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tropes-and-tales · 2 years ago

Text

Uncertain

CW: Pure angst

Word Count: 4668

Other Pieces: This is a sequel to this.

You finally feel like your life is starting. Washington D.C. is free of Marcus Pike. He’s back in Texas with Teresa Lisbon (you gave in to your misery for a weekend, and you had stalked the woman’s social media until you felt sick and deleted your profile altogether).

Then you decided to be happy. To move on. To set the misery aside, to consider your years’ long crush on Marcus Pike as a painful lesson.

You do just that. You move on. You find a semblance of happiness.

You love D.C. You love your job. You find a townhouse in Truxton Circle, a mile from work, and you bike there every day. Your neighborhood is walkable, and it reminds you of your time in Europe.

You can’t fathom how this is your life. You can’t quite believe that the girl raised in a working class home with a mechanic father and a waitress mother grew up to get her doctorate in art.

Sometimes you go to sleep worried you’ll wake up in the morning to find that it was all a dream. Love-life aside, you have a dream job in an interesting city. You have a great townhouse with a lot of old character, and the entire scene rounds out when a stray cat adopts you and moves in, just saunters in your backdoor one morning like she owns the place.

You don’t allow yourself to think about Marcus. You know he moves fast; you know he’ll probably propose to Teresa and remarry soon. Maybe this one will stick, but you don’t care to hear about it either way.

Deep down, underneath all the hurt, you know you still love him. But that love has only ever been nourished by your own fragile hopes, and it’s like a hot coal banked under cold embers. It still could burn bright, but with each day that passes, it flickers a little dimmer, grows a little colder.

Someday it will be a cinder. Someday your love for Marcus Pike will just be a burnt piece of ash.

-----

You love your work in restoration because it’s so many things at once. It’s art and history, science and economics. It’s sociology. A woodblock from feudal Japan is utterly unique when compared to an oil painting by a Dutch master…but it’s also exactly the same. It’s the same human impulse to create, to form something in their time and place.

You love the National Gallery. You love everyone who works there: your teammates, the docents, the gift shop employees. The guard who hails you each morning when you scan in, the coffee shop lady who calls you “sweet pea” when she slides your coffee across the counter at you.

But you love the work more than anything. You love receiving a new painting. You love being a steward of fine art: knowing that others came before you and others will come after you, but that you’re linked to your predecessors and successors over a mutual love of timeless pieces.

You love x-raying the paintings to see what secrets they reveal. Other paintings that the artist covered over. Sometimes it’s earlier, poor attempts at restoration or even censorship. The Catholic Church was especially famous for the latter, covering up the upsetting genitals of fat little cherubs, turning black Madonnas lily-white.

A lot of your work is collaborative. Other museums reach out to you. Galleries. Auction houses and private collectors. You help verify paintings with dicey provenances.

More rarely, you help law enforcement. It’s only been twice, so far, and both have been consulting outside of D.C. One was NYPD—a rumored Rothko turned up in a raid. Another was DEA, when a cartel capo’s house was raided and trio of unknown Tamayo paintings were found.

When you get a call from the FBI, you don’t think anything of it. Marcus is in Austin, so you get that dip of excitement in your stomach at the prospect of a puzzle to solve. There was a shipment of contraband intercepted, and there’s a crate full of art pieces. They need your help identifying some of them.

“Of course,” you tell the guy—an agent named Roberts—over the phone. “Bring the pieces over as soon as you can, and I can look at them.”

-----

It takes a couple days, and you never once think you’ll see Marcus. There’s no portents, no omens that your life in D.C. is going to turn. There’s no crow cawing at you from a tree. There’s no dark cloud following you as you ride your bike to work that morning.

Life isn’t like a movie. You have no sign that your world is going to tilt off axis. You scan in that morning, sort through some mail. You eat lunch with a coworker. And then at one o’clock, you stroll down the hallway to the workshop where the FBI’s art pieces—and the FBI agent, Roberts—are waiting.

When you open the door, it’s not one agent. It’s two. A tall man with greying hair at the temples—Agent Roberts, you assume.

And Marcus Pike, standing right beside him. Looking at you like he’s been shot. His eyes are wide, and his mouth falls open for a fraction of a second before he snaps it shut.

Goddamned, fucking Marcus Pike.

*****

It’s been almost a year since Marcus saw you last. It was that disastrous dinner when you had, he assumed, wanted to confess your feelings for him. When he instead broke your heart by telling you about Teresa Lisbon.

Almost a year. A lot has happened.

He falls fast and hard for Teresa. He proposes too early. He asks her to move to D.C. with him when the promotion comes up.

He is left, in the end. Teresa chooses Patrick Jane over him, and Marcus finds himself with the prospect of being alone. Again.

Alone, his impulse is to reach out to you. You had blocked him, however—his calls and texts don’t go through, his emails seem to go into a black hole. He could find your address but doesn’t dare.

For the first time ever, Marcus is left to be uncomfortable in his own feelings of loneliness and heartbreak. For the first time, you aren’t there to prop him up, to be his one-woman hype-crew.

He wallows. He finds a condo in D.C., but he doesn’t bother to unpack most of the boxes. His stubble turns into a beard, a little patchy, and he finds that he doesn’t care to shave it off. It makes him look roguish, on good days, and downright depressive, on bad days.

Almost a year, and then he sees you again.

Roberts is the one with the hookups at the Smithsonian, at the National Gallery. He knows all the local experts, and when their raid turns up a crate full of unidentified art pieces, Roberts reaches out to his experts.

“I know of a guy,” he says, but Marcus doesn’t realize that his partner uses the term “guy” in a gender neutral way.

The guy Roberts knows of is you.

A few thoughts occur to Marcus all at once. First, that you must be setting the art restoration world on fire to have already acquired a reputation as an expert. Second, that you’re an utter professional, because you shake Roberts’ hand and then his own, giving away none of your personal ire at him.

And third….you look good. If Marcus has fallen apart a bit, if he’s living in slightly rumpled suits and a patchy beard, you’ve pulled yourself together. You’re in dark wash jeans and a button down Oxford of sky blue. Your hair is in a low ponytail. You look casual and professional at the same time, polished and understated.

You look lovely.

You also look eager. When your eyes drift from him back to Roberts, you light up. You rub your hands briskly together and ask the other agent what goodies he’s brought you.

-----

You’re good. Marcus is good, but you’re better. He can see where you got your reputation.

There’s five oil paintings. You dismiss four of them outright. You pull on a pair of magnifying glasses, click on the small light on the frames, and you peer at the paintings closely. Marcus and Roberts stand off to the side, listening as you mutter about pigment types and aging, and then you stand up. Click off the light.

