"Dark & tragic portrait of a famous 20th century medium"
Reviewed by Debbie Wiley
Posted August 2, 2014
Historical
Eusapia Palladino rose to great heights as a medium, as her
skills were celebrated by celebrities such as Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle. However, her beginnings are far more humble as
Eusapia grows up alone and often isolated from the societal
structures of the early 20th century. She misses her mother,
who died in childbirth, and often calls on her for
assistance in navigating a world where no one seems to care
what she does. R.K. Marfurt's fictionalized history provides
readers a dark glimpse into the world of this celebrated
medium and how the emotional voids in her life led to
Eusapia Palladino's rise to fame in the early 1900s.
R.K. Marfurt draws a very dark, dismal picture of Eusapia's
life. Her loneliness and isolation from the typical life of
a woman in the 20th century have toughened her. Her hardened
heart, coupled with her innate wildness of character, make
her a difficult character to empathize with. R.K. Marfurt
does a marvelous job at showing the reader how Eusapia's
childhood may have impacted her and drawn her into the world
of spiritualism.
CALLING THE DEAD is an insightful, albeit very dark, look at
the life of Eusapia Palladino. R.K. Marfurt paints a very
powerful portrait of her life and the times that shaped both
the woman and her career. CALLING THE DEAD is a tragic and
intense look at a well-renown medium.
SUMMARY
Eusapia Palladino's wretched childhood and turbulent life in
a small
Italian village in the middle of the 19th century are
brought to life in
this novel telling how she managed to become one of the most
successful mediums in Europe. In a period when spiritualism
filled a
void created by the decline in religious beliefs resulting
from the
emergence of modern science, she successfully taps into the
the
collective unconscious. Her reputation soars and brings her
to cities
all over Europe and even to America. She is sought out by
famous
people and investigated by renowned scientists like the
Nobel Prize
winners Charles Richet and Marie and Pierre Curie. R.K.
Marfurt's
novel explores Eusapia's conflicted yet courageous journey
through
spiritualism and the dark seance rooms and the unexpected.
ExcerptExcerpts from Calling the DeadEusapia’s Birth — Minervino, Italy (from Chapter 1) Inside her mother’s womb, Eusapia felt the serene calm of the last nine
months end abruptly. She tried holding on, relaxing one last time in the
comfort of the warm fluid, stretching once more in the familiar sea of love
that, small as it was, had offered her plenty of freedom to move. Suddenly
she felt yanked around, squeezed and then stuck. She struggled. She needed
to get out. Instead, the pressure around her mounted, bringing her
movements to an uncomfortable halt. Her mother’s beautiful voice stopped singing, it screamed, Save the child,
just save the child. Eusapia fought frantically to free herself. Every instinct inside her
pushed her to move. But an adverse and unyielding force held her in place. Sapia, my beloved child, the woman pleaded. The little girl used her tiny foot. She kicked and kicked, straining to
follow her mother’s call. Kick. Kick again. Her foot became heavy. She
couldn’t move it any longer. Still, she tried. She sensed her mother’s
tears. She felt her mother’s prayers float through the room and, over
interminable hours, contract into desperate gasps. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, don’t let my baby
die. Let her live. Please, let her live. Eusapia couldn’t move. She too wanted to pray. But she did not know the
words. So she just said, Mammina, I need you. Don’t leave me, Mamma.
Dark Nights (from Chapter 1) Eusapia could handle the days. The nights were tougher. Even if her
father’s buddies didn’t show up at the house, she slept in nervous fits.
