4 Len

St. Louis April, 1872

I received occasional invitations to receptions that did not include my daughter, but had always declined them until I was invited to a seance. Ada was delighted with the mysterious summons and was almost as excited as if she would attend herself. “You must go, Mama, and tell me all about it,” she insisted. Bernard too exhorted me to attend, and my son rarely bothered with the movements of me or his sister. Their arguments would not have persuaded me if I had not been intensely curious myself, so I accepted.

Mrs. Boogher was one of my most enthusiastic clients and her parlor was familiar to me. Tonight all my artful window boxes and masses of asparagus ferns were obscured by thick velvet drapes, and her usual set of upholstered chairs was replaced by plain wooden ones, arrayed around a rosewood table. I wore my best-kept dress, in pale lavender with a snowflake ribbon and matching brooch, and my only pair of earrings. I was nervous but reminded myself that visibility among her set would help my family survive.

Our host held herself in high regard, but was indifferent to others’ social status—a rare combination—and as a result her entertainments were known to attract all sorts of guests. Her usual society friends were in attendance that night, but so was Mr. Boogher, who had also invited gentlemen employees of the United States Express Company. He seemed eager to impress his coworkers with a little thrill of the supernatural.

Mrs. Boogher was bustling about, seating her guests around the table, alternating by gender. Upon seeing me, she shouted, “Mrs. Möeller, come here, I have just the place for you!” Mortified, I concentrated on edging my way through the crowd without toppling over any of her expensive bric-a-brac, then sat as directed. To my left was the Reverend Moffit, a well-meaning but humorless man with whom no one could converse for more than a minute before running any topic dry. To my right sat a very young gentleman, ten years my junior, and, I thought at the time, rather tall. Of course in fact Adolphe and I are of a height; that he does not mind my mannish figure is one of the many things I love about him.

I nodded politely to Rev. Moffit, and took the opportunity to switch my attention to the young man before I could get dragged into the dreariest of small talk. There was something in the way the stranger returned my frank appraisal that seemed—well, he did not look at me the way other young bachelors did.

“Good afternoon,” he said. His English was strongly accented but, I would soon learn, as flawless as a native’s. His hair was quite fair, his mustache a bit darker. He wore a dark cravat over a clean white shirt, and had left his suit coat unbuttoned, revealing a finely tailored vest decorated with a chain and pocket watch. I liked how much he clearly cared for his appearance, in that unaffected way he has.

“Hello,” I said. “I’m Mrs. Sara Möeller.”

He nodded smartly. “Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Möeller. I am Adolphe Weiss.”

“How do you do, Mr. Weiss?” I recall I did not even wait for him to answer before adding, “Are you German?”

“I am Austrian,” he replied. I noticed he made only a polite acknowledgement of the pretty young girl on his other side before turning back to me.

Once the guests had been seated, Mrs. Boogher rang a small dinner bell. “I welcome you all to our seance this evening. Many of you I count among my closest friends, while others join us for the first time. Be assured I have carefully selected all sitters to ensure the best manifestations from the Spirit Realm.”

I had not been sure whether this was a serious affair or a winking one, being unacquainted with Mrs. Boogher’s views on the supernatural, so I had come with an open mind and few expectations.

“Tonight’s program is meant to serve as an introduction to those who are unfamiliar with Spiritualism,” she continued. “I am delighted to have with us Miss May Bangs of the Chicago Bangs sisters. Miss Bangs has been making her way across the West to share her gifts. She and her sister first became aware of their Mediumistic powers at age seven, and are able to communicate directly with those on the Spirit Side.”

Miss Bangs sat on the opposite end of the table from me. She was an exceptionally attractive young lady, with an air of modesty despite her apparent renown. Her blonde hair was cut short, with angelic curls, though her eyebrows were black as ebony. While she was slight of stature, her bosom was prominent and her whole figure inclined to embonpoint, a feature which was not lost to most of the men around the table. My new acquaintance, though, gave her no more than a pleasant but bland smile.

