Newport: A Novel (27 page)
Authors: Jill Morrow
An Essay: The Lure of the Séance
Meet Jill Morrow
Photo by Joe Portolano
JILL MORROW
has enjoyed a wide spectrum of careers, from practicing law to singing with local bands. She holds a bachelor’s degree in history from Towson University and a JD from the University of Baltimore School of Law. The author of
Angel Cafe
and
The Open Channel
, she lives in Baltimore.
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An Essay: The Lure of the Séance
O
NCE, MANY YEARS AGO
, I attended a séance. The medium, Mrs. B, had since childhood been talking to people nobody else could see. In her eighties when I met her, she’d been a minister in the Spiritualist church for years. Turns out she was part of a long tradition.
The modern American Spiritualist movement dates back to 1848, when the Fox sisters of upstate New York convinced the world that the mysterious raps heard in answer to their many questions were responses from unseen spirits. Of course, people throughout the ages had longed to cross the borders to the afterlife, if only to know more about what awaited them beyond death. But with the evangelical Second Great Awakening challenging traditional Calvinist beliefs, the mid-nineteenth century offered particularly fertile ground for an emotional religious revival that spawned trance lecturers and camp meetings. More than ever there were séances, meetings where people gathered to receive messages from the spirit world delivered through a medium who claimed to be in touch with the dead.
Anyone could make money as a medium, and anyone did. Séances and readings proliferated as newly minted mediums—usually women—contacted the spirit world via spirit guides (discarnate entities relied upon for
spiritual guidance) or the deceased themselves. But alongside those willing to believe sat the skeptics. It was easy enough to expose fraud. Close observation revealed levitating objects suspended by string and tables tilted by nothing more “spirited” than the medium’s knee. Supernatural “manifestations” by spirit guides turned out to be dolls, while plaster casts served as “materialized” ghostly hands. Yet after even the Fox sisters admitted in 1888 that their spirit rapping had been the result of cracking toe joints, people continued to believe. By the turn of the twentieth century, Spiritualism had more than eight million followers in the United States and Europe. And despite the movement’s glaring lack of credibility, there was more to come.
As the 1920s dawned, the world struggled to recover from the one-two punch of the Great War and the 1918 influenza pandemic. Nearly 120,000 Americans died in World War I. The flu surpassed that figure, sweeping across the landscape in 1918–1919 and taking approximately 500,000 to 675,000 American souls with it. Almost everyone lost someone dear to them, taken suddenly and with little warning. Not surprisingly, Spiritualism experienced a new surge of popularity as, fueled by sorrow and desperation, people flocked to séance tables in search of closure.
As before, fraudulent practices flourished. Mediums continued to
glean their information about the deceased from the words and descriptions of those trying to contact them. There was ectoplasm made of butter, muslin, gauze, chewed paper, or sheep’s lung. Materialized spirits (including Woodrow Wilson and King Ferdinand of Bulgaria) turned out to be cut-out faces clipped from magazines. Spirit photography—photographs of living sitters with images of their beloved deceased floating around them—was revealed to be nothing more than double exposures. The deceptions seemed so clumsy and obvious, yet still people flocked to séance tables, longing for answers and comfort that traditional religion and modern science could not provide.
Mrs. B’s “circles of enlightenment” were held at her home, in a room set aside as a chapel. A little altar with a cross atop it sat on one side of the room; Mrs. B identified herself as a devout Christian. Instead of the expected round table, there was a circle of chairs. Spirit pictures—pastel portraits of Mrs. B’s spirit guides—lined the walls. Quartz crystals and religious artifacts were set on side tables, while bookshelves held Bibles, metaphysical books, and Spiritualist pamphlets. The air was dense, as if walking to one’s seat involved passing through several sets of velvet curtains.
Six of us settled into our chairs. Mrs. B reached for the light switch. As total darkness settled around us, she
asked if anybody in the room saw “anyone.” Nobody did. She herself saw points of light, which she identified as spirits. She received information from several spirit guides who had been with her for decades. Frequently she spoke in one-size-fits-all generalities that invited personalized interpretation. Some of her pronouncements seemed like obvious follow-up statements to information gleaned from a participant’s question. Nothing “appeared,” thank heavens: no ectoplasm, thumps, or unusual noises announced otherworldly guests.
I started wondering if anyone else in the room had noticed that, except for changes in hairstyle and clothing, all the spirit pictures on the wall looked exactly the same. And did anyone really believe that the beautiful rose quartz necklace Mrs. B wore had been materialized long ago as a gift from a spirit guide?
Mrs. B thoroughly believed in her own ability to communicate with spirits and didn’t care whether other people thought her legitimate or not. Neither did the couple she comforted with words from their deceased teenage son. Nor did the woman who had come that evening to ask her late husband for a little guidance about where he’d left his will. Mrs. B listened to a voice none of us could hear and repeated what she heard. I later learned that, based on that information, the woman did indeed locate the will.
Perhaps this is the fundamental reason why belief in Spiritualism
continues. For each uncovered act of fraud, there are stories that cannot be explained in logical terms.
Our world moves forward in a steady flow of scientific and medical advances. Technology allows us to be in nearly constant contact with each other, no matter where on (or off ) the planet we may be. But despite these changes, people today experience the same curiosity and emptiness as did those so willing to believe the Fox sisters back in 1848 or to once again touch the loved ones lost in the Great War.
