The Steampunk Trilogy (22 page)

Emily’s heart was nigh to bursting. “Oh, Walt! Is she—is she dead?”

“Far worse! Married!”

Emily was scandalized, yet thrilled.

“We met when I was editor of the
New Orleans Crescent
.
I espied her first at the Theatre d’Orleans, during a performance of Mozart’s
Don Giovanni
.
Succumbing to the loose tropic influence of that southern port, we fell madly in love. Her electric body exhaled a divine nimbus that wrought a fierce attraction in me, and mine likewise to her. Many were our hours of joy.

“But she was a woman of high society, who could not afford the taint of scandal or divorce. It was the supreme wrenching for us when we realized that our love was doomed, and that we must part. She is the only woman I have ever cherished so grandly, or ever shall.”

For some inexplicable reason, Emily grew slightly crestfallen at Whitman’s closing sentence. But not enough to obscure the larger emotions in her bosom. The similarity of Walt’s misfortune to Emily’s own doomed affair placed a final seal on the affection that had been growing half-cloaked in her heart for the sturdy, grizzled poet.

Clutching Walt’s big hand firmly with both of her small ones, Emily said, “You truly know my soul, then, Walt.”

“Emily—I have considered you long before you were born.”

They found a stone bench and sat for a while, side by side in silence.

But as the minutes passed, a small Fly Buzz irritant grew in Emily’s mind, until she finally had to voice it.

“Walt—you used the word ‘morbid’ earlier in connection with my poems—”

“Yes, Emily, I did. For I fear that you are overly preoccupied with death.”

Emily opened her mouth to protest, ready with a catalogue of Death’s supreme importance in the scheme of things, but Walt held up a hand to stop her.

“I know all you are going to say, dear Emily. Rest assured that I too have thought long and hard on death. As glorious as it is to be born, I know it is fully as glorious to die. Were it not for death—and it is surely false to even speak of the two as separate—life itself would be meaningless. Yes, I have heard whispers of heavenly death all my life, in the voice of the waves upon the shore and the querulous call of seabirds. But unlike you, I do not long for death, nor give it more than its due. I am too busy living, too busy indulging my holy senses, to lend death more than a passing nod. While you, dear Emily, seem more intent on hugging Death to you like a lover!”

Emily was incensed. “I holding onto death! Who’s involved in this insane scheme of my brother’s to penetrate the shadows of the afterlife? You, not I!”

Walt stood up. “You do not know the full scope of our expedition to Summerland, Emily. It is not an embrace of death, but a bold scientific assault on its territory, to wrest new knowledge that will benefit all the living.”

Hoisting Emily bodily up with his bull-like strength, Walt said, “Come with me, and you shall see!”

5

“MICROSCOPES ARE PRUDENT IN AN EMERGENCY”

T
HE BACK PARLOR
of The Evergreens had been converted to an impromptu classroom, or general’s briefing post. A large slateboard rested on an artist’s easel, sticks of chalk on its ledge; a lectern and a single capacious armchair stood beside it. Tacked to the wall behind the podium was the large chart Emily had seen flattened out on her earlier visit; resting prominently atop the lectern was one of the queer glass and metal devices which had been holding down the curious map.

Several ladderback chairs had been arrayed before the lectern. In them now sat five eager listeners, chafing slightly under a ten-minute wait: Emily, Walt and Henry Sutton three abreast in that order, with Austin Dickinson and the savant William Crookes behind them.

The whole scene forcefully reminded Emily of her brief schooldays. And inevitably with those precious memories surfaced the glorious figure of Leonard Humphrey.

Humphrey had been four years older than George Gould. As a child, Emily, through her Father’s close connections with the college, had eagerly followed the news of the broad academic swath the bright personable young man had cut. He had seemed to represent to Emily the proudest hopes of a new generation.

Imagine her delight, then, when, upon his graduation in 1846, Humphrey had been appointed principal of Amherst Academy, the coeducational school which sixteen-year-old Emily and thirteen-year-old Vinnie attended.

Through the Academy’s corridors the new principal strode like a veritable combination of Adonis and Socrates, captivating especially all tender feminine sensibilities, Emily’s not excluded. (She had gone so far as to memorize Humphrey’s valedictory speech, “The Morality of States.”) To this day, Emily still regarded Humphrey as her first Tutor, and the memory of those few times when he had stood close beside her still had the power to thrill her.

Humphrey’s unexpected and grim death in 1850, when he had appeared yet in the flower of his manhood, had been a Devastation to Emily and the whole town.

She did not know if it was the presence of another masculine Tutor now by her side, or the deathly topic of the scheduled lecture that made the image of Humphrey stand out almost palpably before her, as if straining soundlessly against the thin membrane separating him from the living. But so did he choose to manifest himself in her inner gaze.

I
never lost as much but twice
—thought Emily, when her musings were interrupted by the voice of the scientist behind her.

