Clemens, I noticed, was somewhat put off by this business, fumbling about his pockets for a match with which to light his cigar, even when there was a lit candle before him. I heard him muttering to himself: “Now, where is that thing?” and “Where are you?” as if to distract himself from the importance of what he refused, in his godless way, to believe. Livy, on the other hand, seemed raptly engaged: I cannot say if it was Frederic’s eloquence that held her so, but she, rising above her timidity, said, “Please do go on.”
“I am often asked,” he said, “if there is anything to divination. Consider crystal balls, for example — they cost but a few shillings and can be ordered through a catalog. Most people use them as handsome paperweights, yet there are professional mediums who have explored their practical effects: I have heard of — indeed witnessed — a medium staring into such a crystal until a faint pink and gaseous light seemed to form inside of it; from this will be divined some event, some foretelling of a distant simultaneous or future happening. But what is this act? It is the idea of it that matters most. The scientific explanation is that the peculiar effect upon the optic nerve provokes to activity some latent clairvoyant function of the brain, but the crystal itself is not a necessity. We’ve seen such practices in pagan rites and find instances of them in the Old Testament: A cup, a mirror, or a blot of ink can be used, as they do in India and Egypt. The Africans use a bowl of water. Any shining surface — a pond, or even the very surface of a river when it is caught in a certain light — will do. In such instances the mind enters into a receptive state, receiving, if the practitioner is skilled, signals — mind you, many of them are false; that is, erroneously or incompletely constituted or falsely and purposely misconstrued by the medium — but when they are accurate, and many successful transmissions have been noted, there is only one explanation: they are real. The scientific exploration of such matters is one of the things we do at the Society for Psychical Research; it is our mission to get at the heart of that reality, difficult as it can be in an age of skepticism.”
“And you truly believe in such things?” asked Mrs. Clemens.
“I do; and should you need assistance in any way,” Mr. Myers said, “we will be glad to offer it.”
Mr. Clemens, having listened with impatience, then asked: “Well, then, Mr. Myers, if I may ask, aside from so-called communications with the other world, just what do you seek to gain from such information?”
“Contact with the other realm, which goes against all logic and scientific reasoning, is reaclass="underline" In our mechanistic age, few have the gift. But as to your question, well, the answer, in a word, is hope. And not just for an individual but also for the world at large. We believe that science, with all its practical benefits, especially in the realm of medicine, comes with a price — which is the deadening of the human spirit.”
Having brought in our little toddler, Denzil, then nearly two and anxious to run about, Stanley had been standing by the dining room door for some minutes, taking in these words. Denzil, in breaking away from his father’s hand, ran over to Clemens, hurtling himself onto his lap. Clemens said, “Well, now, dear boy, perhaps you need a more comforting lap.” And with that he stood up and carried our son over to Livy, who held him tenderly.
Then Stanley, with whom I had had my differences over the subject of the spirit world, said: “Frederic, thank you for your enlightening talk about an unsolvable mystery. You would surely like Africa, where such things are taken for granted, but if I may, I would like to take the opportunity to raise a toast to my friend Mr. Samuel Clemens and his gracious family.”
WE HAD DESSERT, then as we reassembled in the parlor for after-dinner brandies, I offered to show Clemens the portrait I was making of him. Because many of our guests were leaving, we waited awhile, then I took Clemens and his family into my studio. With Stanley by my side, and with Clemens waiting somewhat patiently, I withdrew the velvet covering my canvas on its easel. It was an oil study, some twelve inches by sixteen inches, that I had begun the year before, though more work was needed. Looking it over, Clemens said, “I look younger in it. Seems I’ve turned into a gargoyle in the meantime.”
“You are as refined-looking a man as I have ever seen. Are you pleased?”
“As much as my worn-out self can be.”
But his daughters were delighted.
“What do you think?” I asked Livy. She hardly seemed to look at it or any of my other paintings. As she moved about my studio, it was as if she were moving through a room packed with heavy drapes.
“It looks like him. I like it,” she finally said.
WHILE WE WERE SAYING OUR FAREWELLS in the foyer, Samuel took me aside.
“Do you remember, Dolly, when I told you once about the ‘little commuter’ in my head?”
“Of course.”
“I told you how he waits and waits for that train. Well, since Susy died, when that man gets on the train and enters the car, I always see the back of a female head sitting in one of the seats — before Susy died, the car was empty. So I move up the aisle, and when I go to take a look, the head turns, and it’s Susy. She always recognizes me and says, ‘Papa.’ What do you make of that?”
“I don’t know, but she must surely love you.”
June 7, 1897
Dear Stanley,
Thank you for the delicious and welcoming time at your house. And thank you and Mrs. Stanley so much for the wonderful presents. A curious thing: In a private moment, I fell into further conversation about the psychic world with your brother-in-law, Frederic; and since he (like everyone else in the world, apparently) knew about our tragedy, he kindly made the suggestion that we, as a comfort, look into the medium business, and he recommended several to us, as well as a Hindu palmist of some great reputation. I should say that his professorial manner and the great weight of his learning make all the otherworldly stuff sound credible. I liked him — his kind and intelligent eyes give him something of an air of a vicar, and I can see why your wife is so attached to him. He made a good enough impression on Livy at dinner. Just hearing him hold forth about “spirit molecules” and “transmissions” and “ethers,” as if he were describing well-known facts, is very soothing. My conjecture is that if you are around enough people who believe in the same thing, it seems to be so.
In any event, Livy came away from your party feeling enchanted — not just by your family’s warmth and cheer but also by the hope of “contacting” Susy. She is so bent on finding proof of an afterlife — what with her mother and now Susy gone — that even my most cynical side is rooting for that nebulous cause: Though it doesn’t make all that much sense to me, she wants to pursue this foolishness, and I am willing to oblige her for the sake of easing her mind. But I take no great stock in the afterlife, and in any case I cannot really buy into all the business of “telepathy” and the transfer of thoughts, etc. Granted, Livy and I upon occasion have seemed to have had the same thoughts at the same time — this Myers ascribes to telepathy and “transmissions,” electrical charges that can be plucked from the air — yet I am pretty sure that in our case, any semblance of similar thinking no doubt owes more to the fact that we have been like a pair of bookends wrapped around the same activities, people, and travels for most of the past twenty-five years. (You know she is my first reader and my strongest editor and that she combs over my every word, much to my texts’ betterment.) Anyway, I am not sure if it will be worth doing, but we are going to visit one of these spiritualists for the sake of diversion: Will you and Mrs. Stanley come? We will attempt to breach the unseen bridge at some point, and who the heck knows what there might be awaiting us?