“These four were done in the style of Titian,” you tell them. “But I’m certain they are recent copies. I could run an analysis on it, but some of the aging qualities look like faking. Tea bags. Nicotine. These are no more than thirty years old, tops.”

“Okay, good,” Roberts says.

You nod and then turn to the fifth painting. Click your light back on and study it.

“Can you give me any details around the operation?” you ask them as you focus on one corner of the painting. “Where it came from might help.”

Roberts gives you the details: they are running down a smuggling ring out of Russia. The son of an oil oligarch has been stealing rare paintings from small museums and galleries and private collectors in former Soviet countries, then releasing forgeries back into the market. Allegedly.

“Huh.” You say it like you have an idea, and a moment later you whip off your glasses and stride—almost running—over to a laptop. You tap furiously on the keys, then throw a switch that projects your screen on a nearby wall.

“Okay, so this fifth one might be something,” you tell them, and your voice is shaky. It sounds like you might cry, but when Marcus looks closer, he sees that you’re trembling. You’re practically vibrating, and he realizes that you are excited.

“Just eyeballing the pigment, it looks 16th century, but I can test it and verify. But look at these details.” You point at the painting they brought you, then point at the painting you are projecting.

“See the lily of the valley in that pot there?” You point at the projection, then point to their painting. “Sure, lilies were a common motif in religious paintings of the Virgin Mary, but look. It’s almost exactly the same. The same pot of lilies of the valley. And here, in the corner of each painting, the signature. A single ‘G.’”

“What is the painting you’re comparing to?” Marcus asks, and whatever anger you feel for him has been buried under the excitement of your possible find.

“It’s Annunciation. It’s the only known, signed work by a painter called Master Jerzy. Jurek Almanus. He’s almost completely unknown. There’s been a couple of other paintings that they think might have been his, but….” Your words trail off, and you just stare at the confiscated painting from the raid.

“I saw Annunciation in Krakow when I was in Europe,” you add, and your voice has a hushed, reverential quality to it. “I fell down a Jerzy rabbit hole. I never thought I might see a second painting of his.”

“We can sign the painting into your custody,” Roberts tells you. “If you can verify it, it might help us start the trail of its provenance.”

“I can get in touch with the Czartoryski Museum, where Annunciation is, as a start,” you reply. Your eyes never leave the painting they brought you, and your face is full of wonderment.

Marcus knew that you loved art—obviously so, since you got your doctorate for the love of it—but he had never quite grasped how much. You gaze at the painting like you are witnessing a miracle in real time, and maybe to you, you are.

-----

The recovered painting is a foot in the door. It’s a way back into your life.

Marcus isn’t too proud. He asks Roberts if he can manage the possible Jerzy paining, which means checking in with you at regular intervals. It’s only phone calls, and sometimes emails, when you send him lab results from your National Gallery email. Official business only, as much as Marcus tries to pry that door open a little more each time.

The first call: he asks how you’re doing. You ignore the question altogether and update him on the talks with Krakow.

The second call: again, he asks how you are. You give a terse, “I’m fine,” then explain that you’ll be sending the x-rays of the painting that show an earlier, discarded painting underneath it. The confiscated painting is a palimpsest, and there’s a quality of excitement in your voice when you tell him so.

The third call: he’s in a low spot already. He’s heard news about Teresa and Jane, and it shouldn’t hurt as much as it does…but it does. On the phone with you, after you update him on the chemical analysis of the painting—the pigment, the canvas, the frame—there’s a beat of silence that Marcus fills awkwardly.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, weary to the bone. Wanting just a fraction of comfort from you.

He can hear your sigh. He can hear the long stretch of uncomfortable silence, and he knows that you’re probably struggling with how to reply to him. It makes him feel even worse. His best friend is a stranger to him now, and he doesn’t know how to find his way back to her. To you.

“I’ll talk to you soon,” he adds, sparing you the awkward need to reply to his admission of missing you.

Sparing you the need to lie and say that you’ve missed him too…or worse, telling him the truth: that you haven’t missed him at all.

-----

It takes a while before the painting is verified. There are a million tests you have to run, conferences and long hours arguing with other art experts. An expert from Poland flies in to examine the painting, and he helps pick up part of the trail on this painting’s long journey across time.

Marcus goes to the National Gallery, ostensibly to pick up a thick folder of your findings, though you have been emailing a lot of it to him piecemeal, as you’ve gotten it. But you’ll pulled together an impressive amount of research, and it’s an excuse to see you.

An excuse to try and push that door open another fraction.

You hand him the folder, and Marcus pages through it with an appreciative whistle. “If you ever get tired of working in a museum, the FBI is always hiring. This is remarkable work.”

The bit of praise makes you smile. “That’s the thing, though. This job is art and detective work.”

“Best of both worlds.”

“It really is.”

He shuts the folder, taps the cover in a nervous tattoo with his fingertips. This paltry exchange is the closest he’s gotten to a meaningful talk with you. It’s nothing at all, but it’s the best he’s got.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, echoing his last call with you.

You sigh again. “Marcus—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts, hasty to not hear what you may reply with. “I just wanted to let you know that I’ve missed you. And I thought I might get a coffee with you sometime.”

You look at him, and he can’t read your expression. You’re inscrutable now. Maybe you always have been. Maybe he’s never read you right before.

“You want to get a coffee?” You ask finally. “Let’s go then.”

“Now?” You glance at the watch on your wrist. “Yeah, why not? It’s that time in the afternoon that I start to flag, so a coffee will do me good.”

*****

You don’t know why you agree to get a coffee with him. Maybe because you have missed him, despite it all. Maybe because you can’t help the way your traitorous heart stammers in your chest when you see him, despite how disapproving your head may be. Maybe you’re curious about what he might say. Maybe he’ll apologize.

Maybe you’re just high on the research, on finding a missing painting from a mysterious guild painter.

Either way, you find yourself at a nearby café, a mom-and-pop place that serves the D.C. workers, not the D.C. tourists. At two in the afternoon, it’s quiet—just you and Marcus, pretty much.

He orders a coffee. You get a honey halva latte, and when he tries to reach past you to pay, you turn your shoulder and block him, muscle memory from all the times the two of you play-fought over the check. You don’t even realize you’re doing it until his hand brushes against you, and you frown at how easy it is to fall back into the old patterns with him.

If I’m not careful, I’m going to let him break my heart again, you chide yourself. It’s your logical mind that thinks the thought—and it’s your duplicitous heart that hammers against your ribcage at the touch of his hand.

