Annie Sullivan, On Genesee Hill

[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 mentalist. 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 had rained. The trains were delayed, they took a carriage to the Bagg's Hotel. The wheels, bogged down in mud and debris, had to be pried out with boards and long poles. 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 in an end pew, with her parents Rutger B. and Mary Seymour Miller, sat in a pool of light from a tall 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, 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, unmarried, a ripe fruit as yet unplucked. He was twenty eight, a well educated man of means, well traveled 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.

[fiona]

to be continued.

[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.

[fiona]

more to come...

[dgriffin]

It's reading terrific!!

[fiona]

Thank you. Coming soon: "A BITTER RESOLUTION."

[dgriffin]

Shall I begin to put it up on the Workbook web page?

www.windsweptpress.com/oghscenes.htm

[fiona]

yes, you can do that as long as the story will be continuous

[dgriffin]

From Fiona:

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-

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 little woman know of her suffering?

And 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 perfect lawn winded, panting, staring at each other, 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.
Link to Post

[fiona]

coming soon: A REVELATION and a RESOLUTION

[dgriffin]

Marie Jolicoeur

[fiona]

A REVELATION


The coachman 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 coachman 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 coachman helped her into the carriage. She snapped the little curtain closed. John could hear her sobbing.

"Marie, Marie, wait... we can discuss this..." and she opened the curtain just a little, but said:

"Go. Go from my eyes! You are dead to me." And she snapped the curtain closed.

He turned away and looked at the ground. The last thing he heard was the clatter of the wheels as they 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 hung massive fronds 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]

Coming next: A resolution

[dgriffin]

Great device, the coachman. I really felt like I was there in the last scene, especially as John kneels in the grass and then goes up to the room. Very cinematic. I was there! Nice writing!

[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 John's sister, Mary. It was written in a fine Spencerian hand on the finest onion skin paper and the sister had threaded 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, 1873


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.