On Genesee Hill

[Dave]

Main thread by authors.





Most of the research and writing already accomplished for "On Genesee Hill" is at the moment elsewhere on the web.

Visit the following first of four web pages containing much of the writing. This effort is in the early stages, so feel free to jump in and suggest ideas.

www.windsweptpress.com/ogh1.htm

[Dave]

[Dave]

The Story (in Development)

Background/Setting

Early on the morning of March 3, 1896, a new seven story apartment building on Genesee Hill in Utica, New York was engulfed in flames as the residents slept. All but four persons fled the Genesee Flats or were rescued by passers by and the men of the Utica Fire Department. An older woman, sliding down a makeshift rope of sheets, slipped and plummet to the ground, later succumbing to her injuries. An older man, having just evening before had dinner in the building's dining room with his daughter and grandchild (also residents) suffocated from the smoke while he lay in bed and the fire burned its way up to his flat on the 7th floor.. An escaping mother and daughter, separated from the father, became lost and were never found. It is not known if these last two employed a servant or lady's maid, because newspapers of that time seldom identified men and women as such, if they mentioned them at all.

But in the graphic news accounts a young woman appeared who escaped and sat on the curb as the fire raged behind her. She told a reporter the fire had driven her to dress so quickly that she put her shoes on the wrong feet. She was not otherwise identified. The authors of this work see her as Ann Sullivan.

Annie Sullivan is cast as a domestic or lady's maid who worked for a family in Utica's Genesee Flats and who survived the tragic fire that took place there in 1896. She may be the young woman who sat on the curb as the fire raged, shoes on the wrong feet. Only a few years later a young woman by the same name died in a fire at the Metropolitan Hotel in downtown Utica. It's possible this was the same person.

To some of us, Annie represents the hopes and aspirations of working people in the very late 19th century who, while not destitute, had little control over their lives and futures. Annie Sullivan, the wispy figure from history, is an excellent ghost on which to base the fictional character of a young woman who may have grown up in an abusive family and been practically sold to the highest bidder through the use of a hiring bonus paid to her parents. Whether the character endured a short relatively easy life of work or cruel abuse is unknown until the story or stories are written.

Again, we emphasize we're speaking of a fictional character, based on a real life person we know very little about.
-Dave

[Dave]

Annie Cathleen Sullivan is a fictional character, based upon a number of sources.
1. The young woman who was seen running down Genesee Street with her shoes on the wrong feet.
2. A real person named Annie Sullivan who lived in Utica NY, worked as a chambermaid and died of smoke inhalation in the fire at the Metropolitan Hotel in downtown Utica, May, 1907.
3. A very lucky chance finding of a 15 year old girl named Annie Sullivan who arrived from Ireland and landed at Ellis Island on June 30, 1895. Her name on the ships mainfest and a photo of the ship, the Teutonic, can be viewed on line at the Ellis Island historical website. (That she fit the character so closely in age and arrival dates is beyond lucky, because I went to the website after the fact and it was like looking for a needle in a haystack)

Our Annie is 15 when she arrives from acoss the water; has long curly red hair, green eyes and is a small girl. She arrives carrying only what she owns- which is essentially nothing but the clothes on her back- and a satchel which holds a picture of her mother, two pairs of socks, an extra flannel petticoat, a comb, a bar of soap, needles and thread, 3 lace hankies and two black shawls. She is proud and not a little terrified, fingering the rosary she carries in her pocket as she walks into the Great Hall in her only frock: a brown wool skirt with a large patch on the front, a plaid shirtwaist, a woven sweater, a red cotton neckscarf and heavy hand made walking boots. She is carrying a letter from an aunt she has yet to meet, a distant relative of her mother, who runs a boarding house on Hotel Street In Utica NY. The letter is a guarantee of employment. A train will bring her to Utica and from there her fate will reveal itself. I do not know where in Ireland our Annie comes from, simply because she has not told me and perhaps she has her reasons...but, I have heard that a tiny old woman smoking a pipe and all dressed in black was seen on the wharf that morning in Queenstown, weaving her way among the departing throng, and that the old one was heard to say, "The ships are on the sea. God help us all." That I heard this meself, tis true, and I have it on good account that the old one was walking there then and is walking there still...

-Fiona

[Dave]

More
at:

(Click)

www.windsweptpress.com/ogh1.htm

[Dave]

If you want to learn about the OGH plot and story, here's a suggestion.
About half way down page 2 of the workbook, here:

www.windsweptpress.com/ogh2.htm

... is a good place to begin. Start reading at Billy Foley's Morning for a view of the fire. Following that narration is John Wood's biography. In flashback, Fiona picks up the action and continues through page 4 of the workbook as John's soon-to-be wife, Sarah, handles her family and her world.