The two of you take your drinks and find a quiet table tucked away in a corner. You watch Marcus stir creamer into his coffee. He looks…less crisp than he used to. He looks a little dog-eared, a little worn down. You like the stubble, actually, but his eyes look forlorn.

All it takes is a simple, polite question from you to open up the floodgates. The usual, polite-society question.

“How are you, Marcus?” you ask, and yes…you fall right back into the old pattern.

He treats you just like he used to. He treats you like his therapist: he tells you about Teresa, and someone named Jane, and you don’t know if Jane is a first name or a last name, or if Teresa left him for a man or a woman, but his words wash over you and you stop comprehending what he’s telling you. His voice fades away and a low roar fills your head: the hot-blood of your temper being raised. The fuzzy, staticky roll of years’ worth of anger and disappointment and heartbreak filling you. Making your face and neck break out in a hectic flush of rage. Making your hands clench into tight fists in your lap.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, interrupting his litany of words.

Marcus stops midsentence. Cocks his head and asks, “What?”

You’ve always swallowed your bad feelings down with him. Always. You’ve choked on disappointment, swallowed the bitter wash of unrequited love. For so long—since you were a fucking kid. You hate that he has this power to make you feel like that kid again, that unworthy, second-best kid who can’t compare to the random, disappointing women he convinces himself are the One.

“I said you’re unbelievable,” you repeat, and you unclench your fists. You realize that you’ve been slumped over—that insecure teenager again—so you sit up straight. Push your shoulders back, lift your chin and stare him down directly.

The anger must be apparent in your eyes. Marcus flinches at what he sees.

“I haven’t seen or talked to you in over a year,” you say, and you keep your voice low and steady. You’re in public and you don’t want to make a scene.

“That’s why I wanted to get a coffee…” He trails off, uncertain.

You laugh, bitter. “Get a coffee so you can unload your problems on me? Nice, Marcus.”

“We are friends,” he says. He sounds defensive, even if his eyes look sad. “Or we used to be.”

“Were we friends? Really?”

He sighs and looks down into his coffee mug. “I know you had a thing for me,” he starts to say, but you don’t allow him to get any more of that thought out.

“A thing.” You laugh again, a short bark that is mirthless. “Marcus, I was in love with you for years.”

“I didn’t know that. Didn’t know it back then, I mean. But we were friends….” He trails off again, but he raises his head to look you in the eyes.

“We weren’t friends, not really.” You shake your head and snort at how fucking obtuse he is. “You know, I’m not even mad that you never loved me back. You can’t help who you love. I’m not it for you? Well, that’s tough for me, but that’s life. I was never mad about that. Sad, sure. Disappointed? Sure. But never mad.”

“You seem really mad at me now.”

“Because you call me a friend!” You raise your voice, and you hate how girlish you sound when you’re mad; your voice is shaky with anger, and it sounds like you’re about to cry. Which, you might.

“You are a friend!” He raises his voice too, lifts his hands in frustration before letting them fall back onto the tabletop.

“I’m not a friend to you, Marcus. I’m your…your fall back plan. I’m your therapist. Your….I dunno. I’m your emotional punching bag, and I’m not going back to that place with you.”

“I don’t know what—”

“You never come to me unless you need something,” you clarify, and now your voice really is trembling. Your throat feels tight from the sobs that want to tear free, but you push through it. You need to tell him this. You’ve sat with it for years, and now it’s coming to light. It’s a festering wound that is finally being treated.

“When you have someone, you disappear,” you continue. “You lose yourself in that person, and you put me back on the shelf. And I’m just supposed to sit there and wait until you need me again, but all you want is someone to tell you that it’s okay and that you’ll find real love someday.”

Marcus seems to go pale under his tan. He wilts in his seat, slumps a little. “That’s not true,” he protests weakly.

You lean forward and fix him with a glare. “When have you ever asked about my life? Or put me first? Isn’t that what friends do, give and take? You just take though, Marcus. You take and take and take, and you save all the give for the disappointing women you date.” You snort. “Or the women you marry.”

“I—”

“You didn’t come to any of my graduations, and I had three. You never dropped me a note or got me a gift to celebrate any of the milestones I’ve hit. You barely talked to me when I was in Europe because you were married. Even my celebration dinner back in Austin turned into the fucking Teresa Lisbon hour, and how did that end up, in the end?”

He doesn’t answer. He opens his mouth but then shuts it, and he only gazes back at you. He looks so sad, it might have dampened your ire any other time. But this is the first time you’ve ever said this stuff out loud, and it feels cleansing. Like you’re bleeding out all of the poison that had accumulated over the years of loving him without receiving any love back.

You take a deep breath and will your hammering heart to calm. You lay your hands on the table.

“Just answer me this, Marcus.” Your voice is quieter now, and a lot of the anger has burned off.

He nods at you, gestures for you to continue.

“If Teresa had moved here with you…if the two of you had gotten married and moved to D.C., and then you ran into me about the Jerzy painting again. Would you have asked me out for a coffee to catch up? Or was this just you being alone and lonely again?”

The guilty look on his face is all the answer you need. You nod, once, and stand up. You could yell at him more, but you feel exhausted all of a sudden. Spent. Drained.

“Take care of yourself,” you tell him softly, but he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even look at you. He keeps his gaze fixed on the table in front of him, an unhappy frown on his face. His eyes glassy with tears.

*****

Marcus knew he had messed up, but he never realized just how badly he’d done.

He thought it was a broken heart. Unrequited love. Maybe it was that, but it was so much worse.

He wants to argue you with. He wants to tell you that you’re wrong, that he’s always been there for you…but he can’t. As you lay your recriminations at his feet, he realizes that you’re right. That he’s faded out on you when he was in a relationship. That he pulls you back into his orbit when he needs you.

You’re right: he takes from you, but he rarely gives you anything back.

If he thought he felt low when Chloe cheated on him and he got divorced….or when Teresa chose Jane over him….neither of those moments compare to this. You’ve been his dearest friend for years and years, but he hasn’t been that for you. You had let it slide in the past because of some misplaced, blinding love for him, but he’s never been a real friend to you.

What can he possibly do to make it up to you? Blocking his number and his email, moving away without a farewell—it all feels like the end. Like you crossed that bridge and tossed a match after you, and only now he’s seeing the burnt remains between you and him.

All he can do is honor your wishes. He hands the bulk of the case back to Roberts, makes up an excuse about wanting to focus on other cases, which isn’t a complete lie.

But not before he sends you an email: from his personal email address to your work one. He doesn’t want to guilt you or put you into an uncomfortable position. He only wants you to know that he understands. He finally understands, years too late.

