Endless Knots

Margaret's memorial service, a bit delayed

How many people show up at a memorial service, say, 160 years after the person's death when it's a Sunday in the middle of July and the temperature is 95? In the case of Margaret Fuller, a chapel-full, as per yesterday at Mount Auburn's Bigelow Chapel, perhaps as many as 75 (sorry, I failed to count).

The Rev. Rosemarie Smurzynski led the service, giving the eulogy (please publish it, Rosemarie), which was followed by Jessa Piaia, portraying Margaret and reading a sampling of Margaret's premonitions about her death (there were many; Jessa read from a letter Margaret had written to her mother), and original "rememberances" written by her contemporaries: Emerson (Wendell Refior), Thoreau (Richard Smith), James Freeman Clarke (Rob Velella), Elizabeth Peabody (Dorothy Emerson), and Julia Ward Howe (Deb Goss).

From the chapel, we walked to the Fuller Family Plot at the cemetery, where I made  brief remarks,* read the cenotaph, and encouraged people to step forward, take a snapdragon, bouquets of which my husband, Jeff Stamps, and I had carried from the chapel in baskets, to say a few words about Margaret. Many came forward, including one of Margaret's descendants and her namesake, Margaret Fuller. Rob Velella placed a wreath at the cenotaph that Fuller's family had erected in her memory in 1854.

Jeff and I took two snapdragons and placed them on the marker for Bucky and Anne Fuller's graves, about twenty feet away.

Many snapped pictures during the service and at the plot. Please post them, friends, or send some to me and I'll post them here.

*I can't recall exactly what I said but here's the gist:

Margaret liked to walk and she also liked to push people to their limits so the long walk from the chapel to the plot in the terrible heat was fitting. (I then read the text of the cenotaph--above). After people had placed the flowers, I noted that it's customary among her biographers and admirers to say that Margaret's life was cut too short, that she should have lived longer than to 40. But, perhaps, she had lived just the right number of years because here we were, 200 years after her birth, dozens of us, still celebrating her life and works. And perhaps 200 years from now, when she will be 400, there will be a similar number gathered to honor her remarkable spirit which fills the sky.

Margaret Fuller Memorial Service - Sun, July 18 - 160 years after fact

 
Margaret Fuller, along with her husband and young son, died in a shipwreck off the coast of Fire Island, NY, on July 19, 1850. The Rev. Rosemarie Smurzynski, a student of Margaret's life and a member of the Margaret Fuller Bicentennial committee, had the brainstorm to conduct a proper memorial service for her at Mount Auburn Cemetery, where her memorial stone stands in the midst of the Fuller family plot. I thought it was a brilliant idea, and barring unforeseen circumstances, which seem to be my lot at the moment, will be part of the group, speaking a few words at the actual plot. Here's the press release.

This Sunday, July 18th, at 12:30 there will be a memorial service in commermoration of the life and legacy of Margaret Fuller Ossoli at Mount Auburn Cemetery, 580 Mount Auburn Street, Cambridge, MA.  Actors will appear in costume to pay tribute to this significant woman.  The doors of Mount Auburn’s Bigelow Chapel will open for a reception at 12:30.  Bree Harvey, Director of Education and Visitor Services for the cemetery, will welcome guests promptly at 1:00 P.M.   Rev. Rosemarie Smurzynski will lead the Memorial Service and Eric Huenneke will provide the music.  After the service, participants will walk to the Fuller family lot for a wreath-laying ceremony at 2:00 PM.

The actors participating in the program are as follows: Jessa Piaia as Margaret Fuller, Wendell Refior as Ralph Waldo Emerson, Rob Velella as James Freeman Clarke, Dorothy Emerson as Elizabeth Peabody, Richard Smith as Henry David Thoreau, and Deborah Goss as Julia Ward Howe.