[Dave]

Fiona has written a new chapter to On Genesee Hill. You can view in the OGH Workbook here:

www.windsweptpress.com/ogh5.htm

[Dave]

Genesee Hill's First Occupants


Metettseh had spent the entire afternoon at his end of the longhouse, concealed behind the large curtain of sewn skins hung there by his son. Privacy was unusual among the Iroquois, but a chief was beyond reproach for small peccadilloes concerning custom, especially in this time of crisis. His middle-aged wife painstakingly applied the pigments from his forehead to his toes, as he stood naked and patient for two hours. No male Indian would admit it, but the best of body painting was done by the women, and Metettseh's wife was indeed meticulous as she mixed and then applied each color to the chief's dark skin. Everyone tonight would know this was her work. No one would mention it.
And now as he sat through the ceremonial dancing which invoked the Great Sprit, Metettseh eyed his braves assembled around the sacred fire, looking for any telltale signs of stress or fear. Even by the fire, their breaths showed in the cold air of the early March evening. He would need to rouse their courage and focus their hate on the visitors. He knew some of his brothers would welcome the white men, but he had seen in a dream that these pasty faced explorers would be followed by herds of similar men and women who, if not stopped, would completely push his tribe from the valley.

When the drumming ceased, Metettseh slowly rose from behind the fire pit so each of the braves could see him. He was quite proud of the ceremonial paints and of his wife's work, even if it could not be mentioned. The red paints sucked up thecolor of flames from the fire and made the chief look as if he were made of fire. The green pigments in the firelight made the blackest of dark shadows, and were applied carefully on his face to make his features appear deeply carved and stone like. Every ounce of effort spent on the meticulous application of each design painted on his back, chest, arms and face helped create the impression he wanted to make on his warriors. White men would later conclude that the Indians really believed their leaders changed themselves during these rituals. But white men had a shallow understanding of human emotions, and white mens' souls could barely fathom even one dimension of existence.

"This is our land," he said to the group. "The white men we have seen on the waters say they want only enough game to survive their trips to the west, but soon they will want more. They will want our land. Their sons and wives and animals will arrive and push us away from our river."

Metettseh let his words settle on the men. He waited for the grunting assents to quiesce, and then he continued.

"We will go now in the night to their camp and kill them! Every one of them! We will take our sharp knives and flint spears and cut them up. We will set the pieces of their bodies in the canoes and float them back to the fort of soldiers at Wee-sug-sa-ha."

By the time the moon was about to show itself in the sky, the Indians had traveled down from what today is called Genesee Hill, their home from time out of mind. The white men they meant to kill that night were accompanied by soldiers, each with a gun, an instrument of death the Indians had never seen. Sharp reports and the flash of gun powder ripped through the early March night, killing many of the tribe just as the braves reached the white men's camp.

Routed, the surviving Iroquois beat a fast retreat back up the hill to their wives and families. The soldiers could be heard tramping up the hill in pursuit, shooting wounded Indians who had fallen on the trail. The tribe wanted to leave immediately, but Metettseh knew they could not travel as fast as the soldiers. The chief told his people to stand and fight, every man, women and child. This was their land. Here on the slight rise off the downward slope of Genesee Hill was their ancestral and sacred fire, which had burned perpetually for as long as anyone could remember.

The soldiers killed them all. As Metettseh lay dieing near the sacred fire, feeling his life flow out of his wounds onto the cold ground, he reached his hand into the dieing embers, hoping to grab the fire's life to prolong his own for just a few more moments. The burning pain mattered little. He cursed the white man for all time and asked the Great Spirit to have Fire forever protect this grove on the small level spot of ground. Metettseh remembered becoming a brave on this spot, marrying his wife here in the ancient ceremonial tradition and saying goodbye to the spirits of fellow warriors lost in battle. The chief rolled himself into the burning pit. He would choose his death rather than die from the holes the sticks had fired into his body. He would sacrifice himself to Fire. He would join Fire.

Fire would forever rule this piece of ground. Fire would seldom make a frontal attack, as Metettseh had. Fire was subtle. It no longer could live and dance in the sacred pit, lighting up the night and those who honored it. A new race had come to take over the land and they honored nothing but themselves. And though one day fire would burst forth to consume anything and everything, including itself in an act of self glorification, for now it comforted itself beneath the ground, burning and crackling down one fissure and then another, around a pipe, along a wire, under a tank.

Fire waited for opportunity, as do most of the gods and demons. Fire knew it would come. Fire had all the time in the world.

-Dave





Billy Foley's Morning

It’s just so peaceful in the morning. No one is out and about, and all I ever hear are the trains and factories running all night over on the west side, out Whitesboro Street. And in the winter, the swish of tire rims when a hack is pulled past by a weary horse. And, you know, me and Da need the money, so before school I run down to the Herald and get me a bag of papers and sign the slip to pay tomorrow and take the whole shebang up Genesee Street, selling the news to whoever will give me a couple of pennies for the paper. I bring home the coins I earn to Da and he counts them out and gives me the money that’ll go to the Herald. He always has me put it in the old teapot on the window sill for tomorrow.