“We will first prepare ourselves as a group by establishing a rapport,” Mrs. Boogher went on. “Agreeable conversation will tend to harmonize the minds of those present, and unite them in our common purpose.” She gestured to a young miss of Ada’s age who moved to the piano. “It is well known to all friends of the Spiritual or Harmonial Philosophy that singing is an essential aid in the promotion of this rapport. I have written these lyrics myself, under the influence of a traveling Medium from New York.”

“Oh dear,” I said to myself, and then saw that Mr. Weiss was looking at me with raised eyebrows. “I’m so sorry, I should not have said that out loud,” I whispered.

He leaned over conspiratorially. “Will it be that bad?”

The pianist began to play a brisk and martial tune. “Mrs. Boogher has been very kind to me since I came to St. Louis,” I replied. “But her singing…”

“I recognize this music,” Mr. Weiss said. “It is a naval regimental march I heard performed in London. It is…”—he paused here— “an interesting choice to set a Spiritualist mood.”

I whispered, “She is not a bad singer in all honesty, but the rhymes…” She so vigorously emphasized the end of each line that the lyrics descended into a kind of doggerel.

“Monkey,” Mr. Weiss murmured. I barked out a laugh and then tried to cover it with a cough. All these years later, I still marvel that I did something so wholly out of character.

“Marmalade,” he whispered to me. I could feel his breath on my ear.

I mock-protested: “Mr. Weiss, that did not even rhyme!”

“I panicked,” he admitted.

My eyes had begun watering from the effort of suppressing impolite laughter. I felt flushed and surely looked unlike myself. I chanced a glance around the room and to my relief, no one was taking notice of us. In fact many of the men and women were similarly engaged in private conversation, save for Rev. Moffit and his wan seatmate, a purse-lipped debutante who looked as if she’d rather be lying under a trolley.

“Perhaps, Mr. Weiss,” I said at a normal volume, “you could get me some refreshment from the sideboard? I spy some grapes; they are my favorite.” I tried to settle into a more placid expression but when I met his gaze my mouth involuntarily quirked into a smile. Being both mustachioed and of Germanic temperament, he appeared tranquil and composed, but his eyes twinkled.

“Goats,” he said as he rose, far too loudly.

While he fetched us some fruit and wine I took several deep breaths and stared down at my lap, twirling a handkerchief with some amount of force. I was unaccustomed to being the center of attention, especially attention I was enjoying.

Mr. Weiss encountered a traffic jam at the sideboard, and by the time he had returned the song had come to a welcome conclusion. We applauded politely and I took the barest of sips from my glass after thanking him. “You must think I'm awfully rude,” I said to him quietly. “I honestly have immense gratitude towards our host and my conduct has not put me in the best light.”

“No, it is I who should apologize. I know few people in America and I owe a great deal to Mr. and Mrs. Boogher and their generosity towards foreigners.”

“Then perhaps together we should resolve to behave ourselves with more dignity?” I offered a little toast. “To good conduct?”

“To good conduct!” he agreed, clinking glasses. “Let us change the subject: I’ve been looking forward to seeing the Bangs sisters for some time and anticipate a lively event tonight.”

I was unsure if he was again jesting. “Are you a believer in the paranormal, then?”

“I am, and I mean that truly, as part of our new bond of honesty and good character. I spent several years in London before coming to these shores, and there I often attended events of a Spiritualist nature. I have witnessed many manifestations of mediumship—the levitation of my chair, a shower of white feathers out of nowhere, even a live fish falling out of the ceiling into my lap.” The twinkle in his eye returned again. “Once I felt the warm touch of a spirit herself, to the consternation of her son who sat beside me.”

“It seems you have a fondness for women beyond your age,” I said, and we both looked genuinely shocked at my boldness.

I was saved by Mrs. Boogher, who had rung the bell for our attention again. The guests fell silent. Two servants moved around the room, extinguishing the kerosene lamps and lighting candles in their place. The mood became expectant and I found myself swept up in it. The room darkened until we could barely make out the faces of the guests around the table.

