New York December 1880
In those days, St. Louis was a young city, constantly expanding. There was always a new building or bridge being erected, with steam earth-movers shifting mustard-colored clay and sinking pylons into riverbeds. Features I recalled from years back– even the cliff-like rise of the great Indian mound to the north–had been cut down and flattened to make way for the railroad or streetcar. What had remained whispering bluestem prairie for an age would soon be absorbed into the metropolis.
Manhattan, though, was an old city by American standards, now clamoring to build up and over itself. Modern construction jostled for room on that already crowded island, with some buildings judged obsolete before completion. City blocks were snaggletooth rows of one-storey wood-framed shops sandwiched between tall stone spires framed by catwalks. Signs assaulted the senses, painted on every wall and carved on every lintel: “Equitable Life Building”, “Knickerbocker Trust and Exchange,” “The Daily Graphics Office.”
All of this I saw from the window of a private carriage that collected me directly in front of Grand Central Depot. The carriage driver came alone and delivered to Ada and Chauncey’s new townhouse in Manhattanville. They owned a pristine red brick building with symmetrical rows of generously-sized windows, a broad brownstone stoop, and a flat mansard roof. It was modern and practical, very like Chauncey himself.
Ada greeted me in her foyer and apologized for not meeting me at the station: ”Chan wouldn’t hear of it—he hardly lets me out of the house.” She was expecting her third child, due in several months. She looked me over with as much concern I had for her, a sure sign that my daughter had grown to be a woman and I was entering old age. “Mama, you must be exhausted after your journey. Shall I take you directly to your room?”
Consumed entirely with missing her, I waved this off. We went instead to her chamber where I found young Wilson.
"Hello, Grandmama," he said politely. With a nod from his mother, he came forward, and gave me a quick hug, then withdrew, his expression all business. The boy took after his father.
Marie, the nursemaid, came in and scooped him up for his nap, followed by Mary, the Crosbys’ housemaid, who asked about the seating for dinner. (Chauncey never failed to mix up the poor girls’ names.) Then the carriage driver peeked in to tell me my luggage awaited me in my room. With such a large household staff I wondered whether I would even be needed here, especially when I observed how adeptly Ada handled all the commotion, assertive like a born general.
The fall weather had turned cool already, so she wore a light woolen tea gown, loose-fitting with minimal trimmings, in pale yellow—she always favors the light colors I love too. Once the servants were shooed away, I pulled her into a grateful embrace. “Mama!” she protested, then relaxed into it.
To my practiced eye, Ada looked lovely but fatigued. “How are you feeling, my love?” I asked, releasing her once I felt I’d embarrassed her enough.
“I’m well,” she answered. “Just easily tired. I’m glad you’re here through my confinement.” At that moment we were both thinking of her first child, the son she named George Weiss in her stepfather’s honor. His birth had been difficult and fraught with complications, and I knew she worried that some failing as a mother had doomed him to a short life.
“I’ll make sure everything goes smoothly,” I replied. After much hectoring on my part, Chauncey agreed to hire a nurse to be on call for the remainder of Ada’s term, which did much for my peace of mind but little for my relationship with my son-in-law.
Otherwise, the weeks passed agreeably and I was pleased to spend time with my grandson. Adolphe had supplied me with curious toys from Japan he thought the boy might enjoy—an wooden goldfish on wheels, a jack-in-the-box contraption in the form of a rooster, and, to Ada’s great regret, a firecracker that could be fired again and again with a loud pop which the boy deployed strategically to maximally startle his victim.
On afternoons when I did have time to myself I called on the nurse Chauncey had engaged. She looked exactly as one might hope: humorless but competent, with an old-fashioned tight bun and middle part that assured a worried parent she did not have too much fun.
I interrogated her at length about Ada’s previous delivery troubles and what we might expect this time around. (I have little memory of my own births, lost as they are to those dark years.) I learned a great deal before wearing out the nurse’s patience. She even lent me some books on midwifery and obstetrics.