It’s been a cold winter and if Da didn’t kick me out of bed in the morning, I wouldn’t be out there slogging through the slush and snow, I can tell you. And, Jesus, I got a welt on the back of my shoulders from Brother Barnabas at the ‘cademy, and he keeps hitting me there every time I fall asleep reading the catty-kism.

I most often sell all the papers by the time I get to Court Street, so I don’t always get as far up as Genesee Hill. But that morning I walked all the way to the fountain at Oneida Square, and by that time I could smell the smoke. Then all hell broke loose as the team of horses and men from the No. 1 fire company came pounding by me and headed south down Genesee. Holy Cripes, a real fire engine! I threw down the rest of the papers and I ran like the dickens to catch up. By the time I got to the Flats, and saw the people trying to get off the front of the place, I’d wished I gone home instead. Nobody should ever have to see people dying like that. I still have dreams about it. Yeah, I know, not as many died as I thought were going to. But enough did …. and that poor lady I saw fall. I heard her head crack open. Sometimes when I’m dozing off in school, I’ll hear that crack and my stomach will get queasy if it’s just before lunch.

I’m a good reader, and I’ve read everything in the papers about the fire, at least in the Herald, because that’s the paper I sell. By what’s in print, you’d think everyone got called up by the management and politely told about the fire and pretty please just get dressed and meet across the street for tea. But that’s not what I saw.

When I first came up on the building, all I saw were firemen. They were scurrying around and they didn’t look like anybody had told them the fire was right in front of them and they should be doing something about it. I didn’t see any flames, at first. But I heard this awful sound, people screaming and crying and yelling for help. I lost my bearings for a minute, and wondered where the hell they were. It was dark and there was smoke everywhere. For just a second, I wondered if all the voices were in the trees. Then a trunk of clothes split open about ten feet from where I was standing. Just dropped down right out of the sky! I looked up and saw coats and shoes and a lady’s dress floating down at me. And then, over at the far end, I saw a man drop to the ground clinging to what looked like a string of sheets or clothing. Then I had to laugh, thinking it was funny. I wanted to shout at them to go back inside. There weren’t any flames. I thought this would be just a smoker … like maybe someone’s couch was burning and they’d have it out in the snow in just a bit.

It was getting lighter now, and people were coming down like they’d been on a balloon ride. Some were wailing and shouting and trying to find each other. One lady kept grabbing me and asking if I’d seen her brother. She must’ve asked me ten times. It shook me. I realized I was afraid again. There were still folks hanging from the balconies.

Two firemen ran up to me and started yelling about fire engines. At first, I thought they wanted to tell me something, but they happened to stop where I was standing. They were arguing about whether to call in more engines. One fellow said there was no need, and that he was going to the basement to make sure the fire was out. When he ran off, the other man asked me if I knew how to use the alarm box up the street on the corner. I said I guess you just pull it, and he told me how to break the glass and turn the crank. I must have looked like I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it, because the man put his hand on my shoulder and said I’d be saving lives, son.

When I got to the box, I was so worked up I couldn’t break the glass with my mitten still on my hand. I found a stone and broke the little window. My finger still hurts a little from the cut I gave myself.

I turned back toward the building and if I live to be 90 years old I will never forget what happened next. I was running and watching firemen and people around the bottom of the building, neighbors coming out on their porches in their nightdress, folks still clinging to the balcony railings … and I was beginning to hope no one would get hurt playing acrobat on the balconies, because this might not be a real bad fire …. when the whole place just went wooooosh! It broke out in flames. Brother Barnabas says the word is erupted. Well, that’s what it did … it erupted in flames. One huge sheet of flame shot up from the roof of the building and at the same time flames blew out the windows. Holy Mother Molly, I’ve never heard or seen anything like it!

All the voices hushed for a moment, and then a loud moan went up from the crowd, probably firemen included. I stopped running and almost sat down in the snow. But after a few seconds, I kept going back toward the Flats. Oh, why didn’t I go home?

That poor lady. She was coming down a string of sheets and towels like some others had done, and she was crying all the way. She wore a hat kinda like the one I used to see on my old mother … God rest her soul as she walks with all the saints in Paradise … and she was old. The young man made her get on the “rope” and slide down, I think. He probably thought he was just trying to save her life. I yelled up at her to hold on with both hands, even though one of her arms was hanging kinda useless. I ran up to where she would land and I held out my arms. I’m a strong kid. I shouted up to her, “Just a little farther!” She was half way down, but then she just hung there. That takes a lot of strength, with just one hand. I knew she couldn’t last long.
“C’mon! Slide! I’ll catch ya!” I shouted.
She had been looking up at the young man, but now looked down at me. She looked sick and tired. Brother Barnabas says the word is miserable. Well, miserable is how she looked. Oh, how I wish I had not said what I did next.
“Let go and slide,” I yelled. But she just let go altogether and fell. Right next to me.
On her head. She hit a railing first, bounced off and then banged down right next to me. She came so fast! Honest! I tried, I had my hands up. She was past my arms and on the ground before I could catch her. Next day the Herald said she landed on her shoulder and broke it, not her head. I’ve never before heard either break. But I have to tell ya. If you ever hear a head break, you’ll know it. It sounds like nothing else in the whole world. I don’t feel so good.
-Dave

