(Thus The Beast—the delineation of which, it quite sickens me to write; and would have an equivalent effect, I am certain, upon any normal personage, of either sex. But I am obliged to continue, in accordance with my authorial responsibilities, confident that God will absolve me of any inadvertent sin, in the process of transcription, as He has given me the task to begin with—to justify the eccentric ways of man, in our great century, to God Himself.)
The transformation of a romantic, however adulterous, love episode, into an episode of such baffling quality, would have been disorienting enough, in a man of fewer years; in Mr. Twain, who, you may remember was nearing his sixties, and suffered moreover from rheumatism, and gout, and various dyspeptic ailments, augmented upon this occasion by the heavy dinner of oysters, pork, crêpes suzette, and other delicacies, including many alcoholic spirits, the effect was severe: I am only glad that it was not catastrophic, in bringing about a fatal attack of angina pectoris, in that rank, adulterous bed, for think of the grief, and the horrific humiliation, to poor Livy Clemens, dwelling in all wifely innocence, in the invalided state, in Paris!
But Fortune, tho’ grimacing, did smile upon Mr. Twain, who, tho’ so frightened that his teeth chattered, and his blood ran cold, and his heart thundered, yet did not die, or even faint with terror: a testament, doubtless, to his rough bucolic childhood, and his frontier experience. Malvinia poked, and slapped, and pinched, and jabbed, and tugged at his hair and mustache, and scratched at his face, and, cursing and laughing the while, like a veritable demon, yanked at his masculine organ of regeneration!—but the astonished gentleman had now gathered his wits sufficiently, and what remained of his strength, to defend himself, and to finally extricate himself: and, gasping and wheezing and sobbing, he crawled from that bed of bestial extremities, to flee, naked as a newborn babe, out of the bedchamber—and through the candlelit outer room—and into the plush-carpeted corridor, where gas lamps in gilded niches cast their somnolent glow upon his hobbling and piteous figure—
And thus to safety!
And to a generous remainder of years, sixteen in all, doubtless informed, and refined, by this humbling and chastising experience, as to the hazards that await the faithless husband, straying from the ordained marital bed.
(Mr. Mark Twain did flee to safety, from the heinous embrace of The Beast: but also, I am afraid, to extreme embarrassment, in regard to those members of the hotel staff who were on duty at that suspect hour, and to the management of the Hotel Nicklaus in general, who, tho’ respecting the renowned author’s literary works, did not stint in spreading malicious and amusing tales about this peculiar episode. I cannot, however, bring myself to follow his fleeing naked form any farther, down the corridor, but must close a door upon him, so to speak, and remain with the grunting, cursing, pulsing, palpitating Malvinia Morloch, now on hands and knees in the damp tangled bedclothes, dazed and ferocious as a tigress—her prey having escaped.)
Yet even her protesting voice, her wailing lament, partook of The Beast’s unmistakable tones, as in baffled outrage she cried: “I know not what has happened, or why—it is not my doing!—not mine! Mr. Twain, I command you, return!—at once, return!—it is not my doing, and I own it not!—I own it not, do you hear!—villains!—blackguards!—I am innocent!—do you hear!”
SIXTY
It was but a scant fortnight later, at the very end of January, that Miss Malvinia Morloch precipitated much buzzing discussion amongst the theatergoing public, and the Broadway savants, by fleeing from the stage of the Fanshawe, in one of the opening scenes of She Loved Him Dearly: her dead-white complexion, and the inelegant haste of her flight, lending credence to the theory that the celebrated actress had been o’ercome by a morbid seizure of some kind. It was advanced by some that a “tragic disappointment” in love had cleaved her heart; by others, that her “well-known predilection” for alcoholic spirits was responsible.
Miss Morloch not only ran stricken from the stage, leaving her fellow thespians, and the audience, quite astounded—she ran from the playhouse as well, pushing aside all restraining arms, and, so far as anyone knew, from the very city itself!
Unprecedented behavior, in so exceptionally professional an actress, and quite inexplicable: for no letter of explanation or apology was received by anyone at the Fanshawe, nor did any journalists discover motives, amongst the numerous acquaintances and associates of the popular actress whom they interviewed. A disastrous love affair—an alcoholic crisis of some kind—a neurasthenic collapse—a sudden breakdown of that audacious confidence which those in the acting profession require, simply to exhibit themselves before an audience: many were the theories, as tongues freely and maliciously wagged, but no one, not even Miss Morloch’s fellow actors, could lay claim to any certainty.