Monsters chased her without mercy up and down the stone steps through the
ancient alleys of her neighbourhood. The place she knew inside out turned
against her. Eusapia’s legs buckled. But with just split seconds to spare
before being torn to pieces, she’d suddenly find new energy and a way out
into the hilly fields surrounding the town. She’d zigzag, barely ahead of
sheep dogs and monsters through herds of sheep, and finally crash through
underbrush. With the monsters still behind her, intent on finishing their
job, just about to grab her, she’d vanish into the thick of a forest where
she’d frenziedly burrow into holes, caves or hollow trees. Eusapia would
wake up drenched in sweat, the salty liquid streaming down her body like
storm water. Even awake she was not safe, eyes would stare out of the dark
at her. What do you want? she’d whisper, paralysed with fear. We want you, the eyes told her, you, Eusapia. We will get you. Go away. All of you, just go away. Please. Eusapia thrashed her arms about
to make her body look scarier. Go away. But the eyes remained, sometimes menacing, sometimes mocking. We’ll get
you, Sapia. You wait and see. As much as the eyes frightened her, Eusapia was even more alert to sudden
and immediate danger from real-life people. She trembled when she heard her
father’s distant cousin and his buddy drop by the house whenever they felt
like it even if her father wasn’t there and mostly at night. Eusapia tore
herself away from the phantom eyes and immediately darted into one of her
most secure hiding places just in time before one or another giant shadow
made its ominous presence felt. Little Sapia, yoo-hoo, where are you? She heard a thud where her bed of
rags was, then angry swearing. Where are you, you little whore? Come out
here. Now! Eusapia held her breath, terrified that the thumping in her chest would
give her away. After what seemed like an eternity, she heard heavy
footsteps, then felt the vibrations of the floor become more distant until
the door slammed and a scary quiet fell over the place. She remained in her
corner for the rest of the night just to make sure. Some nights she was too
tired to watch out for monsters and strangers. It happened that she woke up
all naked on top of another naked body, sometimes underneath, big paws
squeezing every part of her. She couldn’t cry out for help. She’d gasp for
air. Mamma, her heart would scream. Mamma, get me out of here. Most of all
she hated the slimy substance she had to wipe off her face and body
afterwards. Little crusty smears remained and reminded her in the morning
how dirty she was. The rare time, she was able to block the monsters and
heavy bodies out of her mind and transport herself into the safety of
Angela’s and Carlo’s wonderland, joining the family at the supper table as
if nothing bad were happening.
Mysterious Meeting (from Chapter 3) Eusapia adjusted the red lights in the dimmed room, wondering why Signor
Migaldi had arranged this meeting with such urgency. After three years of
developing her skills and working as a medium, nothing surprised her
anymore. But every now and then, events took an unexpected turn. Never
assume you had people figured out. No matter how easily she read people in
general, Signor Migaldi’s intentions mystified her. He acted as if her
future depended on the success of this meeting. According to the sparse
information he provided earlier in the day, a Signora Damiani had contacted
him the previous night, asking to see Eusapia in private. In response to Eusapia’s questioning look, he said, No, she hasn’t given
any explanation for her request. But he turned away for fear of revealing
more than he intended. When Signora Damiani arrived, Eusapia detected an almost feverish animation
in her eyes. The two women sat down at the séance table. I’ve been given a sign, Signora Damiani said immediately. Eusapia took in the quiver of exaltation in the woman’s voice with
astonishment and even suspicion. Strange, she thought, especially as she
inferred from Signora Damiani’s accent that she was English and not a hot-
blooded fellow Neapolitan. Few foreigners attempted to speak the Neapolitan
dialect, let alone mastered it like this woman. She had to be married to a
Neapolitan, though her mannerisms made this hard to believe. Her controlled
way of talking and acting was so contrary to the southern temperament that
Eusapia wondered how Signora Damiani survived with a Neapolitan husband.
Maybe there was truth in the saying that opposites attract. Eusapia
continued observing the woman, struck most by the restrained movements of
the body, the pale white face, and the doleful eyes of a woman desperate
but unable to conceive. You’re the reincarnated daughter of John King, Signora Damiani exclaimed,
grabbing and squeezing both of Eusapia’s hands. Eusapia, who took the most outrageous statements with barely more than a
slight double-take of breath, emptied her eyes of all expression, a trick
she had acquired through experience, an easy way to extract additional
strings of words and sentences that put meaning in the most incoherent
babbling. Turning into magnets of sorts, her blank eyes drew in the bits of
information that her sitters let go without noticing. The little pieces
jiggled and pushed each other until they fell together in a powerful
mosaic. Like other sitters, Signora Damiani stared into Eusapia’s eyes, and
seeing her own life mirrored back, could not hold back her pent-up
feelings. You must help me, she cried. Still Eusapia did not respond. The daughter of John King? Eusapia again gazed at Signora Damiani, still puzzled at what the woman had
in mind. Reincarnation, she continued her musings, that’s probably where
her own role was to start. But did she really want to be Katie King’s
reincarnation? There was one good aspect with letting Signora Damiani’s
claim stand. It would allow Eusapia to call on John King as her spirit
control. He had the potential to be useful, and after what she had endured
in her childhood, she’d have no qualms erasing the memories of her own
biological father and adopting a new one. No danger of conflicting
loyalties here! Replacing him with the powerful John King undoubtedly had
its advantages. All the same. . . You must tell me where the child is, Signora Damiani begged, her voice
ringing into Eusapia’s thoughts, calling her back to the meeting and the
hysterical woman in front of her. As if scorn toward her sitters had never
awoken a relentless fury in her, Eusapia now felt almost dazed by an
unusual compassion. She took the woman’s hands into her own. Her pity
warmed the deadly cold fingers. It thawed the woman’s frozen spirit.
