The Spirit Photographer Read online

  For yes—it was indeed Jeremiah Gurney, the most celebrated photographer in New York, if not the country, who had come to meet Edward Moody and observe his fantastic “art.” Gurney had brought with him Charles Livermore, of the banking firm of Livermore, Clews, and Company, and Charles Dana, editor of the popular New York Sun. It was Mr. Livermore who sought the portrait, Gurney explained, and whose idea it had been to come to Boston.

  Moody did not need to hear anymore. He knew the name of Livermore, and that Livermore was a Spiritualist. Several years ago the man had lost his wife and believed that she was always with him.

  “We were tenderly attached,” Mr. Livermore confessed, “and that tenderness is what I feel still binds her to me from afar.”

  Then Mr. Dana interjected.

  “Mr. Moody,” he said, “do you consider it within your power to reunite Mr. Livermore with his wife as you have done for so many others—under the constant eye of Mr. Jeremiah Gurney, even allowing him to select the glass?”

  No one had ever dared to ask this of Moody before.

  “Gentlemen,” Moody said, without hesitation, “it would be too great an honor.”

  Upstairs in the gallery, Livermore told Moody more of his story. He spoke of his wife with great affection—how, even in life, she had promised him that she would never leave his side. There were, of course, the fevers—many of them—and Livermore had thought that she’d be strong …

  But none of this really mattered to Moody. He would get Mrs. Livermore’s portrait.

  When the sitting was finished, Moody breathed heavily and leaned upon the camera. He appeared exhausted, so much so that the visitors must have wondered if he would be able to go on.

  “Are you alright, Mr. Moody?” Mr. Dana finally asked.

  With barely a nod, Moody straightened himself, and motioned for the group to follow him into the darkroom.

  “As promised—” he whispered, “I will now expose the rest of my process to your scrutiny.”

  Edward Moody, full of energy, was thrilled to have a newspaperman present. The article from this sitting would describe his greatest triumph yet.

  New York Sun

  New York, New York

  Sunday, February 14, 1869

  A FEW SUNDAYS since, we had the pleasure of visiting the Boston gallery of Mr. Edward Moody, the photographer who professes to take pictures of spirits. The sitter for this spiritual investigation was Mr. Charles Livermore, the Wall Street banker who lost his wife some years hence, and accompanying him, as an observer, Mr. Jeremiah Gurney, whose daguerrean saloon on Broadway many will remember as the first of its kind in this country.

  Upon entering the gallery, which is decorated with some of the finest specimens of Mr. Moody’s art, the photographer, ascertaining the reasoning behind the presence of so many persons, said, “Mr. Gurney, be thorough in your investigations.” He then pointed to the camera, saying, “That is the instrument I propose to use; you are at liberty to take it to pieces.” Mr. Gurney examined it, and said, “That is all right,” before proceeding to select a glass plate, from a group of ten or twelve, at Mr. Moody’s invitation.

  Mr. Moody next permitted a full inspection of his dark room, bath, & c., and then fell to the business of coating the selected plate with collodion, and immersing it in the silver bath. When this was done, Mr. Gurney rested his hand on the edge of the bath, and looked, as though he thought to himself—“I don’t lose sight of this plate from now on.” Mr. Gurney then said: “Mr. Moody, in the best interests of Mr. Livermore, let me see your plate-holder; I have understood there is a false back in it.” Mr. Moody obliged by handing him the holder, which he examined and declared to be “all right.”

  Taking the plate from the silver bath, Mr. Moody then placed it in the holder, handed the whole of it to Mr. Gurney, and led our small congregation to the skylight room. Mr. Moody sat Mr. Livermore close to a window, placed the holder in the camera, raised the slide, and removed the cloth and exposed the plate. Upon conclusion of the exposure, Mr. Moody was much exhausted, but recovered momentarily, stating that it was often thus when the spirit presence was particularly strong. Mr. Gurney, who wore an incredulous smile, remarked, “Mr. Moody, I should be willing to bet on one thing—that you have got Mr. Livermore’s picture.” The photographer answered, “So would I,” to which Mr. Gurney replied: “And I guess that is all.” Mr. Moody smiled briefly and said to the company: “Very likely. I do not get them every time.”