I’ve handed the case back to Roberts, he writes. I realize now how I failed you for so long. I don’t deserve your friendship and probably never did, but please know that I always treasured it. I want to respect the boundaries you’ve put up. I won’t reach out again, but please know that if you ever need anything from me—anything at all—you can call me. I will always want the chance to be the friend you always needed but never got.

When he hits “send,” he feels a rush of various emotions: shame at the situation with you getting to this point, to where he’s reduced to communicating via email. Guilt too.

But the most prevalent emotion: a deep melancholy that seems to sink into the very marrow of his bones. It’s more than sadness. It’s a feeling of finality, just as he’s starting to wise up to the fact that he’s lost you, before he had the space in his life to realize just how much you meant to him.

You don’t reply to his email. He doesn’t expect you to. All he can do is be patient and work on himself. He needs to not fall into the next convenient relationship; he has to stay single and really address the deep-down issues that cause him to be so clingy, so quick to move in a relationship.

He waits a few weeks, and then he finds a therapist. Twice a week, he sits and spills all of the secrets of his heart, and sometimes he feels better after, but sometimes he feels worse. It’s all good work, though—the hard work of learning who he is, what drives him.

Marcus Pike may never hear from you again, and he’s probably lost you forever. But there’s always a chance you may return to his life, and if you do, he wants to be the best possible version of himself. He wants to be well-adjusted and conscious of how he treats his friends.

