A Bloodsmoor Romance (81 page)

Some minutes of animalistic loveplay, and the gradual “surrender” of the female, and the gallant attempt upon the part of the male, to initiate the
unitary act:
and then, alas, of a sudden,
The Beast!

The Beast! Announced by an abrupt chuckle in Malvinia's throat, low and ribald and insinuating: and a sudden tugging of Mr. Twain's wet mustache!

And then, the fit having come upon her, unstoppable, hideous, Malvinia gnashed her teeth, and ground them furiously together; and gave herself up to coarse, guttural, jocose—indeed,
bestial
—imprecations, which issued forth from her lovely lips, which, in the candlelight of scarcely ten minutes ago, had looked so pristinely innocent! These profanities and obscenities and primitive “names” for bodily parts are not only so evil in themselves, as to bear no consideration whatsoever, in this chronicle, but they are, I am proud to say, so foreign to my experience, in even the verbal sense, that I could not begin to guess how they might be
spelled;
and will make no attempt herein.

Mr. Twain's amatory boldness, more the consequence of alcoholic ingestion, than of a natural inclination, was, as you may imagine, quench'd at once by this development: yet Malvinia Morloch took no mercy upon her lover's consternation, and may, in fact, have had no clear awareness of it, so exuberantly did The Beast force himself into her slender, writhing body—fitting her arms, and limbs, and torso, and the nether regions of her being, like a powerful hand thrusting itself into a snug and slightly resistant lady's glove!

The unlucky gentleman cried out, in surprise that halfway wished to be
amused,
as if his mistress's wild paroxysms were but a joke: but no amusement was forthcoming, as slim female fingers grown brazen with the dark groped, and slapped, and twisted, and poked; and a knee wedged itself upward, with painful results; and the burning soles of frantic feet “walked” all over Mr. Twain's body, both front and rear! The obscene chuckling increased in volume, issuing, evidently, from deep within the damsel's throat; unspeakable—nay, ineffable—odors were released, from the primeval orifices of the body; there was a brute wrestling, and scrambling, and grunting, of a kind to summon forth, in the stunned author's imagination, an image he would have supposed long forgotten: he saw again, in his paralysis of terror, the antics of a pet monkey on board the cholera-struck sailing ship
America,
in January of 1867: this comely little creature, cinnamon-brown of hue, and wondrously appealing as to its tiny, wizened, childlike face, had been grotesquely costumed in black velvet trousers and braided jacket, and black string tie; and, to the depraved amusement of the passengers and crew, who sought to distract themselves from the horror of the cholera epidemic, had been fed brandy-soaked bananas, so that the poor crazed creature jabbered, and twirled about, and foamed at the mouth, and rolled about the deck in convulsions. A piteous spectacle, which Mr. Twain had successfully buried, for nearly three decades, but which now sprang forth, unbidden, and in great confusion, as he struggled, as if for his very life, with the beauteous Malvinia Morloch. . . .

(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

I
t 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

I
n 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 pittance 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.
”