  Mr. Moody then requested that Mr. Gurney remove the holder and carry it to the dark room, which he did. On arriving there Mr. Moody handed him a bottle of developer, with the request that he would develop the negative himself. This Mr. Gurney declined to do, saying, “I would rather you develop it; I am not acquainted with the working of your chemicals, and I might spoil it.” And with marked emphasis he added: “You are not smart enough to put anything on that negative without my detecting it.” Mr. Moody replied that he was well aware of that fact, and then tipped the plate on the flat of his hand, and poured on the developing fluid.

  Soon the likeness of Mr. Livermore appeared, and then another form became apparent, growing plainer and plainer each moment, until a woman appeared, with her arm upon Mr. Livermore’s breast, while Mr. L., watching with wonder-stricken eyes exclaimed:

  “MY GOD! IS IT POSSIBLE!”

  Mr. Livermore then asked Mr. Moody to let him have the negative, with which request, after the process of varnishing, Mr. Moody immediately complied. Mr. Livermore, placing his hand in his pocket, asked, “How much am I to pay?” Mr. Moody told him: “Not a cent—this communion shall be yours with my utmost compliments to you—and to Mr. Gurney.”

  The spirit’s face in the Livermore portrait was perfectly distinct. But even beyond this, there was something inexplicably singular about the likeness of Mrs. Livermore. The spirit had thrown its arm loosely about her husband’s neck, so that its hand, holding a bunch of lilacs, fell gently upon the man’s breast. The spirit looked down lovingly at the sitter, who stared unawares into the camera. The spirit, Moody inwardly boasted, was … alive.

  Charles Livermore returned to New York both satisfied and heart-stricken, so powerful was the reappearance of his wife, and so faithful the spirit image. All who saw the picture agreed that the face, un-blurred and distinct in its reproduction, belonged to Arabella Livermore. “That picture contains in itself a volume of proof of the reality and reliability of spiritual manifestations,” the Banner of Light reported. “In this instance it can be nothing other than true; and if this is true, may not other similar pictures be bona fide?”

  Moody was delighted with the effect of these advertisements—namely, the tremendous increase in traffic to his business. Indeed, it was in response to the article in the New York Sun that the vice president had determined to make his own trip to Boston. Mrs. Lovejoy’s store was soon attracting hundreds of spirit-seekers, and Moody’s gallery became thronged with visitors from all grades of society—the high and the low, the rich and the poor—many of whom had traveled to Washington Street out of idle curiosity. They all came to see him, whether they could afford it or not, and Moody developed into something much more than a celebrity. He was becoming a kind of spiritual leader—someone to whom the grieving could turn when their desire to continue was at its end.

  The crowds gathered, rambunctious, and the first floor of Mrs. Lovejoy’s filled up daily. And on occasion, Edward Moody fashioned the staircase into an impromptu pulpit.

  “And what is there—” he asked the gatherers …

  “What is there that is more important than the life to come? After a man has passed through middle age, he looks forward, at the best, to but a few years of earthly existence, and naturally asks, ‘Is this all of life? Is there a hereafter?’ And as the years roll on, seemingly but little longer than weeks in his youth, bringing him nearer to the solution of this great problem, the question becomes, to him, one of great moment. The anchor to which he has been clinging for safety be
gins to drag; the advance of science demonstrates that the world was not made in a brief period, but has existed for innumerable ages, and where is he drifting? Spiritualism comes to him like a beacon-light to the mariner; and thousands who were tossing wildly about upon the waves of doubt and skepticism are quietly resting under the protective shelter of this beautiful truth.”

  The Banner printed nearly every word that Edward Moody preached in public—yet another thing that merely fueled the fanatical demand for spirit photographs. According to the Banner, one could hear the applause of audiences from afar whenever Moody spoke, even as the “enemies of truth” persisted in their attacks. “Necessity compels me to state,” someone was once reported to have said, “that Mr. Moody, or someone connected with Mrs. Lovejoy’s rooms, has been guilty of deception in palming off, as genuine spirit likenesses, pictures of a person who is now living in this city!” But it seemed that no one in the crowd that day wanted to hear this accusation, and the waiting list for spirit photographs continued to grow without end.

