Sargent's Women

by Donna M. Lucey

  Elizabeth spent her free time riding horseback or tending a garden plot. She could clamber up the steep steps to the very top of the Down where the world was reduced to the simplest elements—wind, sky, sea, cliffs—or wend her way down toward the wooded path that led to the beach. Past the villa once inhabited by Dickens, and past the grand stone mansion where decadent poet Algernon Swinburne had grown up. (The aunts banned the work of both authors.) The old Swinburne place, with its aura of corruption, held a certain frisson for the girls. Without even reading his poems, they knew there was something very powerful about them. The redheaded poet—the poster child for godlessness and debauchery, sensual pleasure and alcoholism—was an ongoing trial for his aristocratic mother. “Poor dear Lady Jane,” the aunts would say. “Algernon has broken her heart!”

  It was unusually cold and stormy during Elizabeth’s first winter in Bonchurch. So on one of the first nice days, a sunny Sunday in late March 1878, people all across the island were drawn outdoors to bask in the sunlight. From Ashcliff, Aunt Ellen sketched a lovely sight: a beautiful three-masted ship passing under full sail through a “green and purple sea.” The ship was the HMS Eurydice, named after the Greek mythological figure—the doomed lover who could not escape the underworld (a rather macabre choice of name for a ship). Speedy and maneuverable when built, by the 1870s she had grown obsolete. Refitted as a training ship for young seamen, the Eurydice was returning from the West Indies. As they approached home, the sailors were in a festive mood and the captain let them enjoy the fine weather after a successful four months at sea. Rum was passed about. Many of the young men lounged in their hammocks or rested on the main deck. The gunports were open to ventilate the ship.

  Soon after 3:30 p.m., a freak blizzard blew in from the northwest. The Eurydice was rounding a point and the eight-hundred-foot cliffs of St Boniface Down obscured the black clouds about to envelop them. Ferocious winds and blinding snow rousted the men from their languor, but it was too late. The Eurydice’s sails immediately filled with heavy snow, two of the topgallant masts snapped off, and the ship was helpless as it spun around in the swells. Icy water poured through the open gunports and the ship plunged into the depths. The blizzard continued for forty-five minutes, and then—as if the storm had never happened—the sun reappeared. Bodies littered the now calm water. The crewmen, all capable swimmers, never had a chance. Some got sucked down into the sea with the ship; others quickly froze to death in the frigid water. Of 360 men, only two survived.

  The entire nation mourned the loss of the young men, with such promise. The incident was seared into Winston Churchill’s memory. Four years old at the time, he was walking along a nearby cliff with his nanny when he saw the ship just before it sank. Days later, he stood again on the cliffs now lined with fellow Britons who doffed their hats as a procession of boats slowly carried the corpses ashore. Gerard Manley Hopkins later memorialized the event in a long narrative poem, The Loss of the Eurydice (“Too late; lost; gone with the gale. . . .”). Elizabeth and the other girls at Miss Sewell’s witnessed firsthand the capriciousness of fate: one moment a vessel upright and triumphant—Aunt Ellen painted that picturesque moment—and in an instant all lost. So many ifs. If only the cliff hadn’t obscured their view, if only the sailors’ senses hadn’t been dulled with drink, if only they’d had some warning, if only the gunports had been closed.

  Curiously, a photograph of Elizabeth survives from this time period: she is wearing a sailor suit and high-button shoes and is standing against a studio backdrop of sharp rocks. Her hair is cut boyishly short, her forehead is covered with bangs. She’s in semiprofile, a sprig of flowers in her hand. She looks quite serious, her brow knitted, not an ounce of jollity evident.

  Death and tragedy seemed to stalk Elizabeth. Perhaps that’s why she was so sympathetic, why she had such compassion for others. People were naturally drawn to her. They confided in her. A classmate referred to Elizabeth as reflecting “the spirit of God” and being “a very powerful medium of good.” Even the Sewells melted in the young girl’s presence, Aunt Elizabeth writing, “she is so attractive that every one pets her.” Of course, that was just the sort of thing that Sewell worried about—too much petting.

