The Accursed

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Penelope van Osburgh, who’d first sighted the onslaught, was seriously ill for several days, and much petted and fussed over for weeks. Wilhelmina Burr, Instructress of Art, Elocution, and Eurythmics, was ill for a week, surprisingly; and, when she’d recovered, surprised her colleagues and Miss Singleton by resigning her position at the seminary, with the abashed explanation:

  “As I succumbed to the most ridiculous of female hysterics, and could not prevent my students from fits of madness, I’m afraid that I am not much more mature than the silliest of them, and have no right to be teaching them.”

  POSTSCRIPT: NATURE’S BURDEN

  Though the “snake frenzy” was to be spoken of in Princeton and vicinity for decades, the episode was quickly and summarily dismissed by authorities, as by Dr. Boudinot and his medical/scientific colleagues, as a regrettable example of female hysterics. In the Packet was a prominent article in which a number of gentlemen in the community were invited to comment upon the upset, the consensus being that a “hallucinatory epidemic of unknown origin” had swept through the girls’ school, and the “snakes” were mere imaginings.

  Among the gentlemen interviewed were several research scientist-professors at the university, as well as President Wilson himself. Several of these affected a mirthful tone, regrettably, to the detriment of the seminary and its staff; several suggested that the “excitable girls” and their instructors were in need of better, more authoritarian jurisdiction, namely a male headmaster for the school. But Woodrow Wilson, conscious of his position as chief administrator at the university, did not choose to criticize the seminary headmistress, or any of the instructors; graciously he noted that there had certainly been “numerous outbreaks of ‘demonic behavior’ ” at Princeton University, in the early 1800s when the boys rebelled “like clockwork,” and so he would not presume to pass judgment on the seminary, let alone withdraw his daughters from it if they had been enrolled there as students. Dr. Wilson concluded with an appeal for sympathy, understanding, and patience: “For Woman, whom Nature has burdened with a load far heavier than Man—that is, propagation—must be judged with tolerance and forbearance in areas where, with no regard for intention, she has seriously lagged behind man.”

  “DEFEAT AT CHARLESTON”

  I will not go down in defeat. I vow.”

  It has been variously recorded how in the winter of 1905 to 1906 Woodrow Wilson, admired and honored “abroad”—(that’s to say, outside Princeton)—was yet derided, scorned, and cruelly politicked-against, within his own university community. This situation grated upon the man’s sensitive nerves and caused him many a sleepless night; and, as the stoic Wilson laughingly complained to his devoted wife Ellen, compounded his “turmoil in Central America”—(that’s to say, severe gastric distress in the “equatorial regions” of his body).

  The initial issue of contention, the location of the Graduate College, was now complicated by a virtual war between the president’s office and certain of his administrators, regarding what was called the “iron chain of command” at the university, as well as Dr. Wilson’s campaign against the exclusive eating clubs of Prospect Avenue for which he felt a personal dislike and bitterness. And there were other, almost daily abrasions.

  “I will not have insurrection. I was inaugurated to run this university, and so I will.”

  It was so, ironically: outside Princeton, in certain selected quarters, Woodrow Wilson’s reputation could not have been higher. At a Democrats’ dinner at the Lotos Club in Manhattan, for instance, in late March, the “Kingmaker” George Harvey in introducing Dr. Wilson to his audience of cigar-smoking gentlemen had “nominated” him for President—by which Harvey meant President of the United States! And though Dr. Wilson was humbled by the remark, and made every effort to dismiss it from his mind, yet he was deeply stirred; and excited; and could not resist sharing the news with his dear wife Ellen, as soon as he returned home.

  The highest Presidency in the land! Of course it was only meant to flatter.

  No, Woodrow—it was not. You are Presidential material! You know that God has a greater destiny for you than just Princeton.