  But there was yet more in store for Edward Moody, even after photographing spirits had become so profitable. Some months before Elizabeth Garrett’s visit to Washington Street, Joseph Winter, a veteran of the 5th Massachusetts Colored Cavalry, appeared at Mrs. Lovejoy’s door. He was handsomely dressed, wearing the bowler hat and checkered waistcoat so popular amongst the working class at that time.

  “You do not recognize me?” Winter said, as Mrs. Lovejoy stared at him from behind her counter.

  “I’m afraid I do not, sir,” Mrs. Lovejoy replied. “Have we met before?”

  “We have, madam,” Winter said. “In this very building. Though it was not under such leisurely circumstances, you might say.”

  Winter eyed her knowingly, and Mrs. Lovejoy returned his gaze. Then her eyes widened, and she moved out from behind the counter to grasp the visitor’s hands.

  “Of course!” she said. “You came through here many years ago—long before the war. I remember. You must forgive me—there were so many poor souls back then. My dear child, how have you been?”

  “I have fared well, Mrs. Lovejoy, thanks to you and the kindness of many others. And I have returned because I have a desire to remain in this city, and so I am seeking employment.”

  “Oh, Mister … ?”

  “Winter, madam. Joseph Winter.”

  “I’m afraid I have nothing for you here, Mr. Winter, as much as it pains me to say. Perhaps one of the colored aid societies might be of some help?”

  “Thank you, madam, but it is Mr. Moody whom I’ve come to see.”

  Mrs. Lovejoy was confounded.

  “You mean—you desire a spirit photograph?”

  “No, Mrs. Lovejoy. I am a Spiritualist, and a maker of spirit photographs myself. I would like to discuss the matter over with him.”

  Mrs. Lovejoy had certainly heard of the many “colored studios” that had surfaced around the country, but she had never heard of anything so revolutionary as a colored spirit photographer. The high price of spirit photographs alone, she thought, would have prevented most negroes from seeking them out.

  “I am happy to introduce you to Mr. Moody,” she said, “but I must warn you that he is intensely private about his art.”

  “I understand,” Winter replied, declining to back down. “But I assure you that Mr. Moody will want to hear what I have to say.”

  Upstairs in the gallery, after Mrs. Lovejoy had left them, Moody eyed Joseph Winter with no little amount of suspicion. The stranger’s dress and demeanor were an obvious distraction. Moody had seen these types before.

  “I have something to show you that I think will be to your interest,” Winter said, pulling a thin leather case from inside his jacket. The case was embossed with serpentine decorations, which had been delicately outlined in gold.

  “A lovely piece of craftsmanship,” Moody said. “I used to make those myself.”

  “The case is my own work,” Winter said.

  “Ah—a leather man?”

  “Yes sir, but more than that.”

  Winter opened the case—a picture holder, Moody now saw—to reveal a spirit photograph of a black man with what was likely his deceased wife standing behind him. The expression, clarity, and positioning of the spirit was magnificent—much better than anything Moody had ever produced himself.

  “This is wondrous,” Moody said.

  “Thank you, sir. Mr. Jones, a merchant from Charleston—and his wife.”

  Moody continued to examine the picture.

  “It’s extraordinary,” he said. “You are a man of great power.”

  “Very likely,” Winter said. “But I do not get them every time.”

  Moody started at the recitation of his own familiar words. So, this man was not about friendly business.

  “There’s more,” Winter said.

  He withdrew, again from his jacket pocket, another picture holder, this one made of flimsier board. Moody opened it.

  “Mrs. Jones,” Winter said. “As she appeared in life.”

  Moody compared the two pictures—the spirit photograph to the living portrait of Mrs. Jones. The faces were identical, and Moody surmised that Winter had used the portrait as the source for the “spirit.” The unevenness of one eyebrow and the curve of the left earlobe were the telltale signs of the duplication.