Could they have known that whisperings of “The Beast! The Beast!” drove the wretched young woman from the stage, and had, indeed, pursued her for many hellish nights, since the shameful episode in the Hotel Nicklaus, they would surely have been astonished—yet no more enlightened.
AND SO IT was, that Miss Malvinia Morloch disappeared, leaving no trace behind, that might help to explain her whereabouts, or the uncanny mystery of her behavior. Speculations were rife, and would have the distraught woman drowned in the river, having committed the sacrilege of suicide; or hidden away in a mental asylum, or a Catholic convent; or simply fled, in abject humiliation, into obscurity.
And whence she has fled, it is to be hoped that, sinner tho’ she be, that hideous imprecation, “The Beast! The Beast” does not attend her!
SIXTY-ONE
In the turbulent decade following that historic evening in Gramercy Park, Deirdre of the Shadows acquired an international reputation as a “seeress,” and, no doubt, a considerable fortune as well: as a consequence of both her talent and the ruthless determination of her ambition.
The general decline of public interest—indeed, public credulousness—in Spiritualism, noted in the latter half of the Eighties, and unmistakable in the Nineties, might be attributed in part to a reawakened comprehension, in Christian men and women, as to the inviolable truth of that religion; or to the numerous revelations of fraud, amongst the Spiritualist seers and mediums. Yet this decline affected only those with mediocre gifts, or no gifts at all, and such acclaimed practitioners as Deirdre of the Shadows continued to thrive, being sought after by as multitudinous a number of clients, as the great Home himself—perhaps by more, for, where Daniel Dunglas Home assumed that smirking sardonicism toward his talents and his clients, oft noted in the effeminate male, and gravely insulting to those of normal persuasions, Deirdre comported herself impeccably in public, behaving very like as one might expect a young woman to behave, who was under the spell, and, indeed, in the selfless service of, Spirit World. She was meek; docile; possessed of an increasingly ascetic, and beauteous, countenance; her voice a feathery whisper, her lovely dark eyes never bold, her movements sombre and studied and wondrously graceful—so that many amongst her impressionable clients spoke of her as an “angel emissary,” ordained by God Himself to help bring about a revolution in human awareness, as to the fluidity of the barrier betwixt the two worlds! A blasphemous claim I can scarce record, without trembling to the roots of my being.
To her credit, Deirdre never publicly acknowledged such assertions, and took care, indeed, to behave in a suitably modest manner. She did very little, save to surrender herself as a vessel so that the spirits of the deceased might approach the living, and speak. “It is not I,” she said quietly, “but the others: our friends in Spirit World who, through their kindness, and their infinite wisdom, make all things possible.”
Yet I do not attribute it solely to sheer spiteful resentment, the remark made by the unhappy son, of one of Deirdre’s clients (who had gifted her with an invaluable emerald bracelet, in a transport of ecstatic gratitude), that, tho’ the “spirits” were attributed with all the virtue, and performed so tirelessly, they were not being paid: nay, not a pitta
nce of the medium’s exorbitant fee! Tho’ the Society’s investigation of Deirdre of the Shadows had tragic consequences for several gentlemen, and brought untold grief upon their loving families, it served to point up a moral, hitherto rigorously observed in the better Spiritualist circles, that one must never tempt the spirits to “prove” themselves. And it brought about the considerable beneficence, for the young medium, of the Society’s invitation to join its august group: an imprimatur withheld from all but two previously examined American mediums, both of the masculine gender. “And now, do you see, how very mistaken you were, Madame!”—thus Deirdre murmured to herself, as she stood, triumphant, and alone, with the delectably gratifying letter in her hand.
ONE MELLIFLUOUS DAY in late spring, when the greenery of Gramercy Park fairly pulsed with tender life, and it would have required a considerable—and a considerably morbid!—imagination, to summon forth the horrors of that memorable evening, Deirdre had a most eccentric interview with Dr. Stoughton, in the Society’s headquarters. That upstanding young physician had now assumed the mantle of the presidency of the New York branch of the Society, and, it may have been, the responsibility of his office, as well as the doubtless pleasurable authority it involved, led him to invite Deirdre to the handsome brownstone building, where he spoke with her of the membership’s unanimous vote that her mediumship be affirmed; and that she be granted the honor of membership to the Society.