[Dave]

From Fiona:

Biography of John Brandegee Wood


John Brandegee Wood, husband of Sarah Miller and father of Mary Brandegee Wood, was born in Morristown New Jersey on June 25, 1844. His father, Theodore Talbot Wood was, among other things, a successful banker and owner of iron ore mines. His mother, Mary Jane Brandegee bore nine children, of whom John was the oldest. The family home was the Wood farmhouse, a 20 room home still standing at 83 South Street, Morristown NJ. (1.)

John attended Yale Law School, graduating in 1868. While a student there he was a member of the prestigious Alpha Delta Phi Fraternity and may have also been a member of the Skull and Bones Society, as many Delta Phi brothers were. After graduation he went on to obtain a law degree at Columbia University in New York City, where he taught law, philosophy and rhetoric. He then entered the practice of law in Morristown and lived there until around 1892-3. For some reason his health began to fail and it is interesting to note that the Asiatic Flu or Le Grippe was then raging in America, reaching it's peak from around 1889 to approximatly 1890 and that Morristown, New Jersey was not spared. Around 1892 he gave up the practice of law and relocated with his wife and daughter to Riverside, California where he became succesfully engaged in citrus farming. At this time the industry was new to Southern California and many Easteners banded together or formed corporations to start and operate citrus farms. (2.)

In 1895 he and his family returned to Utica, NY possibly for the purpose of having his daughter, Mary B. attend finishing school, but to also visit his wife's mother, Mary Foreman Miller, wife of Rutger B. Miller, who was in her late eighties at this time. The family spent the summer of 1895 in Whitestown at the family homestead and then, in the autumn, engaged rooms at the new Genesee Flats Apartment House, on Genesee Street in Utica NY. On the morning of March 3, 1896 the Flats burned to the ground, his wife and daughter being lost in the fire. Their bodies were never found. After the fire he returned to Riverside, where he devoted the rest of his life to "psychical and ghost research, mathmatics, philosophy,and the culture of oranges." (3) His address in 1916 was 422 South Lake Street, Los Angeles California. The date and time of his death are unknown, as is the place of his burial.


The Wonderful Cane

John, tall, slender and articulate, with a handlebar mustache and a head full of dark grey hair, wore a meticulous brown checked suit. The gold pocket watch hanging from a green paisley vest softly ticked away the hours until they would arrive in Utica. A cane of dark malacca wood lay on the seat beside him, a reminder of an old injury- he had fallen from a horse while out riding with Sarah many years ago- and the injury would always pain him. The cane was his favorite, a gift from a fellow Bones man when he had graduated from Yale in 1867. Delicate and sartorial, the tip was sterling silver, the ivory handle banded with gold and carved into a life like rendition of the Greek God Pan. Sarah, of course, had taken an intense dislike to the cane. "Why" she had asked when they were newly married, "My Dear John, do you have to carry a cane with a Satyrs head upon it?" And he had answered in the best way he knew how: That he was the PaPa, was he not? The Pater Familias of the home and was it not her job to sit in front of the fire and knit him a delicate little cap or neck muffler for a cold night? Sarah was not amused, but she acquiesced, and John was allowed to carry the cane at any time except Sundays. Each had won a small victory; on church days the cane sat in the Chinese jardiniere with the others and life went on.

[Dave]

From Fiona:

Memories

The repetitive clacking of the iron wheels, the swaying motion of the Pullman car, had lulled John into a somulent state and as he slept he dreamt once again of Yale. It was a dream, the meaning of which had eluded him for years. He was a young man approaching the Bonesman's Tomb on High Street and the numbers 322 drifted into view beneath the symbol of the grinning skull, then morphed into 369 and 371. He saw imposed upon the skull the face of an old love, Marie Jolicoeur. the French actress and singer. She moved towards him in a spectrum of color. Marie, So passionate, with dark eyes and hair; her delicate long fingered hands had wrists like brittle bird bones. She was a student of the Theosophist Madame Helena Blavatsky and all the memories of Paris in that spring of 1873 always came rushing back in a flood of longing and desire. Then came Sarah, his beautiful Sarah, so quiet and serene, just the opposite of Marie.