  Yet, at the same time, so mysteriously, Dr. Wilson was treated with very little respect in Princeton; only his undergraduates seemed to admire him, if at a distance; much of the administration had shifted to a support of gregarious Andrew West, and a good deal of the faculty; the situation with the board of trustees was yet worse, and caused particular gastric distress. Dr. Wilson raged against the “condescension” of his trustees, who treated the president of the university like a “mere hireling, a lackey”; he would name no names, but one of these gentlemen cruelly flaunted his power as a “retired chief administrator of the federal government.” (So upset was Dr. Wilson with Mr. Cleveland, he could not bear to hear the man’s name spoken, nor even the name of Cleveland’s glamorous wife, Frances.) So malevolent had his enemies grown in winter/spring 1906 they seemed to have begun a systematic erosion of his reputation among the most powerful alumni associations, particularly in the South; and Dr. Wilson thought, with some bitterness, how his old friend Winslow Slade might have aided him, if the older man had not gone into a sort of retreat at Crosswicks, now declining to see friends like Dr. Wilson.

  “But I will fight them, Ellen. You can be sure!”

  The more enemies, the more mobilized a man might be. Woodrow Wilson’s Scots ancestors were warriors, not mewling, weak-livered females.

  So it was, Dr. Wilson embarked upon a zealous campaign to repair his reputation among the Princeton alumni, who comprised a wealthy and politically potent segment of the university-educated population at this time; he was determined to combat certain false images, that he was “dogmatic” as an administrator, “rigid,” “unbending,” “dictatorial,” by meeting with alumni groups in the East and South, in such key cities as Baltimore, Washington, Richmond, and Atlanta, on such favorite topics as “Democracy and the University,” “Religion and Patriotism,” “Princeton in the Nation’s Service,” “Natural Leaders of Men,” etc., with gratifying success.

  Then came Charleston, South Carolina, on April 13, 1906.

  So grievous a showing, and the president of Princeton University so “bizarre” in his performance, a number of concerned alumni wrote letters to the board of trustees calling for Dr. Wilson’s resignation!

  HISTORIANS HAVE GENERALLY ignored, or underplayed, this curious aberration in Dr. Wilson’s career, partly because there are few reliable records concerning the “defeat at Charleston” (as Woodrow Wilson would call it). So far as I am able to ascertain, Dr. Wilson began his speech to the Charleston alumni organization with his usual “authority” and “ease”; he knew to “loosen up” his Southern audience with a favorite anecdote about “three darkies” brought up to Princeton by their young masters, in the old days before the war, who were goggle-eyed by their first snow, which they believed to be falling cotton. (Allegedly, this anecdote roused “gales of laughter” in Dr. Wilson’s audience, of entirely gentlemen. That Dr. Wilson utilized his very humorous “Negro dialect” with many a rolling of his eyes and comical gestures, surely added to the hilarity.)

  After this promising start, Dr. Wilson began a speech he could have recited in his sleep—(“And very often do, in fact!” as he joked to Mrs. Wilson)—titled “The University Man, the Christian, and the Patriot”—but after a few minutes he felt a tinge of apprehension, and even nausea; and his voice, ordinarily poised and well modulated, began to falter. The blame lay with the red-meat dinner he’d consumed, as a man among men; or with the sickly clouds of smoke from the gentlemen’s cigars and pipes, wafting through the ill-ventilated room. Continuing to speak, while feeling sweat break out on his forehead, Dr. Wilson felt a prick of terror as, glancing about the audience, he seemed to see at the very rear of the room the corpulent shirtfront, bland bald pate, and ruddy well-fed face of his nemesis Dean West!—his enemy seated amid rapt listeners with a pretense of being one of them.

 
“No. It can’t be. He would not dare follow me to Charleston—he would not.”

  Yet, the well-practiced delivery for which the president of Princeton was known had become, it seemed, irrevocably jarred; like a lone railway car by cruel accident separated from its fellows, that eases onto the graveled roadway bed, and begins to speed, and rattles out of control, Dr. Wilson began to speak rapidly, often interrupting himself in mid-phrase.