In case you ever choose to speak to him again, he wants to be the man you always thought he was. The friend you always needed.

~~~Tag List~~~ @bananas-pajamas @massivecolorspygiant @imspillingcoffee @amneris21 @paintballkid711 @mad-girl-without-a-box @bestattempt @rosiefridayrogersunday @strawberrydragon @hoeforthefictional @greeneyedblondie44 @leannawithacapitala @stardust-galaxies @buckybarneshairpullingkink @harriedandharassed @thatpinkshirt @isvvc-pvscvl @mrschiltoncat @stillshelbs @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @tobealostwanderer @nuvoleincielo @knivesareout @frankie-catfish-morales @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @probablybraindamage

#marcus pike #marcus pike imagine #marcus pike x reader #the mentalist

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silent-era-of-cinema · 4 years ago

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John Gilbert (born John Cecil Pringle; July 10, 1897 – January 9, 1936) was an American actor, screenwriter and director. He rose to fame during the silent film era and became a popular leading man known as "The Great Lover". His legendary breakthrough came in 1925 with his starring roles in The Merry Widow and The Big Parade. At the height of his career, Gilbert rivaled Rudolph Valentino as a box office draw.

Gilbert's career declined precipitously when silent pictures gave way to talkies. Though Gilbert was often cited as one of the high-profile examples of an actor who was unsuccessful in making the transition to sound films, his decline as a star had far more to do with studio politics and money than with the sound of his screen voice, which was rich and distinctive.

Born John Cecil Pringle in Logan, Utah, to stock-company actor parents, John Pringle (1865–1929) and Ida Apperly Gilbert (1877–1913), he struggled through a childhood of abuse and neglect, with his family moving frequently and young "Jack" having to attend assorted schools throughout the United States. When his family finally settled in California, he attended Hitchcock Military Academy in San Rafael. After he left school, Gilbert worked as a rubber goods salesman in San Francisco, then performed with the Baker Stock Company in Portland, Oregon, in 1914. He subsequently found work the following year as a stage manager in another stock company in Spokane, Washington, but he soon lost that job when the company went out of business.

After losing his stage job in 1915, Gilbert decided to try screen acting, and he quickly gained work as a film extra through Herschell Mayall. Gilbert first appeared in The Mother Instinct (1915), a short directed by Wilfred Lucas. He then found work as an extra with the Thomas Ince Studios in productions such as The Coward (1915), Aloha Oe (1915), Civilization (1915), The Last Act (1916), and William Hart's Hell's Hinges (1916).

During his initial years in films, Gilbert also performed in releases by Kay-Bee Company such as Matrimony (1915), The Corner (1915), Eye of the Night (1916), and Bullets and Brown Eyes (1916). His first major costarring role was as Willie Hudson in The Apostle of Vengeance, also with William S. Hart.[6] Viewed by studio executives as a promising but still "juvenile" actor at this stage of his career, Gilbert's contract salary was $40 a week ($940 today), fairly ample pay for most American workers in the early 1900s.[7] Gilbert continued to get more substantial parts at Kay-Bee, which billed him as "Jack Gilbert" in The Aryan (1916), The Phantom (1916), Shell 43 (1916), The Sin Ye Do (1917), The Weaker Sex (1917), and The Bride of Hate (1917). His first true leading role was in Princess of the Dark (1917) with Enid Bennett, but the film was not a big success and he went back to supporting roles in The Dark Road (1917), Happiness (1917), The Millionaire Vagrant (1917), and The Hater of Men (1917).

Gilbert went over to Triangle Films where he was in The Mother Instinct (1917), Golden Rule Kate (1917), The Devil Dodger (1917) (second billed), Up or Down? (1917), and Nancy Comes Home (1918). For Paralta Plays, Gilbert did Shackled (1918), One Dollar Bid (1918), and Wedlock (1918) and More Trouble (1918) for Anderson, but the company went bankrupt.[7] He also was cast in Doing Their Bit (1918) at Fox and then returned to Triangle for The Mask (1918). Gilbert also did Three X Gordon (1918) for Jesse Hampton, The Dawn of Understanding (1918), The White Heather (1919) for Maurice Tourneur, The Busher (1919) for Thomas Ince, The Man Beneath for Haworth, A Little Brother of the Rich (1919) for Universal, The Red Viper (1919) for Tyrad, For a Woman's Honor (1919) for Jess Hampton, Widow by Proxy (1919) for Paramount, Heart o' the Hills (1919) for Mary Pickford, and Should a Woman Tell? (1919) for Screen Classics.

Maurice Tourneur signed him to a contract to both write and act in films. Gilbert performed in and co-wrote The White Circle (1920), The Great Redeemer (1921), and Deep Waters (1921). As a writer only, he worked on The Bait (1921), which starred and was produced by Hope Hampton. For Hampton, Gilbert wrote and directed as well, but he did not appear in Love's Penalty (1921).

In 1921, Gilbert signed a three-year contract with Fox Film Corporation, which subsequently cast him in romantic leading roles and promoted him now as "John Gilbert". The actor's first starring part for the studio was in Shame (1921).[10] He followed it with leading roles in Arabian Love (1922), Gleam O'Dawn (1922), The Yellow Stain (1922), Honor First (1922), Monte Cristo (1922), Calvert's Valley (1922), The Love Gambler (1922), and A California Romance (1922). Many of the scenarios for these films were written by Jules Furthman.

Gilbert returned temporarily to Tourneur to costar with Lon Chaney in While Paris Sleeps (1923). Back at Fox, he starred in Truxton King (1923), Madness of Youth (1923), St. Elmo (1923), and The Exiles (1923). The same year he starred in Cameo Kirby (1923), directed by John Ford, co starring Jean Arthur. He went into The Wolf Man (1923) with Norma Shearer, not a horror film, but the story of a man who believes he murdered his fiancée's brother while drunk. Gilbert also performed in his last films for Fox in 1924, including Just Off Broadway, A Man's Mate, The Lone Chance, and Romance Ranch.

Under the auspices of movie producer Irving Thalberg, Gilbert obtained a release from his Fox contract and moved to MGM, where he became a full-fledged star cast in major productions. First starring in His Hour (1924) directed by King Vidor and written by Elinor Glyn his film career entered its ascendancy. He followed this success with He Who Gets Slapped (1924) co-starring Chaney and Shearer and directed by Victor Sjöström; The Snob (1924) with Shearer; The Wife of the Centaur (1924) for Vidor.

The next year, Gilbert would star in two of MGM's most critically acclaimed and popular film productions of the silent era: Erich von Stroheim's The Merry Widow and King Vidor's The Big Parade.

Gilbert was assigned to star in Erich von Stroheim's The Merry Widow by Irving Thalberg, over the objections of the Austrian-American director. Von Stroheim expressed his displeasure bluntly to his leading man: "Gilbert, I am forced to use you in my picture. I do not want you, but the decision was not in my hands. I assure you I will do everything in my power to make you comfortable." Gilbert, mortified, soon stalked off the set in a rage, tearing off his costume. Von Stroheim followed him to his dressing room and apologized. The two agreed to share a drink. Then Gilbert apologized and they had another drink. The tempest subsided and was resolved amicably. According to Gilbert, the contretemps served to "cement a relationship which for my part will never end."

The public adulation that Gilbert experienced with his growing celebrity astounded him: "Everywhere I hear whispers and gasps in acknowledgment of my presence... he whole thing became too fantastic for me to comprehend. Acting, the very thing I had been fighting and ridiculing for seven years, had brought me success, riches and renown. I was a great motion picture artist. Well, I’ll be damned!"

Gilbert was next cast by Thalberg to star in the King Vidor's war-romance The Big Parade (1925), which became the second-highest grossing silent film and the most profitable film of the silent era. Gilbert's "inspired performance" as an American doughboy in France during World War I was the high point of his acting career. He fully immersed himself in the role of Jim Apperson, a Southern gentleman who, with two working class comrades, experiences the horrors of trench warfare. Gilbert declared: "No love has ever enthralled me as did the making of this picture...All that has followed is balderdash."

The following year, Vidor reunited Gilbert with two of his co-stars from that picture, Renée Adorée and Karl Dane, for the film La Bohème (1926) which also starred Lillian Gish. He then did another with Vidor, Bardelys the Magnificent (1926).