This event is part of the Bicentennial’s Conversations Series, supported by a grant from Mass Humanities and modeled after the “Conversations” Margaret Fuller offered for women (and later men) in Boston in the late 1830s and early 1840s.  It is co-sponsored by the Margaret Fuller Bicentennial Committee and the Friends of Mount Auburn and is part of a year-long series of events celebrating Margaret Fuller’s life and work.  This event is FREE and open to the public.

Margaret Fuller's laptop

The Margaret Fuller mafia has shown up in force at Mass Historical Society for a remarkable convergence of her biographers, enthusiasts, and relatives for a weekend of Fullermania at "Margaret Fuller and her Circles." Opening keynote by Fuller biographer and brilliant speaker Mary Kelley, ""The Measure of My Footprint": Margaret Fuller's Unfinished Revolution," addressed a gnawing issue for many: how far have we come since Margaret's "Declaration of Independence," as Kelley described Fuller's treatise, Woman in the Nineteenth Century.

The conference deserves many posts and I wish I could be there for all of it but alas, work. And then there's the remarkable exhibit, curated by my friend, Megan Marshall, author of The Peabody Sisters, housed just upstairs from the conference at Mass Historical Society, "'A More Interior Revolution': Elizabeth Peabody, Margaret Fuller, and the Women of the American Renaissance."

Here, though the picture lacks from proper positioning by the photographer and the fact that I took it on my phone, is the writing desk that Margaret used. We all hovered about trying to make sense of it last night, trying to decipher the appliques, the writing, and any little nick in the surface. Bell Gale Chevigny, another of the biographers, had it shipped to the event, where it's beautifully displayed. Thanks, Bell!

 

Margaret Fuller's Persuasion 11

Page 11, "The Persuasion"

Chapter 2

The plain brick walls of Gare du Nord were on fire, orange and red, stories of the time in yellow and blue, violet and chartreuse.

Posters papered iron girders every whichway: Je suis marxiste tendance Groucho, read one, its smiling namesake fingering a hammer and sickle where normally he would have stroked a cigar.

La poésie est dans la rue! Not a terrible idea, street poetry, but I was not in the mood.

The station was massive, track beside track, trains with dozens of cars trailing into the distance. Though nearly ten at night, the platforms buzzed with mad hornets, propelled by destiny, I thought, undertaking necessary and important journeys. I, on the other hand, was here to turn my pencil on end, erasing memories not scribing new ones.

Departing the train meant amputation, cutting from the last scene where he and I were both in frame, the train chugging out of the station, him head down walking the tracks in the opposite direction.

Decompose the emotions
Separate the strands.
One foot then other
In the future I will land.

I had a rhyming couplet for a situation like this. This time at the third or fourth round—I couldn’t even concentrate enough to know how many times—I caught my sandal on the platform.

Margaret Fuller's Persuasion 10

Page 10, "The Persuasion"

A trumpet of steam, a clanging bell, a shrill of wheels braking and the car rocked sideways, waking me. Unkempt gardens wedged against the tracks. The train’s backdraft ruffled laundry on blackened clotheslines. Greying sheets and men’s undershirts slapped over on themselves. Beds, men.

The train screeched, stopped. The conductor hurried past my compartment and down the stairs, and, when he reached the platform, he bodychecked a very old woman. She didn't seem to notice.

The urge to write, a good sign. I scribbled on a torn envelope still in my desk drawer: “She wears a granny dress of sorts, only hers is finely tailored, couture perhaps, a long brocade of silk cut on the bias, in deep garnet, stitched with emerald thread, a black chiffon sash at the bodice. The ivory lace shawl on her shoulders is lovely too. An ancient French actress?”

She lifted her skirt and her bags, grabbed the dented brass rail, and hiked herself up the stairs. She walked past my cabin, head turned away. Another person ignoring me. I stuffed the envelope in my satchel and slumped back.

The train curved through a scrap metal yard, hills of crushed cars and trampled trucks, rusty steel beams, flat tire farms. The book in my lap belonged in the junkyard. I should have thrown it out at the last station, tossed Relativity on the rails with the roses. I folded my arms over the book and instructed myself to study the wheat bowing to the train.