  The substance of his talk, as it has been reported, was confused: now, Dr. Wilson spoke in an impassioned voice of allies and enemies; now, of democracy and the threat from abroad—“As hundreds of thousands of enemies of Protestantism swarm to the shore of the New World, minds and spirits shackled by the despotism, intolerance, and rank superstition which governs in the dominions of the Pope of Rome, and which prevails in all of Catholic Europe.” From this, Dr. Wilson shifted abruptly to the familiar subject of Christian leadership and Christian followers: “For Jesus Christ is our model, Who knew Himself a ‘fisher of men’ and commanded that all who wished salvation should follow Him—yea, even unto battle.” Then, with no clear transition, Dr. Wilson murmured jestingly about the internecine battles at the university, which provoked restlessness in the audience, a flurry of coughing, throat-clearing, and the like, of the kind that signals to a speaker that his time is finished; but Dr. Wilson did not seem to notice, and continued speaking, in a rapid if rambling voice, warning his audience that the “aristocratic heritage” of their great university was being threatened by “enemies within.” At some point, the indignant speaker warned of the “worshippers of Mammon”—as well as the “wild-eyed, murderous Anarchists and their union-organizer cronies”—for, he feared, the United States would never be a true democracy until such time—(and here Woodrow Wilson drew himself up to his full, narrow height, with ministerial sternness and a glittering of eyeglasses)—“until such time, gentlemen, that a Negress resides in the White House.”

  At which Dr. Wilson broke off abruptly, as if a switch had been thrown in his brain. Blinking and awkwardly smiling, in preparation for the usual warm waves of applause—which, as it happened, was slow in coming, in Charleston, South Carolina, on this evening of April 13, 1906.

  AFTERWARD DR. WILSON begged of his Charleston host to tell him what he’d said, which he could not seem to remember; and his host said, with evasive eyes, “Why, Woodrow, I didn’t hear, exactly—or, if I did, I don’t recall your exact words.”

  “But—what did I say? Was I joking? And the joke fell flat?”

  “Yes. Possibly.”

  “But there was no laughter. There was no applause. What on earth did I say, that so offended the audience?”

  “Woodrow, no one heard. I didn’t hear. It is all right. It will be forgotten. Everyone is sympathetic.”

  “But, my God—what did I say?”

  RETURNED HOME TO Princeton by rail, Dr. Wilson was stricken with both gastric and “psychoneurological” distress, for which his physician Dr. Hatch prescribed an immediate vacation in Bermuda, of not less than twelve days; that the overwrought man might calm his mind, and be restored to some balance of his former well-being. Indeed, Dr. Wilson was told that he must flee Princeton at once, that a complete mental and physical collapse might be forestalled.

  “MY PRECIOUS DARLING . . .”

  Here, I will include excerpts from intimate letters written by Woodrow Wilson to his beloved wife Ellen, during the time (April 16 to April 27, 1906) of his “enforced rest” in Bermuda.

  It is shocking to discover that, while writing these heartfelt, surely sincere letters of love to his wife, Woodrow Wilson was at the same time falling under the spell, and, in time, succumbing, to the seductive blandishments of the mysterious society woman known to historians as “Cybella Peck”—now recognized as a fictitious name.

  ADMIRALTY INN, BERMUDA

  SUNDAY A.M. 17 APRIL 1906

  My precious darling,

  How I miss you! I am not ashamed to say that I think of you

  constantly & often close my eyes here on the veranda of the Inn, to imagine you close beside me; that I might clasp your hand in mine, and draw from you solace, & balm, and consolation, to compensate for the pain & humiliation I have had to endure lately. Yet—I shall endure, & I shall prevail.

  This, I vow.

  Please do not tell anyone, dearest—that I am away “for reasons of health”—nor even “for a respite from overwork.” (Though God knows that is true!) You need not tell them anything, only just that “Woodrow will be back in his office in Nassau Hall on the morning of Monday, May 1.”

  Ah, Bermuda is certainly the best place in the world to forget Princeton, though I shall work here of course—I shall work very hard—(lectures to write)—& I shall miss my dear little wife.

  My artless little Ellen, not an hour passes without my offering thanks to God, that he sent you, & your great, boundless, nourishing love! It was His plan, that another, far inferior to my dear Ellen, should have “rejected” me as a husband years ago; His plan, that we are bound together for life. Please know, sweet Ellen, that it is not by adding to our masculine knowledge but by understanding us with their superior gifts of sympathy & intuition, that women are our helpers . . . When I see the jeering faces, the faces of infamy, that would destroy me, & he, W*** daring to torment me, in Charleston . . . at once I think of you, & your abiding & unquestioning love; & the entire Universe is changed for me & it is rather as if all men & angels listened, so perfectly my thought is mirrored in the light of your lovely brown eyes!