I found the illustrated manuals especially valuable, and spent many hours in my room studying the drawings of the womb, including those where the baby was breech or otherwise incorrectly oriented. This was how Ada’s first child had presented during her labor—not truly breech, but not positioned to emerge without aid. Poor George had suffered from lack of oxygen for too long, the nurse explained; this left him with weak lungs and a vulnerability to pneumonia. If there was any fault to assign, she said, it was the accoucher’s, not his mother’s.
Again and again I asked how she would handle things if that scenario replayed itself. She showed me, using some unsettlingly realistic models, how she could rotate the baby while it was still in its mother. She also reminded me that she was quite experienced in these matters and that I should not worry overmuch.
I did not think for a moment that this information would be useful for me; I did this as a way of coping with my nerves. I did not want to burden Ada so I said nothing to her about these visits, and told her that I was visiting the library, reading the newspapers from out west to stay abreast of news from home.
Several years later, in March of ’91, I would receive a letter from Mr. William Kelsoe, then a young journalist and now a newspaperman of great reknown. He had an interest in theosophy and spiritualism, and through our Society had heard the story I am about to relate to you. In his letter, he pressed me to write down the events in detail so he could corroborate it with others who were present with me in New York.
I was reluctant to dig myself further into this lie—this family legend of what happened during Ada’s accouchement—but I felt I had no choice. Adolphe assured me he would not be disappointed if I did not further publicize it, but I knew that he and Ada both cherished this evidence that our family was blessed by the intercession of a benign spirit. Besides, I told myself, it harmed no one to believe.
I will tell this story here to you twice. First you will find, word for word, what I related to Mr. Kelsoe. Then I reveal to you the truth of it, which I have kept buried beneath the lie, because I did not want my daughter to know how close she had come to death.
(As told first to Mr. Kelsoe.)
It was late in the month of that very cold winter, and my daughter was expecting very soon. Despite the reassurances of the nurse, my unease was growing with each passing day. Worse, Chauncey insisted that only his favored physician, Doctor Ranney, would attend his wife, and the doctor resided far downtown.
On Friday January 21st I had the fateful dream. You have surely heard this part, and it is accurate:
I dreamt that Ada went into labor during a terrible winter storm; that the doctor could not be reached; that the nurse was useless with terror; and that I alone delivered the baby. In my dream, Chauncey arrived soon after the birth with a young doctor who examined the baby and pronounced that all was well. For some reason, I was fixated on the doctor’s flamboyant cravat, coral silk embroidered with blue flowers.
That morning over breakfast I relayed the dream to Ada because I thought it would reassure her. I described the cravat in special detail because it was the most vivid part of the dream, but treated the whole thing as curiosity. Chauncey came in just as I finished my story and Ada began to immediately re-tell it, unintentionally embellishing a bit and mixing up some of the details.
Chauncey listened to his wife with only partial attention while he spread marmalade on his toast. “Well, it’s a good thing we have you, Mrs. Weiss, in case of emergency. I’m told the telegraph lines are in a terrible state due to the sleet we had overnight.”
Peevishly, I replied, “Then I wish you could arrange some way for us to get word to you quickly while you are at work. What are we to do if Ada needs the doctor and you’re unreachable?”
If I irritated him, he did not show it. “To satisfy you, Mrs. Weiss, I’ll write a telegram for the doctor and leave it with instructions at the Western Union district office on Lexington. And if the lines are out of order, they will send a boy to me and I will dispatch the doctor myself.”
Ada said, “Thank you, dear, that is a relief,” and I could think of no more reasonable option myself, so I let the matter drop.
Tuesday morning I awoke to find the city glistening with ice from another overnight storm. Neither Ada nor Chauncey were at breakfast—he had gone to the office, and my daughter was still abed. I barged into her room to find her awake, covered in sweat and with a look of panic on her face. “The baby is coming,” she said. All night she had felt the early pangs of delivery, but she hadn’t wanted to disturb the household too soon. Now the pains were becoming unbearable and she was afraid.
I marched downstairs and sent the housemaid to the district telegram office as Chauncey had arranged. “If the lines are down, tell them to send anyone they can to get him; this is an emergency. On your way back, fetch the nurse.”