John had met Sarah on a visit to Utica in the spring of 1872. It had been a long trip from Morristown. It was raining. The train arriving late in Utica. They took a carriage, rather than walking across the plaza from the station to the Bagg's Hotel. John and his mother arrived wet and exhausted. The next day being Sunday he wanted nothing to do but sleep, but his mother would not hear of it. They must attend church. It was for the "glory of God" and " the good of his soul", Hell was too hot and eternity too long.

Grace Episcopal Church stood ponderous and grey in the wan spring sunshine. Sarah, there the family pew, with her parents Rutger B. and Mary Seymour Miller, sat in a pool of colored light that streamed softly from a tall stained glass window. She was modestly attired in a grey silk walking dress with a light bustle , high lace collar and a bodice of white lace and jet buttons. Her chestnut brown hair, through which she had threaded a white ribbon, and topped with the most lovely of Irish lace caps, fell in ringlets down her long slender neck. She wore pearl ear rings on delicate ears and when she bent her head to pray, the light caught them and a longing grew in John's heart.

She was twenty seven, a woman of independent means, well traveled and educated, unmarried, a ripe fruit as yet unplucked. He was twenty eight, a well educated man of means, well traveled, with an Ivy leauge education and unmarried as well. That evening at dinner he gently broached the subject with his mother, who clucked and tutted before saying," John, my son, wait a while longer. I beg of you. You are my heart of hearts, my first born and it would pain me to loose you so soon." She lifted a little choice bit of the chicken she was eating and put it on his plate. "Please. My dear. Not so soon."

But he knew he had waited to long, even now. They returned to Morristown shortly thereafter, but Sarah's face swam in his memory. He returned alone to Utica to court her, but she would not yield to him. She was cool, self composed. She would rather remain a maiden lady. After all, she had no pressing need to marry, to bear children. She was independent and could travel. She had her harp and her piano, books and a paintbox. She was sorry but she would rather not.

[Dave]

From Fiona:

Time Passes

A year had passed and John, still broken hearted, went abroad to Paris in the spring of 1873. There he had met Marie. She burned hot. He abandoned his holiday to stay with her. He proposed. She accepted and in June she packed her trunk for America.

That preceding month John had written his mother telling her he was " bringing home his bride to be", the beautiful French actress Marie Jolicoeur. He asked for her blessings and would she please begin to plan an August wedding. They were to arrive during the middle of June and as he had to return to New York City, the couple would be residing there. He wrote that he was deliriously happy and hoped to bless her with many grandchildren. He closed with the salutation: Your most loving and devoted son, John; sealed it and sent it off.

A month later a reply was delivered to his flat. It was the day before they were to sail. His mother wrote that " Yes, she had heard of Madame Jolicoeur. Not only was she Roman Catholic and an actress, but she was also a divorcees. Was John aware of that fact? And thus she could not, would not ever approve of their marriage. She could not offer her blessing. Therefore, although she loved her son deeply: had she not told him many times how she had carried him under her heart all those long months? Was he not her first born? She would not receive her (Marie) and please make an alternate plan. She signed it: Your most faithful and loving mother, Ma-Ma.

John felt hot tears spring to his eyes. Marie not received?? A divorcee?? It was unthinkable! Marie had never said anything, no one ever mentioned a former husband! He would have surely known about it. His mother was delirious; out of her mind! He would find a way. Logic would win the day! Saying nothing to Marie, he crumpled the letter and threw it into the stove where it caught flame and burned away to nothing, a small blackened scrap of paper among the coals. They sailed for New York the next day.

The couple arrived in Morristown in high spirits. John assisted Marie down from the carriage and driver, horse and vehicle stood waiting in the turn about for a house man to arrive and assist with the trunks. The carriage man, put a feed bag on the horse, unpacked his lunch and munched contentedly on a sandwich of head cheese and mustard.

Arm in arm the lovers went up the long walk to the house. Marie wore a high bodiced aubergine silk dress from the House of Worth and carried a slender tightly rolled parasol. A strand of pearls shown luminously at the base of her neck. She had caught her black hair up in a fantasy of curls and braids and smoothed her heavy eyebrows with pomade. She had been practicing her English and had prepared a little speech for John's mother. John looked at her and his heart beat faster. How could anyone not love Marie? All of France loved her did they not? And did not his mother love things French, also? Furniture, food? Therefore he was sure she would relent; logic would invariably win the day.

Before he could open the heavy double doors, a parlor maid in a black dress and white cap appeared. She ushered them into a spacious dimly lit hall that smelled of lemon oil and fresh roses. The maid greeted them courteously, then disappeared into the depths of the house. She wanted no part of this and would not be privy to any sufferings to come. From the inner rooms came a happy cry: "My son! You are here!' Suddenly John's mother appeared at the end of the hall, a small white haired woman in a lilac hued lace dress and white cap. John caught his mother up in his arms. She was so small, so light. He set her back on her feet and turned to grasp Marie's hand. "Mother, this is..." and then he stopped. Everything stopped. The hall whirled, the heat of the day rose up and stifled him. His mother looked at Marie and said one word "Non!" turned, walked down the hall and shut the door to the inner rooms behind her. Marie was not received. John mother had been true to her word. It was over.