Stripes of light glinted through a forest and we floated into sunflowers glistering before purple shadows draped the meadows. Write it down.

I opened the book, slipped the jacket’s edge under my nail, and flicked a cannon of dirt at the roses. I slid to the opening chapter:

“Physical Meaning of Geometrical Propositions”

Each word sensible but strung together, in that order, a foreign language, like the sequence mouthed earlier that day, on the platform, by the he of the book and the bouquet.

Margaret Fuller's Persuasion 9

Page 9, "The Persuasion"

Five years earlier

Chapter 1

I was alone in the wooden compartment, aboard what was then the express from Calais—a taxi, three train rides, the underground, and the Channel Ferry all ticked off on the itinerary. Then, the journey from Oxford to Paris consumed a very long day spent inspecting timetables in four-point type.

The windowpane, nearly as big as the sliding door, rattled in its frame and I tapped my forehead bang against it. If only I could locate the angle of confusion and tap it, drain it.

Late June, hot and when I pressed my palm to the window, the skin clung to the glass. Maybe that would be better, if the whole of me could simply dissolve into the pane.

I was alone, traveling second-class on worn brown-plaid cushions. I leaned back, crossed my feet on the opposite seat, kicked the roses out of view, and folded my hands over the book.

A  raindrop shimmered on the glass, floating down the pane like a parachute, then poof. I wished I could evaporate in tiny poofs too.

Instead I remembered the flowers, which brought three bites of cold toast, "breakfast," up.

I told myself to look through the glass. Wheatfeathers brushing blonde fields. I should write that down.

The train whorled on, low horns and slow drums, rumbles and whistles, a lullaby of locomotion.

I dreamt of a man dressed in equations, factoring in love, he said.

 

Margaret Fuller's Persuasion 8

Page 8, "The Persuasion"

I didn’t move. I remember wondering if I should stand but couldn’t.

And I remember rerunning in detail what had just happened, numbering each piece, the non-compliant encyclopedia, the Pssst, the bench, the conversation with the spirit, a kind of reasonable, if insistent, one.

That I liked her, liked her feist, her sheer pluck at showing up more than a century after she’d died.

And then I remember another sizzle, a filmy light, a sketchy outline filling in like a photo bathing in developer, a garnet dress (I wanted one), high black-laced boots (those, too) coming into view beneath her skirt, a knot of curls turning sienna, and there she was, full, beside me again, bow at the bodice, hands clasped over the book in her lap just like the drawing, except this time with a sprig of dark-cherry heliotrope behind her right ear.

Of all that I will say, there is one fundamental reality whose truth drives our connection. My work was taken from me before it had been seen to completion. I know, I know.

She waved her hand as if to prevent my stating the obvious.

People say, at least many have said, that Woman in the Nineteenth Century was the most influential treatise on Woman of all time. Untrue, Mariana. They never understood it. That hastily written screed was but the introduction to the world I saw coming and it was hardly just about Woman. I never had the opportunity to complete my thinking. I died just at the start of the Industrial Revolution and humanity has transformed, nay, I'll say it, evolved through many eras since-Man and Woman.

I don’t know exactly what she said next. I don't remember getting up, leaving the garden, or sitting down again at the desk but I do remember grabbing the pencil and watching it vibrate over the notebook. Next another sizzle, the light brightening, and watching my hand, as if it were not attached to me, lightspeeding across the page, scrawling unsteady letters and squiggly underlines:

Woman in the 21st Century

Margaret Fuller's Persuasion 7

Page 7, "The Persuasion"

Eerie as this sounds, I wasn’t frightened. It was all transpiring too quickly, just beyond the click of real time, faster than I could stand apart and observe. Funny, then, that I can remember the conversation, if you can call it that, verbatim.