Several dreadful hours passed while Ada progressed to true labor, and agonized through her pains with no one to attend us. Then things went from bad to worse. A substitute nurse arrived and told us our experienced one had been called to a different emergency. This new girl was barely more than a teenager and had never acted as an accoucher or even attended a birth. She hovered at the corner of Ada’s bed, murmuring and fretting. “I know as little about this as you and you don’t hear me carrying on!” I exclaimed with exasperation. The girl began to cry, and then soon Ada with her.
At last, I heard Chauncey's voice on the stairs. “Devil take it! What is going on in my house?” At the sound of her husband’s anger, Ada began to cry even more forcefully.
He burst into the room and went straight to his wife’s side. “Addie my love, please, be still. I am here now.”
Though I appreciated his consideration for her, his reassurances were empty if he came alone. “Where is he?” I demanded.
Chauncey looked at me blankly. “Where is who?”
“Oh Chan, for heaven’s sake, the doctor! She may give birth at any moment.”
“I haven’t been able to reach him,” he said hoarsely. “All the lines are down.”
“Then go door to door until you find another one,” I said. He did not move and I thought I might have to push him out bodily, but he managed to collect himself, kiss Ada on the forehead, and then rush away.
Ada sobbed when he left and looked at me in terror. “Oh Mama, what shall we do?”
(As told first to Mr. Kelsoe.) Then came a feeling that I should be glad to have explained to me. In that moment, a sense of calm came over me, and I felt only what a very coolly rational and experienced doctor might feel.
I reminded myself that I had been through difficult childbirth too, among hostile strangers no less, and had produced this strong and beautiful young woman. I had prepared myself both intellectually and emotionally. I could see us through this crisis if I remained calm.
“Ada,” I said, “don’t be afraid. I know just what to do. All will go well.”
She looked at me with wary surprise. “If you are not afraid, Mama, I won’t be.”
I grasped her hand just as another contraction hit her and she cried out again. This was the breaking point for our nurse, who became panic-stricken and ran from the room. I grunted with exasperation. “My daughter, I’ll be right back,” I said, and went after the girl.
I retrieved the sobbing young woman and, in a manner wholly foreign to me, directed her in how to assist me.
The crisis had sharpened my senses and I found that I could perfectly recall every detail I had learned about obstetrics from the nurse. It was as if I had been born into that profession. I retrieved the hysterical young woman and directed her to get fresh water, strong thread, whatever morphine was in the house, and every kind of clean rag or towel she could find. I tied two towels to the bedpost to give Ada something to pull on during her contractions.
I acted not as loving mother but as experienced medical practitioner.
Between pushes there was some fluid and bleeding and other unpleasantness, which I cleaned thoroughly while Ada rested until the next contraction. The nursemaid Marie hovered in the doorway, and I had the presence of mind to put her to work too, charging her with changing the bedding as needed.
I do not deem it proper or necessary to go into details; suffice it to say that I succeeded perfectly, although there were complications which might have resulted in serious difficulty without this guiding intervention.
I could see the crown of the baby’s head emerging farther with each cycle. “All is going well, Addie,” I said, over and over again.
At last, the crown of the head stopped receding when she relaxed, and I perceived that it was time for her to give the greatest effort. “Push hard,” I said, and she did, and I am sure she screamed at that point but I heard nothing, just placed my hands below her until the delicate head had slid fully into my palms. Then the baby stopped.
Ada sobbed with relief for only a moment until another wave hit her; this time it was the nurse who urged her on. One shoulder became visible, but after several pushes I determined that the other was stuck in an unnatural position. The baby’s face began to turn an alarming shade of blue.
This was the complication I had prepared for, though. With complete calm I rotated the shoulder with one finger while pushing gently on Ada’s body where the nurse had shown me. I felt the shoulder slide out and barely had enough time to reposition myself before, with a great gushing of fluid, the entire baby rushed into my outstretched arms.
I felt all my equanimity vanish and I stumbled. The nurse came to my aid and she did what was necessary to clean me and the child. Wilson’s nursemaid hurried in on cue and removed the wet bedding and the india-rubber sheet beneath it, while I placed the baby in Ada’s arms and the nurse gave my daughter some tincture of opium.