Footnotes below for links to websites and U Tube.

1. www.morristown-nj.org/history.html for a virtual tour of Morristown and a view of the Wood Farmhouse.
2. www.riversideca.gov/museum/heritage.asp for a video tour of the Heritage House, a turn of the century home owned by wealthy orange grower Catherine Bettner
3. www.archive.org (Yale University biographical record of class of 1865, record 119, John Brandegee Wood.


- Fiona

[Dave]

From Fiona:

A BITTER RESOLUTION

John watched his beloved mother go down the hall and close the door to the inner parlors. He had miscalculated. Logic had not won out. The invisible jury rose and shuffled out of the courtroom. The case had been lost. He felt that all of his education and training had been for naught and he hung his head in his anguish.

Marie saw the hall narrow to a pinpoint of light and then begin to expand infinitely. A familiar buzzing rang in her ears as she felt herself rise up and out of her corporeal body. She was shamed beyond measure. So this was America? She saw with amazing clarity the turn of events and how they played themselves out. She knew now what had happened. John's mother knew about the divorce and she had told him and - he had kept it from her. He had brought her here with foreknowledge of events to come, known that this would happen- that she would not be received.

She looked at him, so passive, so contrite, so confused and at that moment she only wanted to flee away- like the Marie she was named after-

Then, with a snap she came to her senses.

Who was this little woman to dismiss her, Marie Jolicouer, the greatest actress in all of Paris? Had she not starved during the siege of Paris in 1871, when there was no bread and she had been forced to do - to eat- unspeakable things just to stay alive?

What did this nasty little woman know of her suffering?

Had she not gone on stage as Esmeralda in the Gypsy Girl of Paris with two black eyes given to her by that little beast of an ex husband Antoine? And had she not given the best performance of her life - poured her heart out to the audience- and they were on their feet, clapping for her - Marie! In her eyes she became Esmeralda and he Phoebus and she realized she never knew him or loved him at all.

Something in her broke. She was in a strange land among strangers. A wide uncrossable chasm opened which she had to find a way to cross. There was no bridge. She turned and ran from the house, the little heels of her brocade shoes making a sharp rat a tat upon the hardwood floors.

John ran after her. They stood, on the lawn winded, panting, staring at each other, circling like two dumb animals.

The carriage driver, who had finished his lunch and was wondering when the trunks would be unloaded, watched the unfolding scene with interest. This couple, they were not happy. Perhaps he would have another fare from them.

-Fiona

[Dave]

From Fiona:

A REVELATION

The driver swung down from his seat and leaned against the
tall wheels, gloved hand holding tight to the horses bridal. He surveyed the scene with practiced eyes. He had been a driver for many long years and had seen this many times before. He still had the trunks strapped to the back. And he wanted to be paid. There was nothing to do but wait it out.

Marie was livid in the face of John's stunned silence. Why did he not say something to her - at least - did he not love her? He had made love to her - what did it all mean now - nothing? How could she have loved this man - this silent fool?

In reality John had no training, no basis in fact to deal with the situation. He had been raised in a polite society where women were naturally delicate beings who clung to your arm at the opera. They never ran away. They looked up at you through adoring lidded eyes in rooms lit by candle light; the rustle of their petticoats as they moved across heavily carpeted floor always promised more. They wanted to have children and be at home. Was that not what she wanted? She had told him so. Many times. Had she lied about that too, as well as the divorce?

He had been nurtured on the self improving works of Bulwar-Litton, read to by nannies and nursemaids, fed on arcane philosophies and Greek myth. His late father had owned the bank, the iron mines, attended Yale and Colombia. He had moved in a world of men. Men never emoted. Never dissembled. What to do now? He didn't know. Perhaps he should say something. He had done the unthinkable: wounded the heart of a woman. He was a cad and nothing more.

"Marie. My darling Marie. You have my heart. I am sorry. I was wrong. Let us go from here and be married... we can do that in New York tomorrow...! Please, my darling, listen to reason!"

But she would have none of it. Rage and despair rose in her like a flood tide that would not be contained.

She threw her parasol at his feet, then her black lace gloves after. She pulled the pins and combs from her hair and it fell around her shoulders, a gleaming black mass of tangled curls.
She tore the lace from her bodice and ripped open the basque of her gown exposing a pink lace corset.

"J'ai seulement un coeur de la femme!" (I have only the heart of a woman.) Her voice broke and dwindled off.

The pearls snapped and fell to the grass, slipping away like drops of milk from her dark throat.

"Marie! Please. Don't...!"

She was tearing at her corset, threatening to expose her self.