Whereupon Deirdre naturally thanked him, but continued, with an air of maidenly puzzlement: “I accept your invitation, with gratitude—nay, with a sense of profound humility. For, despite the ‘talent’ of which you and your associates are so kind as to speak, I know myself but a means by which the spirits address the living, and do very little of my own volition, save prepare myself, by releasing myself!”
Young Dr. Stoughton, in whom a sensitivity of manner was subtly tempered with that stolidity of masculine authority, which makes those of the healing profession so very like ministers of God, paused but a moment, and said then, these words that Deirdre was not to forget for many years: “Deirdre—for such I am obliged to call you, and I hope you do not mind!—my dear Deirdre, it is perhaps a grave infraction of my professional duties at this time, and no doubt offensive to you, but I feel I must speak openly, and frankly, and, indeed, warmly, like a brother, and not like one with the queer power of ‘licensing’ you: I must open my heart, and tell you that, in my personal, as opposed to my professional, judgment, you would do well to abandon your career as a medium: for it is not one suited for any young lady, and not one, if I may be so bold as to assert, suited for you.”
Deirdre slightly recoiled from these unexpected words, and so great was her astonishment, her customary mask of meek, resigned, and ofttimes ecstatic serenity gave way, of a sudden, to an expression of near-indefinable complexity: alarm, and anger, and defiance, and childlike curiosity, tumultuously admixed.
“Dr. Stoughton, your words are most peculiar indeed,” she said forthrightly, “and I really must acknowledge that they do offend. That the Spiritualist profession is not suited for any young lady, is hardly a premise I grant; yet I find it more presumable, than your impertinent statement that it is not suited for me.”
Dr. Stoughton bent his gaze upon her, with a look of profound contemplation and searching inquiry, his manly brown eyes narrowing, but for a half-second, at the petite damsel’s response. (For the gentleman was accustom’d, I would imagine, to frightened feminine submission, and acquiescence in all matters, in his professional practice.) He then said, in a seriousness that was informed by some humility, and with a small grave smile of his handsome lips: “My dear Deirdre, I risked offense by speaking so boldly, and yet I cannot regret it: for I was gripped upon awaking this morning—nay, upon the very first sight of you, some weeks ago—with an altogether queer, and yet not unpleasant, sense of my being an instrument, a means, a vessel, a medium, if you will!—entrusted with the utterly simple obligation of informing you all that I have said, and more, if you will condescend to hear.”
Deirdre made a faint motion, as if to arise; but sank back in her chair, quite pale, save for a feeble rosy glow about her cheeks. “Dr. Stoughton,” she said, “you honor me by this interest: yet I cannot agree with your assessment, that it is not unpleasant. I find it very odd indeed, stemming from one of your professional caliber, and entrusted, as you are, with the presidency of your Society—the unfortunate Dr. Dodd being, I have gathered, now retired.”
“You may indeed find it odd, Deirdre,” Dr. Stoughton said, speaking always with a studied and delicate formality, as he pronounced her name (for he could not address her as “Miss Deirdre,” nor as “Deirdre of the Shadows”—an abominable appellation, I have always thought), “but no less odd than I find it. Yet I hardly exaggerate my conviction that I alone have been entrusted with this advice: believing, as I have reason to, that those with whom you are associated at present, and those with whom you have been associated, until very recently (I refer of course to the notorious Countess Blavatsky), would not offer it to you, their interest in your career having the weight of a decided investment.”
“I scarce comprehend your language, Dr. Stoughton,” Deirdre said palely, “but pray continue: I would not interrupt.”
“My meaning is, I hope, not obscured by any ambiguity in my motives,” Dr. Stoughton said, as a singularly painful expression passed over his countenance, “for I, as the new President of the Society, am obliged to welcome you into our midst, and to invite you to any and all occasions—whether of a professional, or a social, nature—the Society has cause to sponsor; and it would be contrary to my own interest, as it is to the Society’s, to suggest that you put all this behind you, and retire to another mode of life altogether.”