“The waste of time is the most damnable thing connected with working with these psychic types,” said Crookes. “I had to contend with the same problem with Home. He’d produce the most remarkable effects—levitation, materializations, voices—but only after hours of boredom, the lot of us sitting in the dark with our sweaty hands linked. It’s a bloody challenge to someone used to the bright light and clean-cut conditions of the la-boor-ratory, I tell you.”

Austin chided his seatmate. “Can’t you be a little more circumspect with your language, Bill? We’ve a lady present—”

Crookes snorted, not so much sneeringly as in admiration. “Me watch my language! Look who your sister’s sitting next to, for Harry’s sake! If she’s read his doggerel, she’s already gotten an earful. ‘Pent-up aching rivers, man-balls and man-root’ indeed! Why, he’s got more gall than Rossetti and his whole gang of libertines put together!”

Emily felt herself blushing. She waited for Whitman to bridle at Crookes’s speech, knowing how she herself would react to any attack on her verse. But the poet merely bent his sun-browned neck, smiled, and said rather cryptically, “I am surrounded by trippers and askers. . . .”

Seeking to divert the subject, Emily turned boldly to face Crookes. “Why do you continue to pursue your unorthodox investigations under such trying circumstances, Mister Crookes?”

“Only because, Miss Dickinson, Spiritualism is the most exciting, far-reaching subject yet to fall under my attentions. Luckily, thanks to my father’s fortune, I am permitted to indulge my curiosity in any fashion I choose, without worrying about earning a living. Otherwise, I’d still be stuck in bloody boring Oxford, as meteorological superintendent of the Radcliffe Observatory. As things stand, however, I’m enabled to travel the globe—and beyond, if we succeed—and to meet such charming young ladies as yourself.”

Before Emily could respond, Henry Sutton spoke up.

“Here they are.”

From a side entrance emerged the awaited duo.

First to appear was Madame Selavy. Her clothing was somewhat disheveled, one of her voluminous skirts rucked up to reveal an edge of her crinolines. Close behind her came A.J. Davis. The austere author and publicist for the Spiritualist cause appeared rather discombobulated, his vest misbuttoned, his glasses askew and his hair mussed.

Madame Selavy plopped down into the armchair set center stage. She tugged her bodice up more securely beneath her overflowing bosom, then blew out a weary breath which, Emily noticed, distinctly fluttered her mustache.

Davis took up position behind the lectern. Seeming to realize his condition for the first time, he smoothed back his hair and straightened his spectacles before addressing the audience.

“Madame Selavy and I have been speaking to the spirits, in connection with our trip. The audience was an arduous and tumultuous one, as there was much interference along the Celestial Telegraph. Luckily, Madame’s spirit guide, the Narragansett Indian Princess, Pink Cloud, was able to ward off all malign influences and deliver assurances of our success.”

Madame Selavy interrupted. “
Oui, mon ami
,
the auspices from Summerland are good. Soon, we shall be permitted to cross the border into the dominion of
le Moissonneur Hideux
.”

For the third time now, Emily had heard mention of this unknown place called “Summerland.” The name conjured up for her only one of those perfect July days she lived for, when she could feel a depth, an Azure, a perfume, transcending ecstasy. She resented the appropriation of the term by someone who was in all likelihood a charlatan who had succeeded in hoodwinking her brother, and resolved to speak up.

“Are you preparing to jump us over our beautiful New England spring straight to the dogdays, Mister Davis? Or perhaps you are merely proposing a trip to warmer latitudes of this sphere? Popocatépetl or Tenerife, perhaps?”

Davis stared hard enough at Emily to succeed in disconcerting her before he replied.

“On the contrary, Miss Dickinson. Summerland is a realm more exotic and perilous, yet offering commensurately greater rewards, than any mortal corner of the globe. And we shall reach it by setting sail directly from Amherst—without, in a sense, even leaving your charming little town.”

Walt turned to Emily. “Please, Emily, listen to him. This is no simple passage to India we are undertaking.”

Davis removed his glasses, polished them, and replaced them. “Allow me, Miss Dickinson, to acquaint you with the history of our mission.

“I am a simple shoemaker’s son, born into humble circumstances in Poughkeepsie, New York. In the year 1843, I underwent my first magnetic trance, and began to speak of things I could not possibly have known, due to my meager formal education. Some kind believers saw fit to christen me the ‘Seer of Poughkeepsie.’ Since then, I have been in nearly constant contact with the spirits of earthly—yea, even unearthly—dead.

“Summerland is what they call their dwelling place.

“Summerland is not paradise, it appears, but rather a temporary stopping place on the way to God’s kingdom, where the spirit may rest before making its final ascent. My discovery, as you can plainly see, provides the whole logic and rationale for spirit contact with our world. We are speaking not to perfected angels, but to recently disincarnate entities who have not quite thrown off their human concerns or shapes.