In 1926, Gilbert made Flesh and the Devil (1926), his first film with Greta Garbo. Gilbert first encountered Garbo on the set during filming of the railway station scene, and the chemistry between the two was evidently instantaneous. Director Clarence Brown remarked approvingly that he "had a love affair going for me that you couldn’t beat, any way you tried." Garbo and Gilbert soon began a highly publicized romance, much to the delight of their fans and to MGM.

He made The Show (1927) with Adoree for Tod Browning then did Twelve Miles Out (1927) with Joan Crawford and Man, Woman and Sin (1927) with Jeanne Eagels.

Gilbert was reunited with Garbo in a modern adaptation of Tolstoy's 19th-century novel, Anna Karenina. The title was changed to Love (1927) to capitalize on the real life love affair of the stars and advertised by MGM as "Garbo and Gilbert in Love."

Gilbert made The Cossacks (1928) with Adoree; Four Walls (1928) with Crawford; Show People (1928) with Marion Davies for Vidor, in which Gilbert only had a cameo; and The Masks of the Devil (1928) for Victor Sjöström.

Though officially directed by Edmund Goulding, Gilbert, though uncredited, was responsible for directing the love scenes involving Garbo. He was perhaps the only person in the industry whose "artistic judgment" she fully respected. As such, MGM approved of this arrangement.

Gilbert and Garbo were teamed for a third time in A Woman of Affairs (1928). His last silent film was Desert Nights (1929).

With the coming of sound, Gilbert's vocal talents made a good first impression, though the studio had failed to conduct a voice test. The conventional wisdom of the day dictated that actors in the new talkies should emulate "correct stage diction". Gilbert's strict adherence to this method produced an affected delivery that made audiences giggle, and not due to any particularity in Gilbert's natural speech. Indeed, the "quality of his voice compared well with that of co-star Conrad Nagel, regarded as having one of the best voices for sound."

Gilbert signed an immensely lucrative multi-picture contract with MGM in 1928 that totaled $1,500,000. The terms of the agreement positioned MGM executives Irving Thalberg and Nicholas Schenck, both sympathetic to the star, to supervise his career. Gilbert, however, frequently clashed with studio head Louis B. Mayer over creative, social and financial matters. A confrontation between the two men, one that became physical, occurred at the planned double-wedding of Garbo and Gilbert and director King Vidor and actress Eleanor Boardman. Mayer reportedly made a crude remark to Gilbert about Garbo, and Gilbert reacted by knocking Mayer to the floor with his fist.[24] While this story has been disputed or dismissed as hearsay by some historians, Vidor's bride Eleanor Boardman insisted that she actually witnessed the altercation.

In the all-star musical comedy The Hollywood Revue of 1929 (1929), Gilbert and Norma Shearer played the balcony scene from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, first as written, then followed with a slang rendition of the scene. The comic effect served to "dispell the bad impression" produced by Gilbert's original "mincing" delivery.

Audiences awaited further romantic roles from Gilbert on the talking screen. The next vehicle was the Ruritanian romance His Glorious Night (1929), directed by Lionel Barrymore. According to reviewers, audiences laughed nervously at Gilbert's performance. The offense was not Gilbert's voice, but the awkward scenario along with the overly ardent love scenes. In one, Gilbert keeps kissing his leading lady, (Catherine Dale Owen), while saying "I love you" over and over again. (The scene was parodied in the MGM musical Singin' in the Rain (1952) in which a preview of the fictional The Dueling Cavalier flops disastrously.)

Director King Vidor speculated that the late Rudolph Valentino, Gilbert's main rival for romantic leads in the silent era, probably would have suffered the same fate in the talkie era had he lived. Gilbert's inept phrasing, his "dreadful enunciation" and the "inane" script as the genuine sources of his poor performance, that drew "titters" from audiences.

The persistent myth that John Gilbert had a "squeaky voice" that doomed his career in sound films first emerged from his performance in 1929 with His Glorious Night. It was even rumored that Louis B. Mayer ordered Gilbert's voice to be gelded by manipulating the sound track to give it a higher, less masculine pitch. Later, after analyzing the film's sound track, British film historian Kevin Brownlow found that the timbre and frequency of Gilbert's speaking scenes in His Glorious Night were no different than in his subsequent talkies. Brownlow also reported from that analysis that Gilbert's voice, overall, was "quite low". With regard to the alleged manipulation of Gilbert's footage by Mayer or by anyone else, television technicians in the 1960s determined that the actor's voice was consistent with those of other performers on the same print, casting doubt that any targeted "sabotaging" of Gilbert's voice occurred.

Film critic John Baxter described Gilbert as having "a light speaking voice", a minor defect that both MGM and the star "magnified into an obsession." Despite any conflicting opinions or myths surrounding the actor's voice, Mayer's lingering resentment and hostility toward Gilbert remained apparent, especially after MGM's star signed a new contract for six pictures at $250,000 each. Those ill feelings fueled additional speculation that Mayer deliberately assigned Gilbert bad scripts and ineffective directors in an effort to void the contract.

Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer cast Gilbert in a film adaption of The Living Corpse by Tolstoy re-titled as Redemption (1929). The bleak atmosphere and maudlin dialogue presaged the disaster looming in the stars’ personal life and career. Gilbert's confident screen presence had vanished, while his use of the exaggerated stage diction that elicited laughs from the audience persisted. In one scene Gilbert declares ominously "I’m going to kill myself to let the whole world know what it has lost."[34]

MGM put him in a more rugged film, Way for a Sailor (1930) with Wallace Beery. He followed it with Gentleman's Fate (1931). Gilbert became increasingly depressed by progressively inferior films and idle stretches between productions. Despite efforts by studio executives at MGM to cancel his contract, Gilbert resolved to thwart Louis B. Mayer and see the six-picture ordeal through to the end.

Gilbert's fortunes were temporarily restored when MGM's production chief Irving Thalberg gave him two projects that were character studies, giving Gilbert an excellent showcase for his versatility. The Phantom of Paris (1931), originally intended for Lon Chaney (who died from cancer in 1930), cast Gilbert as a debonair magician and showman who is falsely accused of murder and uses his mastery of disguise to unmask the real killer.

Downstairs (1932) was based on Gilbert's original story, with the actor playing against type as a scheming, blackmailing chauffeur. The films were well received by critics and fans but failed to revive his career. In between, he appeared in West of Broadway (1931). Shortly after making Downstairs, he married co-star Virginia Bruce; the couple divorced in 1934.

Gilbert fulfilled his contract with MGM with a perfunctory "B" picture – Fast Workers (1933) directed by Browning. He left the studio in 1933, terminating his $10,000 a week contract.

Exhausted and demoralized by his humiliations at MGM and his declining success at the box office, Gilbert began to drink heavily, contributing to his declining physical and mental health.

Gilbert announced his retirement from acting and was working at Fox as an "honorary" director when, in August 1933, Gilbert announced he had signed a seven-year contract with MGM at $75–100,000 a picture. The reason was Greta Garbo insisted that Gilbert return to MGM to play her leading man in Queen Christina (1933), directed by Rouben Mamoulian. Garbo was top-billed, with Gilbert's name beneath the title. Queen Christina, though a critical success, did not revive Gilbert's poor self-image or his career. Garbo was reported to have dropped the young Laurence Olivier scheduled to play the part, but director Rouben Mamoulian recalled that Olivier's screen tests had already eliminated him from consideration.

Columbia Pictures gave Gilbert what would be his final chance for a comeback in The Captain Hates the Sea (1934) in which he gave a capable performance as "a dissipated, bitter [and] cynical" playwright. But the off-screen cast of heavy drinkers encouraged his alcoholism. It was his last film.

Biographer Kevin Brownlow's eulogy to John Gilbert considers the destruction of both the man and his career:

"The career of John Gilbert indicates that the star, and the person playing the star, were regarded by producers as separate entities, subject to totally different attitudes. Gilbert, as an ordinary human being, had no legal right to the stardom that was the sole property of the studio. When Gilbert, as an employee, tried to seize control of the future of Gilbert the star, the studios decided to save their investment from falling into the hands of rivals, [so] they had to wreck their property. Other properties – books, films, sets – could be destroyed with impunity. But the destruction of a star carried with it the destruction of a person…it seems somewhat abhorrent that it took such tragedies as that of John Gilbert to bring us our entertainment."

Gilbert was married four times. His first marriage, on August 26, 1918, was to Olivia Burwell, a native of Mississippi whom Gilbert had met after her family moved to California. They separated the following year and Burwell returned to Mississippi for a while. She filed for divorce in Los Angeles in 1921.

In February 1921, Gilbert announced his engagement to actress Leatrice Joy. They married in Tijuana in November 1921.[44] As Gilbert had failed to secure a divorce from his first wife and the legality of Gilbert and Joy's Mexican marriage was questionable, the couple separated and had the marriage annulled to avoid a scandal. They remarried on March 3, 1922. The marriage was tumultuous and, in June 1923, Joy filed for legal separation after she claimed that Gilbert slapped her face after a night of heavy drinking. They reconciled several months later. In August 1924, Joy, who was pregnant with the couple's daughter, filed for divorce. Joy later said she left Gilbert after discovering he was having an affair with actress Laurette Taylor.[47] Joy also claimed that Gilbert had conducted affairs with Barbara La Marr (with whom he had a romance before his marriage to Joy), Lila Lee and Bebe Daniels. Gilbert and Joy had a daughter, Leatrice Gilbert (later Fountain; 4 September 1924 – 20 January 2015). Joy was granted a divorce in May 1925.

In 1929, Gilbert eloped with actress Ina Claire to Las Vegas. They separated in February 1931 and divorced six months later. Gilbert's fourth and final marriage was on August 10, 1932, to actress Virginia Bruce, who had recently costarred with him on the MGM film Downstairs. The entertainment trade paper The Film Daily reported that their "quick" wedding was held in Gilbert's dressing room on the MGM lot while Bruce was working on another studio production, Kongo. Among the people attending the small ceremony were the head of MGM production Irving Thalberg, who served as Gilbert's best man; screenwriter Donald Ogden Stewart, whose wife Beatrice acted as Bruce's matron of honor; MGM art director and set designer Cedric Gibbons; and his wife, actress Dolores del Río. Bruce retired briefly from acting following the birth of their daughter Susan Ann; however, she resumed her career after her divorce from Gilbert in May 1934.

Before his death, Gilbert dated actress Marlene Dietrich as well as Greta Garbo. When he died, he had recently been slated to play a prominent supporting role in Dietrich's film Desire.

By 1934, alcoholism had severely damaged Gilbert's health. He suffered a serious heart attack in December 1935, which left him in poor health. Gilbert suffered a second heart attack at his Bel Air home on January 9, 1936, which was fatal.

A private funeral was held on January 11 at the B.E. Mortuary in Beverly Hills. Among the mourners were Gilbert's two ex-wives, Leatrice Joy and Virginia Bruce, his two daughters, and stars Marlene Dietrich, Gary Cooper, Myrna Loy, and Raquel Torres.

Gilbert was cremated and his ashes were interred at Forest Lawn Memorial Park, Glendale in Glendale, California.

Gilbert left the bulk of his estate, valued at $363,494 (equivalent to $6.7 million in 2019), to his last ex-wife Virginia Bruce and their daughter, Susan Ann. He left $10,000 to his eldest daughter Leatrice, and other amounts to friends, relatives and his servants.

For his contribution to the motion picture industry, Gilbert has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame at 1755 Vine Street. In 1994, he was honored with his image on a United States postage stamp designed by caricaturist Al Hirschfeld.

#john gilbert #silent era #silent hollywood #silent movie stars #golden age of hollywood #classic movie stars #classic hollywood #old hollywood #1910s movies #1920s hollywood #1930s hollywood

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litchfieldfds · 4 years ago

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Avenue south residence

The casual visitor to the Nation's Capital is frequently intrigued (and sometimes confused) by the number of traffic Circles that dominate the District of Columbia structure. Streets are arranged on a grid of north-south numbered and east-west lettered streets. This grid is overlaid by broad diagonal avenues and further interrupted by traffic circles that make DC a challenging place to navigate by car. The city index features 28 circles, including bustling areas such as Logan, Thomas, Observatory, and Dupont, among others. Many tourists are familiar with the famed lettered and numbered naming convention of the streets but don't always understand the logic that originally drove the creation of the District and its intersecting circles and squares.

Pierre Charles L'Enfant, a French engineer appointed by George Washington to plan the Federal District, envisioned a grand city built around the Capital's government seat. Brilliant and arrogant, his hallmarks included wide avenues, sweeping vistas and... traffic circles at the intersections of diagonal avenues to commemorate national heroes. His original plan allotted one square to each of the 15-then states, to give them an incentive to invest in the new capital. His vision is particularly enduring, as in 1781 as he was laying out the new Federal District, the landscape was nothing like the modern city it is today. Two small port cities, Alexandria and Georgetown faced each across the Potomac flanked by dense woods and boggy wetlands. Despite the fact L'Enfant's elegant plan was widely admired, he ran afoul of local politics and ultimately lost the commission. Today, the area North of Avenue south residence the Potomac and Anacostia Rivers and South of Florida Avenue is known as L'Enfant City in his honor. Locals snicker that L'Enfant took his retribution in DC's well known traffic congestion.

Conservative Christians further denounce L'Enfant for the "satanic conspiracy" evident in the Mason influence on the design. In truth, George Washington was a Freemason, who also commissioned fellow Mason, Andrew Ellicott, as America's first Surveyor General. The District is a perfect square ten miles on a side, but rotated 45 degrees so that it resembles the Masonic symbol of a square and compass.

Many of the DC neighborhoods identify themselves with nearby traffic circles, which are in turn named for American war heroes. Sheridan, Logan, Thomas, Scott, and Dupont all fall into this category. Barney Circle, a small neighborhood located on the western bank of the Anacostia River in SE, is a refreshing break to this pattern. Its circle honors Alice Pike Barney, a painter and wealthy patron of the arts. Likewise, Tenley Circle, located at the intersection of Nebraska Avenue, Wisconsin Avenue, and Yuma Street, gets its name from John Tennally, a tavern owner and local resident circa 1790. Unlike many of the circles in Washington, Tenley's traffic pattern has evolved such that the dominant roadway, Wisconsin Ave., can pass straight through the center instead of going around the outside circumference (perhaps in deference to the large student population living at the nearby American University).

Truxton Circle, existing only as the name of the neighborhood bounding Florida Avenue, North Capitol Street, Q Street, NW and Q Street, NE, also has the dubious distinction of being one of the few "defunct" circles. Rumors abound that the Circle will be rebuilt in the near future.

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aswithasunbeam · 5 years ago

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August 1807

The words on Hamilton’s outline seemed to swim in the dim lamplight. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, vainly attempting to ease the dull headache between his temples. His back twinged with his movement, a now familiar throb in the base of his spine.

In the quiet of his office, he could hear Eliza humming in the next room. The sound drew closer, and, as he’d expected, he heard a perfunctory knock at the office door. Eliza admitted herself without waiting for his answer.

“Still working?” she asked, voice light and conversational as she dusted the spotless mantle. She’d taken to cleaning in here far more regularly than the room required; a way to stay close and keep an eye on him, he understood.

“Oral arguments for the motion to arrest the prosecution’s evidence are tomorrow morning,” he said. “I need to prepare.”

“I know, sweetheart,” she said. Her attention turned back to tidying the already perfectly tidy room, tacit permission for him to resume his work.