Faint mocking laughter sounded, as indistinct as thunder erupting a great distance away, beneath the earthly horizon: the laughter of Zachariah, it may have been: but it shaded at once into Deirdre’s own, in which she indulged but for a moment or two, her pale countenance betraying no mirth. “That I have been chosen from birth, and consequently will-less, is as much an aspect of my being, Dr. Stoughton, as these hands—and this face—and this hair—and this physiognomical curiosity called a widow’s peak,” she said in a low breathless voice. “So, should it interest a gentleman of the scientific profession, like yourself, the experiment of defining myself against, or in opposition to, my very nature, would not only result in disaster: but would, I believe, be an impossibility. The terms of my contract on the earthly plane are such that, I would not be here, in this very chair, had I not this particular being—the which, I gather, you find so very disagreeable.”
“Not at all, Miss Deirdre—I mean, Deirdre—not at all, not at all,” the startl’d gentleman stammered, as, continuing to gaze upon her face, he seemed near-o’ercome with the brave insolence of her eyes, in which myriad fiery rays, of a possibly preternatural origin, converged into a burning focus. “You are hardly disagreeable, in any of your selves; you simply could not be so! I refer, instead, tho’ dismayed of the difficulty I am having, in making my meaning clear, only to your professional employment of yourself, in Spiritualist circles, under the moral and worldly guidance of no guardian, whom I am able to discern at the present time—that is what my clumsy words sought to express, and that is all.”
“Yet it is a great deal, sir,” Deirdre said with a semblance of calm.
Rising suddenly from his chair, and beginning to pace about, as if in inordinate anxiety, Dr. Stoughton murmured almost brokenly: “My conviction is, I alone am obliged to offer you succor. And yet, if you do not wish it—! And yet, if I am mistaken—! It would be, I fear, an unforgivable transgression on my part, the more intensified, perhaps, by my professional qualifications, and my subsequent pretensions to wisdom. For, clearly, you are one of the most gifted ‘mediums’ of all time, as well as being, I hardly need inform you, without parallel in this country, at this time; and why should you not employ yourself, as you wish? Why should
you not be swept up in the frenzy of others’ demands, so long as they constitute a reasonable—I should think it a most reasonable—means of livelihood? Ah, I know not! I know not!” the distraught young man said, his face now ashen pale, and his eyes snatching at Deirdre’s, as if to measure the degree of her revulsion. “That I imagine myself entrusted with any sort of mission, however well intentioned, is perhaps as much a self-delusion as—as—” And here, in grave embarrassment, Dr. Stoughton paused; and swallowed; having made such a blunder (for of course our keen-witted young lady knew precisely what he meant—her sensitivity being natural as well as supranatural), that he scarce could continue, but leaned back against the book-filled shelves of his office, and, for a brief spell, gave himself up to a posture rather more suitable for a common derelict, of the kind, alas! now glimpsed so frequently on the streets of our metropolis, than for a physician and scientist, of the highest reputation. His handsome face colored; and colored more deeply; and he said, now in a more discreetly restrained voice, “The entire phenomenon of self-deception is not one I can bring up, at the present time; for our subject is another, and far more significant. Deception is provocative enough a subject, and rarely, I think, truly understood, but self-deception—alas! A veritable cornucopia of riddles, each with its own distinctive flavor, or poison,” he said, now smiling abash’dly; and making, even, an attempt to laugh, as if to dispel the unmistakably strange—indeed, uncanny—atmosphere, that had begun to pervade the room, in the past few minutes. (An atmosphere, I hazard to guess, that was hardly alleviated by a near-inaudible continuation of that low mocking laughter, nor by a queer, scarcely perceptible flickering of the gas lights: tho’, if Dr. Stoughton looked resolutely about him, and listened with assiduous concentration, he could discover nothing amiss.) “Deception—self-deception—no, I shall not tread upon that precarious ground, for I am unduly distressing you, or, it may be, angering you—and unwisely too!—ah yes!—unwisely!—as the wretched Eglinton would now attest and the others—unwisely, unwisely,” he nervously said, coloring yet more deeply, and with a shy intensification of that abash’d, and even boyish, smile, which he bent upon the solemn young lady.