"Je suis au-dela' deshonore 'de la mesure" (I am shamed beyond measure!) Je suis Esmeralda!"

He grasped her arms to restrain her and the coach man stepped forward.

"Sir, unhand that lady or or I will be forced to thrash you.!'

The driver, who had studied and practiced the pugalistic arts stood, legs akimbo, arms and fisted raised, in a boxers stance.

John stepped back. Thrash him? No one had ever threatened to thrash him! He stood silent. He had to let her go. The heat of the day, the droning of insects rose up about him like a scream.

Marie reeled about and the driver helped her into the carriage. She snapped the little curtain closed. John could hear her sobbing.

"Marie, Marie, wait... we can discuss this..."

She opened the curtain just a little, and said bitterly:

"Go. Go from my eyes! You are dead to me." Then she snapped the curtain closed and her face was lost to his vision.

He turned away and looked at the ground. The last thing he heard was the clatter of the wheels as the carraige took her away.

He knelt in the grass and gathered up the pearls, the gloves and the parasol, wrapping the pearls in his handkerchief. Up and down the quiet street doors were beginning to open, curtains discreetly pulled back by matrons and servants alike. He didn't care. He rose up and went down the long walk to the yards, past the rose bushes, and entered the house through the servants entrance. He went up the winding back stair to the third floor and found an empty chamber. He lay down in the narrow bed. It was like grave to him. He pressed the gloves to his lips. But what good was it now? She was gone. It was over. He would never speak of her again.

The great house and gardens were quiet in the heat of the day, the windows shuttered, the rooms dark. On the porches green and white striped awnings fluttered in the breeze and ferns with massive fronds hung down to the tops of cast iron railings, the measure of their brief lives always sun and always shade.

Life would go on in Morristown just as it always had and this was both a revelation and a comfort to him.
-Fiona

[Dave]

From Fiona:

A RESOLUTION


LET ME NOT TO THE MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alterations finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! It is an ever- fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown,
Although his height be taken.

- William Shakespeare


It was a very great scandal, the bones of which Morristown's servants and Grand Dames alike chewed upon for almost a year.

On the 12th of July, 1873 Sarah received a letter from Morristown. It was written in a curving Spencerian hand on the finest onion skin paper with a pink ribbon through the borders. The whole of the envelope was decorated with drawn flowers and lovely swirls and flourishes and it rested in Sarah's hand like a the smallest of summer insects singing to her of wonderful things to come.



July 1, 1893

From the pen of Miss Mary Wood to the heart of Miss Sarah Miller
with all salutations and courtesies;

My Dear Sister,

( if I may be so humble as to presume to call you sister)


I am writing to you in hopes that you will open your heart to a sad situation. Brother John has spoken often of you and only in the most glowing terms, so I ask you to hear me out. Although it is presumptuous of me to say so, as we have never formally met, I feel as if I know you well. I am sure that by now you have become acquainted with the terrible scandal that has surrounded Brother John and the deleterious outcome of his dalliances abroad. It is well that Madame Jolicouer has left and we shall see her never more, however, alas and anon, her absence in Brother John's days has thrown him into the darkest of caverns.

Since that terrible day in June he has gone from the family
in the most sorrowful fashion...yet, My Dear Sarah, my sister...he is still here! It is his shadow I am speaking of, his shade! He is like a dead man. He has gone to live in the attic, appropriated a chamber in the servant's quarters where he has his books and his pipes and his papers and there he has made his home! He has been up there for the better part of two weeks and will speak to no one save an Irish kitchen girl. She brings him his meals and clothes and tends to his needs. He has not spoken to Mother or any of us all these long weeks, nor does he receive guests or compatriots.

The meals go up, the meals go down, barely touched. The girl, it would appear, has been sworn to secrecy, as she will say naught and indeed, Mother is thinking of dismissing her should she continue on in this fashion with Brother John. The shame, as the poor girl has no family and is only doing what he has told her to do.

Dearest Sarah, we beg of you, will you not come to Morristown and heal the wounded heart of our Dear Brother John? He is sorely afflicted with melancholy and we fear we may loose him. Goldsmith has written: People seldom improve when they have no model but themselves to copy after.

O, Sarah, good and strong, please do come and make our home your own, even if for a day, a week, a month, and do bring a companion, a friend, a sister an aunt. We have a wonderful home and a large staff that shall tend to your every need. Indeed, you shall have your own ladies maid if need be. I promise you will lack for nothing here. You have my word on it as my honored guest.

O' Sarah, do.


I await your reply and pray for your decision to be in our favor.

May God Bless you and keep you. I am writing the poem below in hopes that it may sway you:

O Happy home! Bright and cheerful hearth! Look round with me, my lover, Friend and wife, On these fair faces we have lit with life, and in the perfect blessing of their birth, help me to live our thanks for so much Heaven on earth.

