend to me very carefully.”
“I always try to do so, sir.”
“You’ve been after me to allow you to do some picture taking. I am about to give you the opportunity.”
“Oh, thank you, sir!” I said with such eagerness that he now laughed aloud.
“Good!” he continued. “Pay close attention.”
He reached into his carpet bag and pulled out a cloth package, which he unwrapped with care. Inside was a round, flat, brass object about the diameter of a large apple, not more than an inch thick. A leather thong was attached to either side. The face of this object was smooth, save for what looked like a black button in its middle, and above that, a small, protruding tube. On its perimeter was affixed a little brass plate that gave the name and address of the merchant from whom it had been purchased.
Mr. Middleditch held this thing up with such pride and care that it was clear I was supposed to admire it. But all I could say was “What is it?”
“This, Horace, is the Stirn Concealed Vest Camera. German made. Took a while to track it down. Expensive, too.”
“Is it really a camera?”
“This”—he touched the protruding tube—“is the lens, small enough to fit through a buttonhole of your jacket or coat. This”—he touched the central black button—“advances a circular glass photo plate. Each plate allows for six exposures. Here, on the side, is the lever that works the shutter. It’s designed to be concealed beneath a coat, jacket, or waistcoat.”
“But why would we even use such a thing?”
With a triumphant grin he said, “To take photographs—secretl
y.”
“Secretly, sir?”
“Horace,” he cried, “sometimes I forget how young you are. Don’t you recall that I said we would be providing Mrs. Von Macht a ghost photograph?”
“I do, sir. But I was hoping you were not . . .”
“Not what?”
Not having the courage to say I thought he was considering something dishonest, I only mumbled, “I thought that you were . . . just joking.”
“I assure you, I’m deadly serious.” He laughed at his jest. “Now then, pay attention. When we go to the lady’s house, while I am taking her portrait, you will—” He stopped, then began again. “Do you remember her saying there are many images of her daughter about the house?”
“Yes, sir.”
He placed the thong around my neck so that the spy camera hung upon my chest. “You shall use this camera to take photographs of those portraits of the girl—secretly. By combining my photographic portraits of Mrs. Von Macht with your secret photographs of her daughter’s portraits, I shall fashion—with a double exposure—a very fine ghost picture. Or, since I wish to make it high sounding—a spirit image.”
He didn’t have face enough to contain his smirk.
“Won’t she guess?”
“Horace, you know how little people understand the methods by which photographs are made.”
Perhaps my look, mirroring my thoughts, brought him a flicker of unease. “Look here, Horace, I promise I’ll not force Mrs. Von Macht to make any judgments about what she sees. She, for such is her profound sorrow, will come to conclusions entirely on her own. Anyway, this sort of thing works better that way.”
The more he laid out the plot, the more my discomfort grew, until I finally blurted, “But . . . why should you even do it?”
“Because my image will provide her with great comfort. She’ll believe her departed daughter is well and hovering close. Nothing wrong in that, is there?”
“But it’s not—”
“Horace! Is that so very different from what her upstanding minister urges her to believe? Of course, it may well be that Mrs. Von Macht will entertain the notion of more such photos being taken and be willing to pay a handsome price for them. That,” he said with a grin, “shall also be her choice. But my profit.”