  American girls baffled Elizabeth Sewell—their frankness, their self-assured air, their buoyancy and good humor. And above all, their sense of entitlement. They rendered opinions as they pleased, and spoke to their superiors as if they were their equals. In contrast, English girls were “morbid, self-conscious, anxious, uncertain.” Sewell was in a quandary. Which characteristics were preferable? “The shy unobtrusiveness of the English girl, or the self-possession and decision of tone of the American girl.” Sewell threw up her hands. “I do not pretend to decide,” she wrote. But she did do her best to instill a steely sense of duty and religious fervor—and even a bit of old-fashioned guilt—into her American charges.

  By the spring of 1878, young Elizabeth had been away from home for a year. In the interim she’d mourned her father’s death and celebrated her twelfth birthday without family. She yearned to see Rokeby, her siblings, and her pets. Could she come home for the summer? She was at the mercy of the guardians—the eight relatives who’d been named in her father’s will to make all decisions concerning the children’s education and upbringing. (Chanler had drawn up his will only six months before his death, never dreaming that his life would end so soon.) The guardians were influential members of society—among them, John Jacob Astor III and William Waldorf Astor (later, Viscount Astor)—who had little time to sit and ponder the children’s future. In addition, most of the guardians had no children of their own and were largely clueless about child-rearing.

  Amid the family papers at Rokeby is a leather-bound volume containing the minutes of the monthly meetings of the guardians in New York City. It reads like something out of Dickens, with much of the discussion concerning money and ways to save it, rather than the welfare of the children. The boys in England were permitted allowances, “but not extravagant” ones; the children would make their “usual” Christmas presents to the servants; cousin Mary Marshall, who did the only real parenting at Rokeby, was commended for her “good management & economy”; permissions were sought for boxing lessons and drawing lessons, for ribbons and sleighs, for entrance fees to various “societies” for Archie (the guardians agreed to pay the fees with the proviso that Archie reimburse the family account when he gained his inheritance at age twenty-one). Every penny was counted.

  A special meeting was held in March of 1878 to decide if the three siblings left in England—Archie, Wintie, and Elizabeth—would be permitted to come home for the summer. Only Elizabeth was allowed to do so; her brothers had to remain behind. Elizabeth was doubtless ecstatic over the prospect of being reunited with her family. But Miss Sewell had some reservations that she confided to one of the guardians in a letter: “My fear is that the Uncles and Aunts and Guardians will make so much of the child that her little head will be turned, for it is very hard, even when one puts on one’s most severe spectacles not to feel that she is one of the most winning little creatures imaginable.” There were other matters the schoolmistress wanted to address as well. Sewell thought it advisable to have Elizabeth examined at the Orthopedic Hospital in London before she boarded the ship. The young girl had developed a limp so pronounced it appeared as if one of her legs might be shorter than the other. Though Sewell considered it a “very small matter,” she thought it best not to ignore the abnormality.

  With a physical ailment compounding the sorrow Elizabeth had endured that year, you’d think Miss Sewell might have suggested a carefree summer. But she didn’t. She packed Elizabeth off with lessons she should attend to regularly, a less-than-scintillating reading list, and a warning not to fall into careless penmanship. Miss Sewell also sent word to Mary Marshall that Elizabeth’s failings should not be allowed to grow. The schoolmistress had already lectured Elizabeth on her sins: “Pride—Temper—Curiosity—and a disregard of the pleasu
re of her companions when her own amusement is concerned & carelessness in her lessons . . . I think I could have added vanity to the list of faults. . . . She must learn also to sit quiet in Church & not look around her.” Elizabeth had promised to mend her ways, but Miss Sewell feared she would be ruined. No worries in that regard. The “small matter” of Elizabeth’s limp was just the beginning of years of misery.

  By midsummer it was unclear whether Elizabeth would be able to return to Miss Sewell’s. Doctors suspected she was suffering from a hip disease, and her lameness made travel difficult. Should she stay home where she could recuperate surrounded by family? The Guardians had all escaped New York City during the summer season, off on their yachts, or away to some cool watering spot. Thus, no emergency meeting could be convened to decide Elizabeth’s fate.