For those who yearn for something “more,” Spiritualism will always offer hope.
The Four Hundred: An Aspirant Inquires
The Four Hundred? What exactly is that?
Oh, my dear. You don’t know? It’s only the annual list of New York City’s social elite. The crème de la crème of society. It’s . . . well, who’s in and who’s out. It’s everyone who’s anyone.
How did it start?
If you have to ask, then you probably aren’t on the list.
The list was started by
the
Mrs. Astor. (I shall require my smelling salts if you ask which one. It’s Mrs. William Backhouse Astor Jr., of course.) Mrs. Astor—the former Caroline Webster Schermerhorn—is the perfect gatekeeper of old money and tradition. She’s not only an Astor through marriage, she’s descended from New York City’s original Dutch settlers. But the Four Hundred isn’t her work alone. It’s actually the notion of her protégé, Samuel Ward McAllister.
Please, dear, close your mouth. No need to advertise your ignorance.
Ward McAllister arrived in New York City from Savannah, Georgia, in 1872. Using his wife’s wealth (he married an heiress) and his own family connections (he is a distant cousin by marriage of Mrs. Astor), he crowned himself the expert in all things related to high society.
How is the list compiled?
You must understand that Mrs. Astor acts only for the good of society (and perhaps her own social standing). Since the end of the War of the Rebellion, there are entirely too many new millionaires crawling around New York. (You didn’t hear it from me, dear, but some of them are worth more than, well, Mrs. Astor.) Still, the nouveau riche can be so vulgar. Just because one has a fortune does not ensure acceptance by the fashionable elite.
Mr. McAllister once declared that amongst the wealthy families of New York City, there are only about four hundred who matter in society. He devised a plan to appoint twenty-five “patriarchs” chosen from the New York Knickerbocracy. Each of those patriarchs would then select four ladies and five gentlemen (of pure bloodlines, of course) to receive invitations to Mrs. Astor’s famed Patriarchs’ Ball. The list of invitees, compiled in the winter season and kept absolutely secret, forms the society guest list for the New York social season.
(Well, it wouldn’t do to let
everybody
in, dear. Besides, we’ve left a bit of room for important people, visiting dignitaries, and a handful of debutantes.)
Mrs. Astor wants only the cream. Are you perhaps descended from an old merchant family that can trace its lineage back to colonial New Amsterdam? No? Hmm. Pity.
What good is this list of Four Hundred? Why should I want to be on it?
I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, dear.
Do you ever want to attend another society party or ball in New York City again? Mrs. Astor’s Patriarchs’ Ball launches the social season! Once invited, you are assured a year’s worth of invitations to other balls and events given by the patriarchs. (Even then you’ll be vetted to make sure you remain worthy of the next round of invitations.)
But not so fast . . . You can’t attend
any
Astor event unless you receive a calling card from
the
Mrs. Astor herself, and I wouldn’t count on that unless she deems you worthy of the Four Hundred.
Who’s already on the list?
As the
New York Times
noted in 1880, “The [Patriarchs’] society . . . was originally founded for the purpose of giving social entertainments of undoubted tone and exclusiveness . . .” It should be abundantly clear that those selected as patriarchs must be leaders, both socially and financially.
The names may vary somewhat from year to year, but one is always safe expecting to see Messrs. Belmont, Schuyler, Howland, Kane, Schermerhorn, Livingston, Forbes, Bliss, Rutherford, Winthrop, Irving, Stuyvesant. You may also expect Mr. Royal Phelps, William
Butler Duncan, William R. Travers, Archibald Gracie King, and William Langdon Jr.
By the way, dear, pay no attention to the fact that the list actually falls short of four hundred names. Nobody cares.
What if I’m not in?
You probably aren’t. The push to be included is simply crushing. You wouldn’t believe the gambits people employ to join our ranks!
Or perhaps you would. Lean in closer, dear. I’ll tell you of a manipulation that worked.
I’m sure you know that the Vanderbilts were exactly what Mrs. Astor
didn’t
have in mind for the Four Hundred. They are out and about in New York, of course, but, my dear, they have
earned
their money rather than inherited it. And Cornelius Vanderbilt . . . so uncouth. Mrs. Astor refused to call on anyone in the family, which meant they simply hadn’t arrived. Cornelius’s granddaughter-in-law, Alva, refused to accept the snub. She built a magnificent mansion at Fifth and Fifty-Second, then planned an opulent costume ball as a housewarming for it. She invited the press in to admire the extravagant party preparations, thus ensuring enough publicity that everyone wanted an invitation. Then . . . she did not invite Mrs. Astor’s daughter! Inquiries, of course, were made. Alva said (regretfully!) that proper etiquette did
not allow her to invite strangers who had never called upon her socially. Mrs. Astor had no choice; she dropped off her visiting card at the Vanderbilts’ new home, thus formally acknowledging them as socially acceptable. Young Caroline Astor got her invitation, and Alva Vanderbilt broke into the Four Hundred.
So, dear, there you have it. Good luck. I’m sure you’ll find something to do should you fall short this year . . . some dreary little party or other, perhaps, or a dismal dinner filled with others who are not quite up to snuff. Chin up. There will be . . . something.
And do let me know how you fare so that I’ll know if I’m ever to call upon you again.