HE HAD SENT her the letter—a summons.
It was important that she had received it as a summons. When she had entered that first time, he had not been surprised. She was aloof, aristocratic—like one of those fine ladies in the British novels.
Moody had wondered if in that first meeting he had been right to bring up her husband. In Moody’s mind, a successful photograph of Senator Garrett would cause even more of a stir than the vice president’s portrait. Schuyler Colfax had struck Edward Moody as a simpleton, but Senator Garrett was different: he was renowned for his acumen.
It had been a risk, but Moody had taken it. He could see that she was already questioning.
Then he had startled her—into submission almost. This woman who was steeled against even the subtlest flatteries. But it did not make a difference who Mrs. Garrett was, for she had lost something, and that would make her a believer. He did not think about this callously, or with any kind of disrespect. It was simply how it was: there were those who would believe, and those who wouldn’t.
“The photographs—” Moody had offered, “They give us an opportunity to go back …”
He could take her back, as he had taken so many others. It was, after all, what Elizabeth Garrett desired. And why should he not give this sad woman what she longed for? He had helped many hundreds of people reunite with their loved ones, and he would do whatever it took to ensure Mrs. Garrett’s gratification. There would be such sweetness in her eyes when she at last saw her child.
It was a sweetness that Moody himself had tasted, over and over again.
OF COURSE, ELIZABETH Garrett’s visit to the spirit photographer had followed on the heels of a great public debate. Were the ghosts in Edward Moody’s photographs real, or weren’t they? Every newspaper, coffeehouse, and drawing room had been taking part in the argument for years. The “enemies of truth,” as the Spiritualists called them, were of particular concern, for these were the most vocal of the doubters—different from the common prattlers—and they shouted their accusations in every place they could. But Moody did not fear them. He had providential support, and whenever the cry of these enemies grew rampant, Providence seemed to intervene to counter them.
It had happened, so easily, in the case of Samuel Fanshaw, the renowned portrait painter who had come to Moody in search of a likeness of his mother’s ghost. The spirit photographer had obliged, and the next day the man was running about Boston, proclaiming the likeness “more truthful and more accurate than I myself ever painted of her in life.” The Banner of Light, Boston’s leading Spiritualist newspaper, also published Moody’s response to the “miracle.” Mr. Fanshaw’s testimony was so valuable, Moody said, “inasmuch as it disproves what is so often stated by skeptical people—namely, that my pictures are likenesses only when persons imagine them to be so.”
Moody enlarged the Fanshaw portrait and hung it prominently in the gallery.
Soon though, the challenges to Moody’s art intensified, and the editorials took bolder steps in raising the question on everyone’s mind: Could he, Edward Moody, the spirit photographer, produce a spiritual likeness under conditions of strict monitoring, and with another person selecting the glass for the negative? Of course he could. Edward Moody could do anything! He was not afraid of whatever silly contests they might throw his way.
Then one day the three men from New York appeared unannounced, and even Moody’s faith in himself was tested.
They were a strange delegation—Moody recognized none of them—and they spoke to him with their hats on, as if they did not plan to stay. “We were entire strangers to each other,” Moody would later tell the Banner, “this being the first time I had ever encountered any of these gentlemen. I remember every word that passed between us as vividly as though it happened but an hour ago, from the fact that I was confident that I should astound Mr. Gurney, who as everyone knows is one of the great masters of photography.”
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.