Would that it were so for Brother John!

Your most loving and affectionate sister, Mary.

[Dave]

From Fiona:

SARAH'S DECISION


"If I am not for myself, who will be for me? And if I am not for others, what am I? And if not now, when?"

Rabbi Hillel, 1st century BC,AD

Sarah was sitting on a mossy stone bench, under a small grove of yellow plum trees, resting from the opressive heat of the day when a parlor maid brought her the letter. It had been almost a year since she had seen John and what she read surprised her. It was a conundrum, a puzzle. She had thought him well, prosperous and married with perhaps a child on the way. The disarray his life had fallen into was worrisome. "Perhaps", she thought, "If I had accepted his proposal..." But there was no looking back . What was done was done and could not be undone. She folded the letter neatly and tucked it into the pocket of her skirt. Tomorrow, after she had thought it over, was time enough to reply. However, the letter fell from her pocket onto the grass. She picked it up, folded it even smaller again and tucked it in under the basque of her dress, where it worked it's way up into her camisole and the sharp edges of the onion skin scratched her. The letter seemed to be a living thing now, more than paper and ink. It was begging to be read again, the situation asking for her immediate reconsideration. She went up the stairs to her chamber and put the letter in the carved wooden box on her writing desk. On top of the box she placed a heavy silver tray and upon the tray a book. Sarah was not by nature a superstitious person, but the letter was taking on a life of it's own, she felt it in her heart and, she had heard of things like that happening, read about them in father's books. Wanting to take no chances, she locked her chamber door before going down to the back parlor for afternoon tea.

When she went upstairs that evening, box, book and tray were just as she had left them but the letter was lying open upon the desk.

Even though it was mid July and the night was balmy, her cozy little bed chamber seemed to have a coldness about it. Someone, something, had been in here and removed the letter from the box, but it was too much to think about now. She closed the windows, drew the lace curtains and lit a small fire in the marble fireplace, but the chimney didn't draw correctly. A dark curl of smoke came back and choked her. She banked the fire and threw open the windows. The night air scented with flowers, heavy white snowballs, the last of the purple French lilacs, came rushing in and far and away an owl hooted. She lit the oil lamp and sat on her bed in the gathering shadows. Moths flitted in through the open windows and circled the glowing chimney of the lamp. What to do? What to do? Her mind was racing with the possibilities: If she accepted the invitation she may be committing herself to a marriage of convenience - provided John was even interested in her at all, after so long a time. The thought that he could possibly love her did not occur to her. Passion lived for her in penny novels, in books, in dreams. But, if she declined she would be committing herself to a lifetime in this house, for suitors were few for a woman as herself rushing on towards middle age. Either way she was trapped. And then, there was Father.


Rutger B. Miller was a jolly man, a quiet and kind father, who had never held any of his children back from the fulfillment of their individual destinies. Of course, the boys were expected to carry on in the public arena and the girls to either marry well or keep the home fires stoked. It was a matter of family, fidelity and class distinction. Should she accept the invitation and Father knew she was going to stay at the home of a former beaux, especially if he knew about John's indiscretions, he would be displeased to say the very least.. Of course he couldn't stop her from going. She would be a guest of the sister but all the same she would have to deal with him and his displeasure upon her return and - if John rejected her - the social repercussions would be terrible. She would be a spurned woman and would have to retire from polite society, and take up the mantle and don the armor of spinsterhood.

No, she couldn't tell Mother - or Father - where she was going - they could find out later and then it would be too late. Sarah had never defied her father, always been the good daughter, the quiet one, but had gained nothing from it. Blandina was outspoken with her political views and her writings and her community work. She moved easily in the world of men. And Helen. Helen was devoted to Blandina and lived quietly in her shadow. Lost in a tangle of at home days, social calls, church work and polite conversation, she had withered away to nothing. Surely Sarah's individual fate lay somewhere beyond the accepted social milieu. Who would help her, who could she talk too? Mother? No. She deferred every decision to Father. That left only her aunt Julia- Julia Seymour Conkling.

Of course! Aunt Julia! Why hadn't she thought of that in the beginning? Who better to advise her and to travel with her then Julia, a seasoned woman of the world! She would write to her in Utica and then make a social call, whence she would press her case. From there she would process on to Morristown, free from the prying eyes of her sisters. Even if she had to travel alone! Of course, she had never traveled alone, but she had heard that it was done - certain classes of women did so and were tolerably successful at it. She rose up from the bed and paced the room. The moon was up and flooded the chamber with silver light, a little breeze came through, picked up the letter from the desk and whirled it in the air. Sarah leapt up, as much as she could, for she was tightly laced and caught the letter in her hands. For the first time in her life freedom, indeed love... or perhaps just the heady pursuit of ... seemed possible. It was all within her grasp, she had only to step out and place her hand upon it. Her mind whirled with the very idea of it.