  “As a man of your training can no doubt see,” Winter said, “I’ve been able to bring that likeness of Mrs. Jones into communion with her husband.”

  “Spiritual communion—” Moody said.

  “There is nothing spiritual whatsoever about it,” Winter replied.

  “Mr. Winter, if you have come here to accuse me of fraud, you are not the first. The enemies of truth are daily at my door!”

  “Please calm yourself, Mr. Moody. I have not come to accuse you of any fraud. Rather, I have come to commend you for it.”

  Winter went on to describe how he had obtained his spirit photograph. The addition of a previously prepared positive on glass, he said, inserted into the plate holder in front of the sensitized negative, allowed him to adjust his “spirit” individually, independent of the sitter’s image. Preparing the positive on a glass slightly smaller than the negative allowed for further—and significantly more refined—adjustments. The success of the method of course depended on the quality of the positive, which, in the case of Mrs. Jones, had been taken from an extraordinary likeness.

  “And this method—” Winter said. “Are you familiar with it, Mr. Moody?”

  “This approach is useless,” Moody replied, though he was indeed familiar with the method. “It takes but one look into the plate holder by a knowing eye to expose the trick for what it is.”

  “True,” Winter said. “But my clientele, being mainly colored folk, do not understand the science enough to question it. I suspect that the majority of your sitters are equally ill-informed, though I have read about the exceptions, and the challenges to your art.”

  Moody re-inspected the stunning image.

  “Even if some of my clientele did know enough to suspect,” Winter continued, “I can’t say that they would want to question the appearances that manifest here. Therein lies the success of the spirit photograph. Surely no one understands that better than you, Mr. Moody.”

  Moody sighed in order to better disaffect the nervousness that was agitating him.

  “What is it that you want from me, Mr. Winter?”

  “I have not come to try to extort you,” Winter replied. “I have only come to suggest …”

  “Yes?”

  “A partnership, as it were.”

  A partnership. The man must have been out of his mind. Men like Moody—and Winter, for that matter—did not take on “partners.”

  “It strikes me,” Winter continued, “that you might do well with an assistant—or an apprentice perhaps, if you would prefer to think of it that way. I have read of your images in the Boston and New York papers. Philadelphia and Washington are quite take
n with you too. The Livermore portrait of last year—that seemed a great triumph.”

  Moody nodded.

  “And the original?” Winter asked.

  The man’s confidence was bewitching. Moody wished that he possessed such confidence. How had this devil acquired such mastery … such artfulness? One needed to be seductive, that much Moody knew. But this Winter man, he was quite—

  “The original?” Winter repeated.

  The spirit photographer hesitated, then said:

  “The original, I had on hand. Mrs. Livermore had come to see me years ago, when I was dabbling at Brady’s in New York.”

  The men stared at each other. There was silence—then a smile.

  “But they were unannounced,” Winter said. “And Gurney—”

  “Gurney doesn’t know half as much as he thinks he knows,” Moody said.

  Winter held up the portrait of Mrs. Jones, which he had taken back from the spirit photographer.

  “It is easier to come by such items as these than you might think,” Winter said. “And it is just as easy to return them—without anyone having noticed they were gone to begin with.”

  Then, reaching his hand into his jacket, Winter pulled out Moody’s pocket watch.

  “How on earth!” Moody exclaimed.

  “It is easier than you might think,” Winter repeated.

  And to reinforce the point, Winter tossed Moody’s own silver money clip over to him.

  “One question for you,” Moody said. “Do you, Mr. Winter, truly believe that the dead are around us?”

  “I do,” the man replied.

  And he locked eyes with Moody.

  “And I also believe that when they finally have their day with you, they’ll not be kind.”

  It was a brazen thing to say, even for a fellow charlatan, but it demonstrated exactly the kind of courage that Moody himself had never quite been able to muster. In that one sentence Moody perceived a threat, but also an opportunity. The man was daring, quick, confident—even ruthless. And his talent was unquestionable. And then there was this matter of stealing and returning pictures of the departed … something Edward Moody had never himself considered.