Mariana, there is much that I must impart to you but let us start at the destination. As you just read in that pitiful summary of my biography, pitiful, I perished tragically, with my husband and our little son, my only child, which they failed to note, off the coast of Fire Island.

I’d noticed the reference to Fire Island, where Tonin’s parents had their summer house.

Henry came to find my body at the Lighthouse but it never washed ashore. I died too young.

“Who’s Henry?” Until that moment I had said nothing but, even as I write this years later, I have no idea whether I said these words, whether I thought them, or whether I was hallucinating the whole thing.

Henry Thaw’-row. She punched her voice into the first syllable then, poof, she sizzled, making the sound of the radio dial twirled just beyond the station’s band. Then began her long fade, as she grew ever less visible, until there was nothing next to me but air and all I could hear was the librarian’s voice from way inside the building. “There’s far too little emphasis in our textbooks on...”

Margaret Fuller's Persuasion 6

Page 6, "The Persuasion"

I blinked. I shut my eyes and opened them. I did this faster. And slower. I inhaled. I exhaled. I coughed. I swallowed. I choked a little. I made more involuntary noises. I watched the hair on my arm rise—and I became very cold.

The woman, the Sarah Margaret Fuller whose life I’d just taken notes on, stood not five feet away, motioning to follow her. But just as I had not deliberately turned to the page where I’d read about her, I did not voluntarily rise from the chair and follow her into the garden.

She stood beside a granite bench and smoothed her hand along the back of her skirt so as not to muss it, sitting. Here. She patted the bench.

Mariana, we have met before. May I call your attention to as recently as yesterday, for instance, at the café when a woman of your generation made a penetrating, might I say, illuminating, comment about the condition of man? Her voice was strained and starchy, the phony English accent old American actors used to sound sophisticated.

I did remember that person in the café whom she mentioned—and then I couldn’t recall her at all. Every word was audible but I didn’t think she was actually making any sound. I could see what she was saying in my head, as if she were writing on the walls of my mind in flourescent ink or in the crevices of my brain or right onto my eyeballs...I wasn’t even certain where.

 

Margaret Fuller's Persuasion 5

Page 5, "The Persuasion"

I put my hand beside the thick ply of pages flopped over to the right. I had to read up on the brave soldier, I had to make a timeline of Soldier Samson’s life, and, as I was thinking these very rational things, I noticed my hand scrawling mad notes in my new red notebook:

Sarah Margaret Fuller—1810-50: Critic, j’list, soc refrmr, b. 05/23/1810, Cmbrdgp’t, Mass, rig-ously educ’d by fathr, Timothy, US cong’man “2 blve that womn = of mn;” frnds w/lit, art, & pol ldrs, US & Eur; edtr, princ wrtr, The Dial (“Trans’dntal M’ment”); auth, Summer on the Lakes, Convos w/Goethe, Gunderode, Papers on Lit & Art, and Wom in the Ninet’th Cent; col’mnst, NY Dly Trib; 1st Amer wom frgn corresp; eyewit to Rom Revol, 1848; d. 07/19/1850, w/husb, Ct Giovanni Ossoli, & son, Angelo Eugene, return’g to Amer; ship broke up, storm, 150’ off Fire Isle.

I wrote Sarah Margaret Fuller again, underlined her last name twice, turned the journal to a clean page, put both hands on the edge of the encyclopedia, and easily opened it to Soldier Samson’s entry.

Yes. The woman I was researching for my essay, the woman who broke ranks with her gender to defend her country. D-e-b-o-r—I’d gotten that far in writing her name when I heard something. Pssst. Pssst. Where was it coming from? Pssst. Psssssst. I traced my eyes around the room. Down the long wall of floor-to-ceiling books, along the open shelves of periodicals in the back, along the opposite bank of study carrels, and...there it was. She was. At the glass door. By the library garden. Waving. Sort of smiling. Shooing me toward her. The woman near the end of the Fs. Pssst.