“Thank you, Mrs. Boogher,” said Miss Bangs. “Due to the inexperience of our attendees, we will attempt only the simplest spiritual manifestations. I shall not be floating across the room or speaking in the voice of an ancient priestess of Vesta. Sometimes we uncover hidden resonances between the guests and the Spirit Realm, though, so perhaps one of you will!” She paused for effect, looking at each of us in turn. “Regardless, I promise that if you follow my instructions to the letter, we will together make contact with the other side. Now, take hands with the guests next to you. It is imperative that you do so and that you do not let go at any point during the session.”

Mr. Weiss extended his left hand to hover just above my right. He looked at me with raised eyebrows, seeking permission. I nodded, and his hand settled upon mine. It felt warm and dry, whereas I was sure my palms were clammy and damp. I remember every beat of this interaction like it was yesterday.

Rev. Moffit appeared flustered—it seemed he had reached for the other girl’s hand and been rebuffed and was now unsure what to do. I pretended to not notice him and allowed my left hand to fall to my side and fidget with the hem of my dress.

Miss Bangs pulled her chair away from the table and instructed the guests seated beside her to clasp hands with each other, forming an almost-complete circle around the room.

“Now we will begin,” Miss Bangs said. “We will seek to make contact with spirits via the Law of Sympathy, to find those who are able to communicate between the planes. Often those are the beings who maintain strong bonds of affection and love for those of us in the mortal realm. Are there any here who already feel the presence of a loved one?”

Mrs. Campbell, a wife of a prominent doctor and a woman who I knew to be an avid Spiritualist, volunteered that she detected the smell of lilacs, a fragrance favored by her mother who had passed away this spring. Mrs. Boogher agreed she too could detect a whiff of the scent, though I could smell only the clove and bay rum cologne of Mr. Weiss.

“Very good,” Miss Bangs said, rising from her chair. “Now I must gather spectral fluid from the energy in the room. Continue to hold hands.” She walked around the table behind us, occasionally swaying between the seated figures and making exaggerated gestures that I thought looked a bit ridiculous. I noticed that her fingers tended to linger on the shoulders or collars of the men around the room.

Returning to her original place, she nodded to an assistant, who began to extinguish most of the remaining candles in the room. Even the light from the fireplace was suppressed by an opaque screen. We were in almost total darkness now.

An unseen guitar was suddenly strummed, and then the instrument itself flew over our heads, guided by no visible force, and settled in the middle of the table, its sound still vibrating in the air.

Just when its notes had faded away, a man near Miss Bangs jumped in his seat. “Something touched me!” he cried.

“It is only the spirits that come to greet us,” she said. “Relax into their touch, they will not harm you.”

Now the man to his right exclaimed, “My cigar! It’s gone from my pocket.” He began frantically patting at his jacket until Miss Bangs reproached him for breaking the circle. Rev. Moffit made a second attempt to take my hand, but I swatted him away.

I heard Mr. Weiss let out a guffaw, and when I turned to look at him in the gloom, there was a cigar between his teeth. He pulled it out with his other hand and tossed it across the table to its owner. “Delightful!” he concluded, then pointed. “Hello now, what is that apparition?”

Indeed, I could make out a hazy reddish glow in the air behind Miss Bangs. The illumination was faint and shapeless, but Miss Bangs described it to us: “I see a medium-sized spirit of a gentleman, with a full face, deep blue eyes, and brown hair. His name is Charley… Ingram? Graham? Does anyone know a Charley Graham?”

“I do!” a man called out in the gloom.

“Sadly he recently left this world after a terrible influenza, but he has a message for you…” Miss Bangs said. I think she intended to continue, but I heard another guest mutter nearby, “Last I heard the old fellow had recovered, did he not?” Miss Bangs looked unsure all of a sudden, and gestured to one of her assistants.

We were startled by a loud clapping noise. The gas lights were abruptly raised to full brightness, blinding us. “The spirits have fled!” Miss Bangs cried. “My powers have become exhausted! I thank you all for your open-mindedness and generosity, and wish you a good night.” She and her staff left the parlor through the french doors, taking the now-inert guitar with them.

The room burst into excited chatter. “That was extraordinary, don’t you think?” Mr. Weiss asked me.