Bad Omen (from Chapter 3) Eusapia rushed back into the house and, after a few extra preparations,
literally stormed into the séance room. She didn’t greet anyone. She didn’t
even acknowledge anyone. When a woman, who had lost both her parents in the last three months, asked
the spirits to bring a pink rose as a sign that they were happy, a dead rat
dropped onto the table. At its sight, the woman shrieked, then fainted,
falling off her chair to the floor with a thud. God help us, Signora Migaldi exclaimed and started praying aloud, crossing
herself. Appease the spirits. Bring comfort to this poor woman. Forgive us
our trespasses. Forgive us our trespasses, the others joined her pleas in an out-of-sync
chorus. Everyone was standing around the woman on the floor. Our Mother of Perpetual Help, have pity on us sinners. It was Ugo who had the presence of mind to send for water. When the
housekeeper finally brought it, he started reviving the woman by wetting
her face. An odd combination of stunned silence and fearful agitation filled the
séance room. Is she all right? a voice from the back of the group inquired. She hasn’t regained consciousness yet. The housekeeper brought more water, while Signor Migaldi sent an employee
to fetch Signor Damiani who was said to be the most knowledgeable when it
came to psychic phenomena. For the first time, Signor Damiani lost his cool. Get that rat out of the house, he shouted as soon as he arrived. The housekeeper rushed to the table and swept the stiff little corpse into
a pail, quaking at the sight. This wasn’t an ordinary rat. It had been sent
by the dead. A bad omen. A curse maybe. When someone yelled, Hurry up, the
poor woman broke down bawling. It was Signor Migaldi who took the pail and
disposed of the rat, throwing it into a heap of garbage on the street, a
safe distance from the house. Signor Damiani fought to regain his calm, but failed. His thoughts, his
breaths, his gestures raced in frenzied loops. Life itself was spinning out
of control. How could this happen? He was always in charge of things. He
glared at Eusapia. She was bent on ruining his plans.
Eusapia and Raphael (from Chapter 5) Eusapia and Raphael were ready to start out on their journey with the first
rays of dawn. Pushing or pulling the cart to negotiate rocks, ruts,
overgrown grass, and creeks along the way, racing along the main roads,
juggling between tree roots and bushes, along shortcuts and small paths,
they advanced at an impressive speed. In the few months Raphael had spent
in this area, he had travelled every road and trail, sketching each on an
invisible map he seemed to carry with him at all times. Because it was their honeymoon, Raphael chose the most picturesque route. Have you ever seen anything more beautiful than these lemon trees in bloom?
he asked and stood still, drinking in the view before him with joyful
wonder. Not as impressive as these ones, Eusapia said as she walked along. She
smiled until she saw Celestina balancing in the whitish pink bloom of one
of the trees, unconcerned about the many thorns, expectantly waving to her
mother. Eusapia stopped in her tracks, the full guilt over abandoning the
child crashing down on her. Celestina, Eusapia wanted to shout, but kept quiet. Celestina, she thought,
the intensity of her call alarming the child, whose eyes turned serious. In
the throes of conflicting emotions, which reared up, sharp and unnerving,
too strong to keep in check, Eusapia was pulled toward the child, then
yanked back to Raphael. She held on to the flimsy bit of consolation that
at least she had done right by the child, that a good and stable life was
awaiting Celestina. Helplessly, Eusapia staggered toward the child in the tree. It’s okay, Mammina, Celestina seemed to say, and her face wasn’t the face
of a baby but the face of a wise old woman. It’s okay. Eusapia stretched out her hand, beckoning, but the child disappeared. What’s wrong, Eusapia? Raphael asked. Eusapia was too distraught to confide in him. She grabbed her husband and
pulled him close. Never leave me, Raphael. Never ever leave me.