  Sunday 4 p.m.

  The sky is so porcelain-blue above the Atlantic—it is amazing. You & the girls have teased me, I fail to look at things, yet now I am looking at a sight worthy of paradise, the wide stretch of beach behind the Admiralty Inn where the sand is near-white & kept very smooth; swept smooth early each morning by servants. All is calm, calm! The action of the waves which I halfway feared, after the choppy crossing, would prove agitating to my nerves is, on the contrary, restful—hypnotic—healing. In Princeton it is a chill, begrudging early spring—with a taste of winter, still, in the nights—but here on this paradisiacal island, it is full spring, & all a-bloom in crimson, yellow, orange, snowy-white flowers as large as a man’s head, that seem to nod at me as I pass.

  There, strife & enmity; here, calm & peace.

  But no!—you have begged me not to brood upon my “morbid” subject—and so, I will not.

  There comes a courteous little darkie the size of a midget (in livery!) to wait upon me, inquiring—Would masta wish for a drink, sir?

  Sunday evening

  Woke from an uneasy nap before dinner—stunned with the horror of my blunder at Charleston—the debacle, the shame, in so public an arena—I fear I shall never outlive it. My thoughts are overcast & sickly; & in contrast to the glowing faces of my fellow vacationers, who are both Americans & British. As to my digestion . . .

  (Do not be distressed, my dear, for I am fully capable of nursing myself if required, & have become quite adept at the pump, in any case—to whose repulsive ministrations, I am ashamed to expose my darling!)*

  It is said that Mark Twain arrived on a boat from Miami this mid-day, & an American heiress of the name of Peck took immediate possession of him. There is a gentleman of great reputation, who clothes himself in white—white linen, white cotton, white silk!—& is never seen without an ill-smelling Cuban cigar clenched between his stained teeth. I shall avoid him, I think—for it is commonly known, Samuel Clemens gives strength to the Antichrist in his crude “satirical” writings, & could be no friend of Woodrow Wilson.

  Now, I will say good night, dear Ellen! For I am feeling somewhat melancholy, & lonely; & the rebellion in “Central America” is but temporarily quelled, I fear. But I will take solace working on my speech on Christian patriotism, to be delivered to the Philadelphia Society, in May, before succumbing to my dose of Oil of Tartar, & blessed sleep!

  Your loving husband,

  Woodrow

 
; ADMIRALTY INN

  18 APRIL 1906

  My precious darling,

  Tramped barefoot along the beach at dawn, in my “whites”—(thank you my darling for having packed my things so carefully, & for including such sweet little cards, for me to discover amid my undergarments as days pass!); you will be relieved to hear that my night was not nearly so tormented as I had feared, since the debacle in Charleston; for fortunately, I have brought quite a store of medicines for the purpose of combating insomnia as well as the usual gastric distress.

  Yet tramping in the open air, close by the surf, I find my mind distracted by thoughts of combat, elsewhere; & words of speeches aswirl in my brain, like swords. I will not be defeated by my enemies. I will not. In a haze of distraction I was stopped by a fellow resident at the Admiralty Inn, as I was about to step on a lion’s mane—this, a nasty-looking jellyfish that is often washed up on the beach. (The Negro servants scurry to remove them, but not always quickly enough.) “Sir! You don’t want step on one of these!”—so the gentleman warned me, with a wink of his eye. Indeed, I do not: as I thanked him, & we introduced ourselves & chatted briefly, before moving on.

  Ah, Ellen! You will not believe it—my misfortune!—Amanda FitzRandolph & her husband Edgerstoune are vacationing here, at the home of Mrs. Peck—Sans Souci it is called, & said to be the most palatial villa on the island. By chance I encountered Mrs. FitzRandolph in the hotel, where she was visiting friends. “Why, Woodrow! What a pleasant surprise!”—etc., etc. I hope I was polite enough; & masked my dismay. The last thing I want is to speak of Princeton matters, here; even to see familiar Princeton faces, when I am meant to have a respite from them . . .