  One guardian did interrupt her stay at a spa in Germany to express her strong opinion on the subject. This was twenty-four-year-old Margaret Stuyvesant “Daisy” Rutherfurd, a first cousin of the orphans and the youngest member of the guardians. (J. Winthrop Chanler had selected her because he wanted at least one of the guardians to be relatively close in age to his children.) Daisy had gone to Miss Sewell’s, adored the place, and argued strenuously that Elizabeth—short of being a complete invalid—should return there. She pointed out that her own roommate at Miss Sewell’s had also suffered from hip disease and she’d been royally treated. Daisy stressed that Elizabeth would be better off away from the chaos of Rokeby. The rigid routine at Miss Sewell’s would be far preferable. And even the medical care she could receive on the Isle of Wight was considered superior to what was available at Rokeby. As for moving Elizabeth to New York City to live with Daisy’s family—well, that would be quite impossible, what with their busy schedules. No, Elizabeth should go back to the aunts despite her diminished condition—even if climbing those cliffside terraces required the agility of a mountain goat. And so Elizabeth returned to Miss Sewell’s and got worse and worse.

  The young girl was finally brought to London in December 1879 to be examined by Dr. James Paget, a well-known surgeon near Hanover Square. He was clearly baffled by her case. Even Elizabeth could sense his confusion. Staying in the ultraproper Brown’s Hotel in Mayfair added to Elizabeth’s boredom and depression. Then, as if by magic, her charismatic grandfather Sam Ward appeared. He was a wonderful, colorful character—a bon vivant who had long since been ostracized by the Astor family and prevented from seeing his grandchildren. (The guardians permitted this surprise visit only because they believed Elizabeth was dying.) Ward arrived like Father Christmas, laden with wonderful gifts: a ruby ring surrounded by diamonds, a robe of camel’s hair, and a traveling case lined with maroon silk that cradled cut-glass flasks. Such a rascal Ward was, encouraging his teenage invalid to enjoy herself.

  Elizabeth made almost immediate use of her new traveling case. She and Wintie, then at Eton, were to spend the coming Christmas season in Paris with family friends. One of the guardians advised her that while she was there she should always speak French. A tutor had been hired to give Elizabeth and Wintie daily French lessons for an hour and a half; there would also be music lessons three times a week. Elizabeth also had in hand a recommendation for a local doctor in case her pain increased or she became more disabled.

  While in Paris, Elizabeth did need medical help. Fearing that her illness would leave her permanently crippled with curvature of the spine, the doctors prescribed a radical treatment: Elizabeth was to be kept immobile by being strapped to a board—for two years. In their monthly meeting on February 17, 1880, a week before Elizabeth’s fourteenth birthday, the guardians noted that their young charge would not be returning to school on the Isle of Wight. (They also expressed concern over getting the prepaid tuition back from Miss Sewell, and were relieved to find out they would.) Elizabeth, by then a complete invalid, was staying with an exceedingly social Astor cousin—a baroness married to the Dutch envoy to Paris. It’s hard to imagine that amid the swirl of Paris diplomatic life the baroness spent many quiet evenings by the fire with her sick cousin. From afar the guardians made provisions for Elizabeth’s illness, sending money for a private nurse, as well as for the “surgeon’s fees . . . hiring a landau & other luxuries & comforts incidental to Miss Chanler’s invalidism.”

  Relatives came and went but Elizabeth was left, in her words, “strapped down in a machine flat on my back.” For a long stretch she wasn’t even permitted to write letters. In the summer she was transported from Paris to Trouville-sur-Mer, a village on the coast of Normandy. The trip was an ordeal. She was slung in a hammock from the ceiling of the railroad carriage to prevent her spine from being jolted during the journey. She was then carried off the train and placed into a horse-drawn carriage. With the long machinelike board she was lying on, there was no room in the wagonette for anyone else. Elizabeth could hear the clatter of wheels and horse hooves, and look up at the sky, and try to imagine a time when she would be freed from her prison-like restraint. In Normandy she was surrounded by lots of cousins, but she remained on the porch as activity swirled around her. Occasionally, she’d be carried outside to watch family members play lawn tennis. An older gentleman sweetly read the newspaper to the invalid.

  Elizabeth became an object of pity. Her family shuttled her from one locale to the next: from a fancy hostelery in lower Manhattan (where Grandfather Sam Ward, a habitué of the place, came calling with more gifts), to a mansion on the corner of Second Avenue and 15th Street, home of Rutherford Stuyvesant, her extremely rich cousin and guardian. Heir to the original Peter Stuyvesant fortune, “Cousin Stuyve” spent much of his time hunting game and bagging art: Old World Italian masters and medieval and Renaissance suits of armor. Amid the display of broadswords and faceless steel knights, Elizabeth languished.