“The geography of Summerland—which I have managed at some pains to map—bears a resemblance to our common landscape.” Davis picked up a cane pointer which had been concealed within the lectern and turned toward the map on the wall. Gesturing, he said, “Here, for instance, we see the Chrysoprase Mountains, which run parallel to the Tourmaline Sea. Beyond this range lie such features as the Bog of Effluent Humours, the Crystal Forest, the Beryl Palace and the Ten Silver Gates.”

Emily meekly said, “What of the Paris Exposition?”

Her irreverence elicited chuckles from Walt, Sutton and Crookes. Austin, however, was not amused.

“Emily—if you cannot control your tongue, you may leave. I will not have you disparaging my distinguished guests, nor the sacred quest we are about to embark on.”

Hearing the hurt in her brother’s voice, and feeling a renewed tenderness toward him and his grief, Emily made a motion as of buttoning her lip.

Satisfied with the reprimand, Davis resumed his speech.

“Ever since my discovery of this realm, it has been my one desire to visit it bodily, well before my death. I searched fruitlessly for many years for an entrance to Summerland. Just when I was on the point of abandoning my search, I met the illustrious Madame Selavy.”

The medium spoke. “Ah,
mon cher
,
it was
I
who met you!”

“As you wish, Madame. In any case, Madame Selavy represented a great advance over all other mediums I had encountered.

“Madame, you see, is able to act as a physical bridge between Summerland and Earth, by means of a curious new material she exudes.

“At this point, I believe I will let Professor Crookes take over. Professor?”

Crookes and Davis exchanged places. With Oxbridge schoolroom crispness, Crookes began to lecture.

“Madame Selavy is a portal between our world and Summerland. Extensive tests and trials have proven that she possesses the unique ability to serve as a channel for the very stuff of which the spirits and their world appears to be made. I have dubbed this new form of matter ‘ideoplasm.’

“Ideoplasm seems to be a protean substance—partly organic, partly inorganic—heretofore unknown to science. Issuing from the body of our medium, it is susceptible to her thought commands, taking on whatever shape she wills. A hand, a limb, or an entire spirit can be made manifest. And these ideoplastic creations are quite tangible, as I can personally testify.

“Still, however tantalizing this new phenomenon first appeared to me, I could not see how it might offer us direct entrance into Summerland. The ideoplasm issued forth and returned through the channel of our medium, without permitting any mortal object to accompany it.

“This is where science stepped in.”

Crookes now lifted the glassblower’s product from the lectern and held it up for inspection.

“This is my latest invention, which I modestly call a ‘Crookes tube.’ Through its evacuated interior an electric current can be made to flow, from the cathode at one end to the anode at the other.

“When this tube is filled with ideoplasm—captured and detached from Madame Selavy—and activated, a most startling thing happens.

“The tube and its contents, as well as any objects within a certain radius, disappear! It is as if, under the electric shock, the ideoplasm is forcibly ejected from our plane, dragging with it a certain amount of earthly detritus.

“The spirits have told us that they have seen the tubes and their wrack rematerialize in Summerland.”

Crookes smiled smugly. “I will now restore the platform to Mister Davis.”

When Davis stood again before them, he said, “Our world is in point for point contiguity with Summerland. Here in Amherst, for instance, your familiar grassy Common is, on the other side, coexistent with Summerland’s Bay of Seven Souls.

“It is from here that we shall set sail for the afterlife!

“Even as we sit here, a wagon is on its way from the McKay Shipyards in East Boston, bearing a specially designed schooner. After our vessel arrives, we will fit it out with a circuit of ideoplastic Crookes tubes, which we have been filling slowly day by day. Thus outfitted, we will breach the barrier between the worlds, in a voyage more daring than Jason’s!”

Out of respect for Austin’s dementia, Emily had sat silently throughout this farrago of science and mysticism, despite her rising indignation. Now, however, she could no long restrain herself.

“And how, pray tell, does Madame ‘exude’ this celestial quince jelly?”

Davis assumed a flustered look and began to polish his lenses once more. Walt gazed toward the ceiling and young Sutton began insouciantly to whistle. Crookes crossed his legs and folded his arms across his chest. For half a minute, the room was as silent as a meeting of the Know-Nothings.

Then the medium herself spoke.

“It is from the
mamelles
,
dear sister of Austin. The bounteous tits.”

To illustrate, Madame Selavy cupped her large breasts. “It is a kind of spiritual milk, which, with help, I can squeeze out, plip-plop.”

Emily was speechless. The most obscene pictures filled her churning mind.
The Brain has Corridors surpassing those of the most haunted Abbey
—

Walt coughed, shattering her inner absorption.

“Mad filaments and ungovernable shoots,” said the poet, “play out of the female form, and our response is likewise ungovernable.”

“Ungovernable,” said Emily, “my foot!”