“It was quite fun,” I said, in all truth. I was unconvinced that anything supernatural had occurred, but I did not want to seem close-minded. Even if it had just been an entertaining performance, I had enjoyed the diversion, and of course the company.

Participants were rising from their seats and making their way to the refreshments, and beginning to speak of local this-and-that. I did not know how to make small talk and felt out of place. I took the opportunity to slip away and was in the foyer waiting for my coat when Mr. Weiss appeared behind me.

“I enjoyed making your acquaintance this evening,” he said, bowing.

“As did I,” I said. I found myself overcome with shyness now that the spell of the evening had given way to the mundane.

“My job will take me out of St. Louis for some time, but perhaps when I return I may see you again?”

A handsome man of his age should not be wasting his time with a divorced old woman, I thought, though I was only 38 myself.

He noticed my hesitation. “I apologize, Mrs. Möeller. I have already become accustomed to the American way of rushing towards what interests me. Perhaps fate will arrange for us to meet by serendipity?”

“I would like that,” I said. He bid me a good night, and I fled.

In the light of the next morning I decided I had impolitely spurned what was merely a gesture of friendship from a new resident of the city. I hoped I would soon see Mr. Weiss at another social event to apologize, and while I attended more than my usual number of luncheons and lectures that summer, I did not see him, nor did any of our mutual acquaintances mention him. There was a great deal of excitement about the Express company opening up service in Texas so I thought it possible he had been posted there, but was too reticent to ask about him directly.

Instead I busied myself with work and home. We were seeing less and less of Bernard these days, perhaps normal for a boy of sixteen in a big city, but I didn’t like the shifty looks he gave me when I’d ask about his activities. He said he was earning good money doing “odd jobs,” but something about his manner made me suspicious.

When I received another invitation from Mrs. Boogher, I assumed at first it was a Fourth of July luncheon, as every lady in town seemed to be outdoing herself to organize the biggest and most patriotic event. Instead, it was another seance, this one promising to be guided by an even more famous medium by the name of Mrs. Maud Lord, from Wisconsin. She was in great demand (“her name is synonymous with all that is weird and witching”) and the invitation assured me we were lucky to have her grace us with her gifts.

I found Mrs. Boogher’s parlor was decorated much as before, but there was no table this time, just a circle of chairs so close to each other their legs were touching, with only a narrow gap to squeeze through. The woman I presumed to be Mrs. Lord was seated in the center of the circle, and did not exert herself to rise for any attendees or even acknowledge them. She had a sturdy build and serious countenance, with a square masculine face and the dark coloring of a Spaniard.

“Let us hope for fewer songs tonight,” a teasing male voice said behind me.

I turned and greeted him with a blush I did not attempt to hide. “It is good to see you again, Mr. Weiss.” Though we had not been directed to sit yet, we both did so immediately so as to secure seats together.

“Did you travel far on your business trip?” I asked.

“I did, I was assigned to arrange new shipping contracts in New Orleans for the Express.”

“Ah, I’d heard perhaps Texas.”

“You have been asking after me?” he said with a playful smile. In the flickering candlelight he looked even more handsome than I remembered.

“I am a careful listener,” I replied easily. If Ada could have seen her mother flirting this way she would hardly have recognized me.

“Have you seen Mrs. Lord perform before?” he asked.

“I have not.”

“I’ve read she is among the most skilled of the test mediums.” Though I did not know what this meant, I nodded, not wanting to appear ignorant.

Fortunately there was no musical prelude this session. “Welcome all,” Mrs. Boogher announced. “I am pleased to see many who have journeyed with us before returning for another event. You will notice this is a more intimate salon than I have held before. This is because Mrs. Lord prefers to hold her sessions with only the most attuned company. I tried to ensure that our guests tonight would be especially harmonious and companionable.” I swore at this point she gave me a slight wink.

The lights were again dimmed, and our Medium spoke for the first time: “Please hold hands.”

Mr. Weiss and I did so without hesitation. I cannot recall a single thing about the man on my left.

“Now close your eyes, and I would ask the ladies to hum Nearer to God Than Thee along with me.”