The Essence of a Brain (from Chapter 8) When Ochorowicz explained to Eusapia later that Richet didn’t actually
believe that the essence of a brain could survive through death and decay,
Eusapia screamed out loud in dismay. Just think, Ochorowicz went on, according to Richet, personality depends on
a specific brain. That’s the reason why it necessarily ceases to exist when
a person dies. Is he crazy? she shouted. My mother lives on the other side unaltered, with her brain intact. When
I’m dead, I’ll find her, and we’ll be together forever. The same goes for
all the people I love. Should any of us die, we shall find each other fully
intact. Eusapia didn’t like Richet’s way of thinking. Even after Ochorowicz had
left to work on one of his projects, she continued to grumble. How could
anyone assume life would ever end for good? Surprisingly though, it was
Richet who was the most curious about her phenomena. He never doubted that
some of them at least were authentic, just like he never doubted the
intuition that led him to his scientific discoveries. Whatever grew out of
her body during séances, he studied with rapt inquisitiveness, while at all
times adhering to the strict rule not to touch any medium’s supernatural
emanations so as not to endanger her life. He used serious-sounding terms
he had coined himself to name psychic phenomena. She had been surprised to
learn that the word ectoplasm that Giorgio had explained to her originated
from him. The unexplained happenings around her and other mediums, for
which people came to see her, he called metaphysics. Eusapia loved to
repeat those big words that scientists, journalists, and other educated
people all over the world had adopted. They sounded so much more important
than how she would have described what she was doing. She couldn’t get
enough of Richet describing her phenomena in scientific terms. Sometimes
she thought that all those impressive words made her brain vibrate. When
this happened, images and visions shot through her mind that made her
creative and therefore alive.
Séance with William James, Hugo Munsterberg and Hereford Carrington (from
Chapter 12) The men took a break until, more than an hour later, Carrington led
everyone back to the séance table. Eusapia perceived this as a sign that
the real test of her phenomena had come. Yet, she sat motionless and
silent, as if transplanted into a different universe. She made the men wait
for another hour before she initiated preparations for falling into a
trance, never letting Munsterberg out of her sight. The table stirred.
Musical instruments gave sporadic serenades. Loud raps sounded from every
corner of the room. In spite of the darkness, she could detect a sudden
confusion in Munsterberg. She was on the right track. Though he still had
the alert breathing of one of those self-proclaimed debunkers of mediums
she disliked so much, she detected the slightly sour smell of frustration
exuding from his armpits. Her confidence increased. Phosphorescent lights
glided through the room and flashed from various spots. Cold breezes from
the white tuft of hair in the front of her head sent eerie drafts toward
her sitters. Eusapia could see Carrington give an almost imperceptible nod.
The table rose again, higher than before. Four feet, William James called out. Fresh flowers landed on the table. I’m being poked, William James stated in a muted voice. A hand slapped me, Munsterberg exclaimed, and now someone poked me in the
back. A head appeared above Carrington’s shoulder, lingering for a moment. After
pressing a loud kiss on his cheek, it disappeared quietly. Eusapia slumped over the table, quiet for a few seconds, then writhing as
if in pain or under the influence of other powers. The two psychologists sat awkwardly beside her, unsure whether it was
appropriate to say anything, and not too sure what was going on. Finally, Eusapia quieted down. Carrington led her to a sofa where she could
stretch out comfortably and recover from the enormous expenditure of
psychic energy. He also handed her the customary cup of tea she demanded
after each sitting to soothe her throat and stomach. What do you think? James said to his colleague as the lights went on. She certainly puts on a show, Munsterberg uttered, a trace of anger in his
voice. Did you see her cheat? James inquired. No, I didn’t. She is good at what she does. Couldn’t you admit at least the possibility of unexplainable phenomena
occurring in this room? James suggested. The only thing I’ll give her credit for is her immense talent as a
performer and fraudster. Scientists need to keep an open mind, James admonished him, since they are
the ones with the necessary imagination and creativity to explore unknown
territory. Munsterberg threw his hands up in frustration. Will you at least come to one more séance? James pleaded. Munsterberg balked at the suggestion. Come on, James encouraged. All right, then, Munsterberg said, giving in rather reluctantly. Let the
chips fall where they may.
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