“What do you say, Sam?” said McPhee, again rubbing his palms together. The mannerism was beginning to annoy me, though perhaps the old cardplayer needed to do something with his hands. “I’ll reserve seats for the four of you—the missus and the little lady, and Mr. Wentworth here. That’s four free passes—no charge, none at all. Are you game?” He beamed at us, as if only a fool would turn down such a generous offer.
Mrs. Clemens looked at her husband, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I can’t see any harm in accepting the invitation,” she ventured.
Mr. Clemens sat scowling at his now empty glass. “No harm other than lending my name and reputation to one of Slippery Ed’s schemes,” he said at last. “I can see the newspapers: ‘Mark Twain Attends a Séance!’ in eighty-point type. I don’t want to give you that kind of implicit endorsement—you or any other medium.” As he said this, he pointed directly at Martha McPhee, whose tranquil face belied any notion that his tirade might apply to her. I thought he was about to continue, but then his daughter’s dejected expression caught his eye, and he paused.
Seeing her father hesitate, Susy seized the opportunity. “Please, Father, I think we should go. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to hear the spirits talk.” She went over to his fireside chair and put her hand on his shoulder, a look of hope upon her face, and Mr. Clemens was lost. As I had observed during the few days since my arrival, both he and his wife were concerned with Susy’s low spirits.
“Damnation,” he said, under his breath, but all his resistance was gone. He turned back to Martha. “I’ll come to your meeting. But only if you guarantee you won’t use my attendance to promote your schemes in any way, and that I’m free to write whatever I want about the whole mess—or to write nothing at all. I’m not going to shill for you, and I want you to understand that if I see anything that looks like trickery, I’ll expose it without hesitation.” He slapped his hand on the arm of the chair to punctuate this point.
Martha’s face never changed. “Why, Mr. Clemens, I would certainly never expect you to compromise yourself. I think I can undertake to promise—for myself and for Edward—that we will make no representation of any sort concerning your attendance at our sitting. As I told you, I have no idea what, if anything, will occur tomorrow night, so of course I cannot anticipate what you will think of it. But I would hardly expect you to write anything contrary to your principles, and even less to keep silent about something you thought dishonest. I have read your books, you know.” She smiled and shook her head at him, as if addressing her marks to a slightly dull schoolboy.
“Well, maybe you have,” said Mr. Clemens. He looked at his wife, who smiled, then up at Susy, who positively beamed. Finally he looked at me. “You know these two, Wentworth. They’d play Barnum himself for a sucker. Is there any reason to think they wouldn’t try to hoodwink me?”
I looked at Martha and Slippery Ed, sitting next to one another on the long davenport, then turned to Mr. Clemens. “Quite frankly, sir, I don’t think Mr. McPhee would hesitate one moment to try to deceive you, if he thought it was to his advantage.” McPhee bristled, but I held up my hand and continued. “On the other hand, I don’t think he has much chance of succeeding.”
Mr. Clemens chuckled. “You give me too much credit, Wentworth—not that I entirely object, but it’s not what I hired you for. Still, maybe you’re right. And maybe it’s even possible that Slippery Ed’s turned over a new leaf—it wouldn’t be the first time I’d been surprised. Well, if Livy and Susy want to go see this séance with their own eyes, I reckon they’ll need a couple of gentlemen to escort them. But I warn you, Ed—if I see a single word in the papers, or anywhere else, that looks as if you’re trying to exploit my name and reputation, I’ll write an expose that’ll make you wish you’d never learned to read.”
“Why, Sam, I wish you’d learn to forgive and forget—” began McPhee.
“I can forgive—that’s no problem,” said Mr. Clemens. “But a man who forgets a deliberate injury is nothing but a fool. And London may have its share of fools, but Samuel Langhorne Clemens ain’t one of ’em. I remember the old days on the river—the time you got kicked off the Natchez for dealing bottoms, the time you jumped off a boat in midstream to get away from all the boys that wanted to tar and feather you, the times they threw you in the hoosegow in Vicksburg, and Memphis, and Napoleon, and St. Louis . . . There’s stories enough to keep my typewriter rolling for a good long time, with nothing but simon-pure truth for fuel. One more thing—if I see one word about my wife or daughter, I’ll make you wish I’d cut off your face the minute you stuck it in my front door.”
“There won’t be no need for that, Sam,” said McPhee, glumly. “I know how to respect a lady as much as the next man.”
“Then are we agreed?” said Martha, clapping her hands together. “You will all be there tomorrow night?” She was the picture of delighted innocence; she might as well have been planning a picnic in the park. Whatever my reservations about her “gift,” it was hard to deny her talent—she rivaled any actress I had seen.
“We shall be there,” said Mrs. Clemens. “Is there anything we should bring with us?”
“Not unless you wish to attempt communication with some particular spirit,” said Martha. “Then I suggest you bring some object—preferably metal—which the person owned or used. A ring or a brooch, perhaps, that the person wore regularly.”
“Why metal?” asked Susy, a puzzled look on her face.
“Metal and stone retain the emanations better than other materials,” said Martha. “They can serve as beacons, if you will, to guide the spirits back. But wood or even paper will serve, if the object was closely enough associated with the departed spirit. Clothing has generally been washed, which reduces its efficacy for this purpose.”
“And I reckon if the metal is gold or silver, the spirits just might take it back,” growled Mr. Clemens. “I think we’ll leave the jewelry home, thanks. I’ll tell you one more time, Ed McPhee—you’d better not do anything to make me regret this!”
“No tricks, Sam—honest Injun,” said McPhee, with such a show of sincerity that I was almost tempted to believe him.
3
The next day, Mr. Clemens remembered some correspondence he needed to attend to, and so my plans to go back into the city had to be postponed. I briefly wondered whether I was being punished for bringing home McPhee and his wife, but if so, Mr. Clemens was punishing himself as well, since he spent the entire morning away from his beloved family, dictating letters. After luncheon, his wife handed him a thick sheaf of typewriter paper—chapters from his latest book, marked with her comments and emendations—for him to revise. We sat together the whole afternoon in his little office at the head of the stairs, he working at the typewriter (which he had brought all the way from America) and I turning my hastily scribbled notes into finished letters for him to sign and dispatch to various parties all over the world.
It was perhaps four o’clock when Mr. Clemens tore a sheet of paper out of the typewriter, put it on the growing pile of finished copy, and pushed back his chair with the air of a man who has finished his work for the day. I kept on writing—I needed only a few lines to complete the letter I was working on. He watched me for perhaps two minutes until he saw me reach for the blotter, and then he said, “Well, Wentworth, what do you make of McPhee’s séance? Is it just one more of his damned swindles?”
I