“Oh no,” I murmured. I felt Adolphe give my palm the slightest answering squeeze. Our chairs were so close together that our knees were touching. I obligingly began to hum and the effect was quite soporific.

Suddenly there was a great crash of sound. My eyes flew open, and the room was filled with the clamor of a music box. I had not known Mrs. Boogher to have one in this room, but there it was, on a small side table by the doorway and barely visible in the low light. Its crank was spinning freely though there was no one near enough to have been able to wind it up.

Mrs. Lord’s eyes remained closed: “There is a presence among us who loves music as much as we do, but has no voice. They seek to join our company in song through this mechanical device.” Someone blew the last candles out and we were plunged into total darkness.

Without warning I felt a gentle pat on my head. I spun around in my chair, along with many others who had evidently felt similar touches. While they seemed amused, the unexpected contact left me suddenly ill at ease. I tried to relax and enjoy the moment; Mr. Weiss’s steady presence helped.

“The spirits are becoming more vitalized and now seek to contact us by touch. Lest you believe I am the motive force, I will now begin to clap my hands so that you can know that I remain in the center of the circle at all times.”

From everywhere in the room we heard spectral voices. Some were whispers, others were unintelligible grunts. There was ghostly laughter. A dozen low voices were all speaking at once. The voices were calling out our names and the names of the presumed spirits, punctuated by Mrs. Lord’s hypnotic clapping.

One girlish voice, seeming very near to me, said, “I am Emma,” and I started. This was the name of my sister whose death sent my mother into her unbreakable dark cloud.

Out of the darkness I heard Mrs. Lord addressing me. “You are Sara Möeller,” she said.

“Yes,” I answered in a strained whisper.

“Emma was your daughter?”

“My—my sister.”

The girlish voice spoke next, in front of me though I was still nearly blind and could see no one: “Sara, it is I. Do not be afraid.”

I could say nothing but echo her name: “Emma—”

“I have missed you so. I think of you often and the moments we shared together. Do not be sorry for me. I am with our loved ones—they have welcomed me here on the Spirit Side.”

My heart clenched and I felt sick. My sister had not taken a single breath in her short life–we shared no moments. I was being taken for a fool.

“Get away,” I said, and pushed my chair back out of the circle and away from the pretender. I bumped into an unseen someone behind me, who withdrew with an outtake of breath.

Mr. Weiss was naturally unaware of the exact nature of my distress, but he put both hands on mine and held tight. “Mrs. Möeller, I’m here. It’s all right. You’re safe.”

I had begun to panic in the darkness but his presence calmed me. Around us the other guests were still laughing and conversing with their supposed loved ones. I even heard the sound of mothers who had lost their children kissing the air, believing their babe’s spirit was beside them. It seemed like madness to me.

Then the gas lamps were illuminated—gradually this time—and we all returned to ourselves. The circle of chairs was in disarray. Two strangers realized they had been gripping each other and not their beloved dead. Mrs. Lord was fanning herself, telling us she was overheated from the effort of channeling the manifestations.

I still felt disoriented and nauseous, but I saw that I was alone in my distress. Everyone around me was happy. Even Mr. Weiss, who regarded me with concern, could not suppress his own exhilaration.

“I heard a woman speaking in German. It was my mother’s voice. She told me she loved me, and that she was sorry she did not make it to America with me.”

I could not tell this kind man, this handsome stranger who attended me, that he had surely been duped. (Years later I read that our Mrs. Lord had been arrested after assaulting a skeptical attendee. The newspaper said because she was fluent in both French and German, she sought out audiences where that skill would be of use. I threw it into the fire before Adolphe came home from work.)

Instead I said, “I am glad to hear it. And thank you for your kindness, Mr. Weiss, I am not often so easily upset.”

“It was nothing, and please call me Adolphe.”

“Thank you, Mr. Adolphe.” He smiled at that, and I realized that my distress had faded away in the pleasure of his company. “Please call me Sara,” I said.

“Zara,” he agreed. I liked the way my name sounded in his accent and I have never attempted to correct him. Then I said he could call on me, at my home. He broke into a giddy smile, and told me he had never had a night so full of happy surprises.