At long last we heard Chauncey on the stairs again, bounding up two steps at a time with a young man in tow. He took in the quiet repose of the room with such a comical look of surprise that I laughed. Ada’s eyes fluttered open and fixed on her husband. “You have a daughter,” she said, dreamily.
For some reason he frowned and looked at me. I was sitting down in the corner of the room, though I don’t remember how I got there. Every part of me was trembling as I wondered if I was about to faint.
Meanwhile, the young stranger announced that his name was Dr. White, and began to examine Ada and the newborn. “Everyone seems to be quite all right. Was there any complication?”
The nursed replied, “Only for a moment.”
“I see. Very well done, then,” Dr. White said to her, but the nurse shook her head. “It was all Mrs. Weiss,” she replied.
I staggered over to my daughter’s bed and lay down beside her. The doctor was eyeing me with great curiosity now.
I asked him, “Why Doctor, we have met before but I do not recall where!”
I said to him, "It was nothing, Dr. White. A very ordinary birth.”
Ada plucked at my sleeve. “Mama, look at the doctor’s cravat.”
I knew at once he was the man whom I saw in my dream, and then realized that all the occurrences of the past six hours were a complete fulfilment of the dream.
This Dr. White did wear a brightly colored and fashionable tie, but it did not look anything like the one I had described to Ada, and while I had indeed dreamt of a complicated labor, I had been practicing for that very thing for many weeks.
I could not say this, however. Ada would be distraught, and Chauncey would be affronted by his mother-in-law’s lack of faith in his care.
“Why, doctor, it seems we have met before,” I said lightly.
“Do you live here in New York?” With a smile he added, “I dare say I could use your help in my practice.”
“Forgive me,” I said with some weariness. “I was subjecting you to a family joke.”
Ada, always stubborn, remained animated. “Some guiding power was warning you about the ice storm, and it then came to your aid today. How else would you have been able to assist as you did?”
“You need to rest, my love,” I chided her. I did not want her to think about how fragile her body was—how this could have been the end for her or her child. If I had only known how persistent this narrative would be for the rest of my life, I would have positively dissuaded her from her belief right then and there, but I was tired and wanted to let the matter drop.
I was yearning to sleep but just then the missing Dr. Ranney came hurrying in. “I had been called to Brooklyn, and the ice was so heavy that the return boat was delayed,” he said, addressing Chauncey.
The younger doctor recounted in rapid, jargon-heavy detail what had transpired. The older man turned to me and scowled. “You acted as accoucher? With no training?”
“My mother was guided by a foreseeing intelligence,” Ada said matter-of-factly.
“I don’t know what that means. A doctor should have been here.”
“I could not agree more,” I said.
Ada sighed dreamily. “I think we should call her Claire, don’t you, Chan?”
“The mother will have to be examined further,” Dr. Ranney insisted.
“Right now my daughter needs to rest,” I said. “As do we all.”
Chauncey moved to see him out. We heard Dr. Ranney from the stairwell. “I will return tomorrow as I am not satisfied with what I have seen here.” I could not make out Chauncey’s reply.
“What a horrible man,” I said, turning back to my daughter, but she was already asleep. I stroked hair away from her damp forehead, and regarded you—my granddaughter—who still squirmed in your mother’s arms.
Claire, I put my hand on your forehead and whispered to you until you too were sleeping. “Loha̤û vrāimēon, Gentolēna̤,” I said to you. Welcome, little beloved one.
I telegraphed Adolphe to let him know the good news. Of the specifics I said only, “Had interesting dream.”
I also wrote to my dear friend Alberton; he had a pragmatic perspective on life that I had come to rely on. In my letter to him I confided how I had allayed my worries about the delivery, and how fortunate it was that I did: “I’ve learned that even a perfunctory knowledge of midwifery can be life-saving.”
After some weeks it was clear that you and Ada were well, and Chauncey was anxious to have his mother-in-law return home. When I got back to St. Louis, I learned that Ada had written to Adolphe with her own version of the story, with much supernatural embellishment. Once again I passed up an opportunity to set the record straight; it seemed unimportant now and Adolphe relished the discovery that he’d married a clairvoyant.