  Elizabeth was sick, bored, and lonesome for her family. But the guardians and the children’s anxious caretaker, Mary Marshall, wouldn’t permit her to return home. The utter confusion at Rokeby, even the summer heat, were cited as reasons to stay away. Despite the reality that wealthy New Yorkers always fled the sizzling city streets come summer, Mary Marshall insisted that Rokeby’s airy perch above the Hudson was hotter in June than the city was, since they were farther away from the sea breezes. “What is best will be made plain Bessie dear, if we ask God’s direction & we need this about everything great or small,” Marshall wrote.

  Lengthy letters kept Elizabeth abreast of the latest from Rokeby, as one season led to the next: the thick coating of snow that made sleighing perfect in February; sister Margaret’s new pet bullfinch that she’d trained to sing and to snatch seeds out of her lips; the mud pies the children made in soggy April. Cousin Marshall sent Elizabeth pressed violets, the first of the season. She also urged the young invalid to think of others less fortunate. On her sickbed Elizabeth dutifully made a flannel petticoat for a helpless old woman near Rokeby. Elizabeth was the soul of generosity and patience, always good-humored in spite of her own condition. “Queen Bess” they came to call her during that time period, for her dignity and restraint were nothing short of regal.

  News also arrived from her old classmates on the Isle of Wight (one letter to Elizabeth was signed “Your loving old school fellow/That sometime sinner”). And her Aunt Sewells corresponded with their former pupil for many years, sending their love and reminding the sick teenager “to take all the suffering & privation cheerfully” since it came from God. They had lots of questions for her: Have you grown tall from lying down so much? Who takes care of you? Has the pain decreased? They begged her for a photograph so they could look upon her “dear little face again!” The photographs Elizabeth sent to Bonchurch delighted the Sewells. They wrote back and said how unchanged she was—and yet, how sad she looked. Despite Elizabeth’s disabling illness, the aunts cautioned her that she should not think of herself; rather, she should look after her siblings. “I hope my dear Bessie all your own home circle are well—and that you have no more sad anxieties about any of them.”

/>   Heaven knows, she had endured enough.

  But near the end of 1882, Elizabeth’s brother Egerton died of a brain tumor at Rokeby. He was eight years old. Elizabeth spent Christmas at Rokeby with her bereaved siblings. Unstrapped from her board, Elizabeth now hobbled about on crutches. After the holidays she returned to Cousin Stuyve’s care in New York. And then a fresh blow. Fourteen-year-old brother Marion, off at St. Paul’s boarding school in New Hampshire, died suddenly in February 1883, after winning a competition with a fellow student over who could eat the most Turkish delight at one sitting. Though victorious, Marion vomited all night in the frigid dormitory. Days later he died of pneumonia. Elizabeth was not allowed to join her siblings in mourning this time. Mary Marshall considered it unwise for Elizabeth to travel to Rokeby. “I am so afraid that you might suffer from a journey taken just now while you are more or less run down & are necessarily under excitement,” Marshall wrote to Elizabeth. “God alone can support us under this heavy sorrow & my constant prayer is that He will.” The orphans were now down to eight.

  Elizabeth came of age in 1887 and gained the considerable fortune her father had left her in his will. No more governesses or guardians need watch over her. She was free to travel as she liked and she did. Her limp didn’t stop her. Hundreds of letters squirreled away for decades in boxes and stored willy-nilly at Rokeby—in the attic, or the tack room, or any spare corner of the ancestral home—chronicle Elizabeth’s nearly incessant movements. Letters addressed to her in New York or Rokeby couldn’t keep up with her and they’d be redirected to her latest stopping point: glamorous places like Paris, London, Monaco; or spots more off the beaten track, like Taormina in Sicily, which, at the time, was overrun with bandits. Elizabeth’s brother Willie—an adventurer much admired by Theodore Roosevelt—brought her to Sicily in the vain hope they would run into some desperados. After several weeks they took off like bandits themselves: having run through their cash they were unable to pay the hotel bill. Another sibling would settle up.