His mood was further lifted by a promotion at the Express company. I would attribute this solely to his honest diligence, but it was also due to his connections at the Spiritualist Association. (Our little society was much in the papers those days, though not always in the best light—Mr. Moses Hull of the staged apparition had recently engaged in a debate with a clergyman so heated it ended with fisticuffs on both sides.)
As a result, that summer we were able to move into a better set of rooms—our first true private apartment, with hot and cold running water and an upgraded view of Missouri Park, a pretty little square fronting fashionable Lucas Place and its marble sidewalks. The park was planted densely with pin oak and sycamore saplings, more trees than I had seen in all of St. Louis. I enjoyed many a late afternoon sketching them from my window.
We held Association meetings in the basement of Howard’s Hall, and the agenda of these was typical of any social club—reviewing the finances, confirming speakers for upcoming lyceum, resolving trivial disputes over bylaws. On this day soon after my trip I expected much the same, but was instead met by a hushed quiet when Adolphe and I entered.
“They have all heard about your extraordinary manifestation of Mediumship,” my husband explained.
Mrs. Boogher accosted me first, resplendent as usual in one of her exceptionally tailored violet princess-line dresses. Her hat was trimmed with a spray of iridescent blackbird plumes which almost brushed the low ceiling of the room. “When we met, I sensed at once there was a powerful vital energy in you,” she asserted. To a friend she added, “I introduced the two of them, you know.”
“So you often remind us,” I murmured to my husband. Adolphe replied smoothly, “Of course we could not be more grateful!”
Our group was joined by Mr. Beckwith, our society president, in an exuberant mood. “Your husband’s account of your experience was quite vivid, Mrs. Weiss. I don’t believe I’ve heard of the Spirits commanding our physical organism so completely. Is it true your consciousness was in abeyance throughout the entire event?”
“I cannot say, I replied carefully. “It is like attempting to revive a poorly-remembered dream.”
“But you are certain you were under Spirit control,” he mused. It was not a question. He exchanged a knowing look with Mrs. Boogher and then said, “As you may have heard, Mrs. Weiss, the Association is looking to appoint its first slate of women officers once all of us have exhausted our terms.”
I turned with some surprise to Adolphe, who had not in fact mentioned this. “You won’t continue as vice-president, dear?”
He made one of his little shrugs. “So many of the most talented Mediums are women; it seems only fair.”
“And if we have an exceptionally spiritualized woman among our group—” Mr. Beckwith said. He let the sentence dangle there.
“Me?” I exclaimed.
Mrs. Boogher sniffed. “I would be a boon to the organization, of course, but I already have too many responsibilities.”
“There will be a vote, naturally,” Mr. Beckwith added.
Adolphe laughed. “Yes, dear, you can always hope to lose.”
Exasperated, I called on Alberton, whose engraving studio was not far from our home. In the years since we’d first met, he’d become a good-looking and prosperous businessman with an adoring young wife. He received me gratefully, as he now spent most of his days dealing with suppliers and invoices rather than the creative work he enjoyed.
“What am I going to do?” I cried, collapsing into a chair. I told him the whole preposterous series of events. “I only wanted Ada to be spared my worries and to not to fear childbirth. By the time I returned home, she had convinced Adolphe I had some kind of paranormal assistant, and now Adolphe has told everyone at the Association. He would be a laughingstock if I recanted. It’s all gotten so out of hand!”
He thought for a long time before speaking, as was his custom. “I don’t think you have much choice but to go along with it now.”
“Alberton! That would make me a liar!”
“It’s a little late for that, Sara!”
I choked back a laugh. He continued, “You’ve told me you share many of the values of the Spiritualists, if not their beliefs. Could you not bend the organization to your will, even a little? I think you would make a formidable leader.”
I sighed. “My life is already so much more full than I had thought it could be, I struggle to imagine I deserve any more.”
He chuckled. “My friend, you surely have faults, but a lack of imagination is not among them.”
When I got home, Adolphe had already departed for one of his evening gymnastics sessions—the funny German exercises promoted by his local Turnvereine. He had left behind a wry note and a final vote count. “My condolences,” he had written. I had been elected president of the First Spiritualist Association.