The argument had been mostly prepared for days, now, but he still labored over each phrase, rounding out each idea. He’d hardly spoken yet, his mere presence at the defense table enough to cause a stir without him speaking a word. He could feel the expectations for his eventual remarks mounting each day. Luther Martin had handled the opening argument and most of the cross examination of the witnesses, except where Burr had been unable to contain himself.

“How long did you work with Blennerhassett?” Burr had asked of Jacob Allbright on the second day of testimony, bouncing up out of his seat as soon as the George Hay had finished with the witness.

“Six weeks,” Allbright had answered evenly, eyes locked on the jury.

Burr moved around the table, approaching the witness box like a panther about to strike. “And at what time was it you saw me there?”

Allbright hesitated. His brow pinched together, and he looked to Hay nervously. The prosecutor sat back in his chair, frowning, but nodded him on. At last, Allbright answered, “I do not recollect.”

“The counsel for the United States know, I presume, this circumstance, and have testimony to ascertain it?” Burr pressed, smirking at the prosecutor now.

Hay’s expression was thunderous. “We do not, as far as I am informed.”

“If they have no objection, I will state when I was on the island.”1 A distinct smugness had entered Burr’s tone as he’d made the offer.

“We have no objection, Your Honor,” Hay had all but spit out.

“You may proceed, Mr. Burr,” Justice Marshall allowed.

“I was on Blennerhassett Island on the last day of August and the first day of September,” Burr reported to the jury before sauntering back to his seat.

Hamilton had watched the faces of the twelve men as Burr settled himself. Frowns of displeasure marked most of their faces. They hadn’t taken well to the performance.

“Don’t get cocky,” Hamilton had muttered, leaning towards Burr.

“I’m not,” Burr had replied, defensive.

“Juries don’t like smugness, and your life quite literally may depend on those twelve men’s favorable opinion of you.”

Burr had slid down somewhat in his seat, petulant as a child at Hamilton’s rebuke.

But where the jury were somewhat cool towards Burr, they were fascinated with Hamilton. He felt their eyes on him, scrutinizing his every movement and expression, waiting for him to address them. Hay had clearly noticed that phenomenon as well. When Hamilton had moved wrong during Commodore Truxton’s testimony on the first day, the twinge in his back making him wince, and Burr had touched a hand to his elbow in a gesture of concern, Hay had actually paused in his questioning to shout, “Objection!”

“You can’t object to your own questions, counselor,” Marshall had remarked dryly. An amused titter of laughter had risen from the journalists and spectators crammed in the back of the cramped Richmond district courtroom.

Hay’s cheeks had gone red. “I’m objecting to the stunt Mr. Burr is attempting with his counsel, Your Honor.”

“Stunt?” Marshall had asked.

“Mr. Burr touched Mr. Hamilton’s elbow when he winced.”

“Are you in pain, Mr. Hamilton?” Marshall had asked.

“I’m well, Your Honor.”

Marshall had given a put-upon sigh as he looked back at Hay. “Mr. Burr, please refrain from showing concern for Mr. Hamilton in front of the jury.”

“I shan’t even bless him if he sneezes, Your Honor,” Burr vowed.

The amused laughter had risen from the back of the room again.

Hamilton well understood Hay’s concern regarding the jury’s fascination with him. That breathless anticipation for his every word didn’t make his nerves any better. There was always a thrill to addressing a courtroom, a tingle of anticipation that built in his stomach like flapping butterfly wings, but the stakes tomorrow felt much higher.

Eliza resumed her humming as she picked up a stack of books to return to the shelf near his desk. Her hips swung subtly to the tune as she moved, he noticed, a fond smile starting on his lips. A pang went through his chest as he remembered all the times he’d stood with her on a dance floor, his hands resting on her hips, feeling her sway to violins. Seeming to sense his gaze on her, she looked back over her shoulder.

“What?” she asked coyly.

“I miss dancing with you,” he said.

“You can always dance with me, my love.”

He gave his legs a significant look.

She shook her head, shoved the last of the books onto the shelf, and sauntered over to him, tumbling into his lap. He let out a surprised puff of breath as he hastily reached out to embrace her. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders.

“Spin me,” she demanded, grinning.

With some slightly awkward maneuvering, he did manage to spin his chair in an approximation of a circle. It wasn’t anything like the way they used to dance, slow and graceful, anticipating each other’s movements, but with the weight of her body pressing against his torso, the warmth of her cheek on his, it seemed close enough. He laughed as he attempted to speed up their movement.

“That’s better,” she said, when his arms had grown to tired to keep wheeling them both around the office.

“What?”

“You’re smiling again. You were looking far too pensive when I first came in.”

“I’m nervous,” he admitted.

“You’re one of the best attorney’s in the country. You can’t help but do wonderfully. Whatever you say tomorrow, you’ll have every person in the room hanging on your every word.”

“That’s what’s concerning me. I understand Martin’s strategy to keep my remarks limited, that they might have the maximum impact when required, but it does create a heightened…expectation.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” she said. She’d staked out a seat directly behind the bar separating the well of the court from the public gallery on the first day, and no one had dared attempt to take it from her, despite the premium on space in the cramped courthouse. “There’s nothing you can say tomorrow that won’t make me proud.”

His smile brightened; the stress somehow dissipated by the reminder of her unwavering support. “Thank you, my angel.”

The courtroom was alive with chatter the next morning when Robert pushed his chair through the aisle towards the defense table. Necks craned as he moved past the crowds, eyes fixed on him. His stomach squirmed with nerves at the gawking. As he settled at the defense table, however, he felt a hand brush his shoulder. Looking around, he saw Eliza seated just behind him, as she’d promised she’d be last night. Jemmy was seated across the aisle in the same place, showing support for the prosecution, he noted.

“Go get him, sweetheart,” Eliza encouraged, her eyes moving towards Hay, who was rearranging papers at prosecution table.

He smiled.

A loud pounding proceeded the bailiff shouting in full voice, “Hear ye! Hear ye! All rise for the Honorable Chief Justice John Marshall. All those with business before this Honorable Court draw near, and you shall be heard.”

Marshall swept in through the rear door and sat on the bench, frowning in thought as his eyes swept over the briefs both sides had submitted. “The defense wishes to be heard on a motion?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Hamilton said.

“The jury will please step out while the Court considers oral arguments by counsel.”

Scrapping chairs and general grumbling sounded from the jury box as the twelve men who had only just taken their seats were ushered back out of the room. The eyes of the room followed their progress back out the door to the jury room. When the door was safely shut, Marshall looked to the defense table.

Luther Martin rose. A titan in the courtroom in his own right, Martin had defended Justice Samuel Chase in the 1805 impeachment trial. Hamilton more than trusted him to make the more technical side of their motion with deft skill.

“The indictment against Mr. Burr limits the prosecution to only evidence of his actions on Blennerhassett Island. By Counsel’s own admission, they have nothing further to submit before this Court to that very narrow issue to which they have confined themselves,” Martin began.

An hour passed, Martin ably establishing why the Court had little choice but the grant the defense motion to arrest the prosecution from submitting further, irrelevant evidence. The basis in law was irrefutable, concrete, but Hamilton knew that it alone would do Burr little favor in the public eye. The prosecution’s poor draftsmanship in the indictment would end the treason trial surely enough, but it would be a technical victory; the pall of suspicion around the former Vice President would remain.

“If it please the Court, my co-counsel will now submit arguments on this matter.”

“Mr. Hamilton?” Marshall invited.

“Yes, Your Honor.” With a last look at Burr, he pushed at the wheels of his chair to back himself out of his seat at the table and rolled towards the center of the room. Clearing his throat, he recited, “Treason against the United States, shall consist only in levying war against them, or in adhering to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort. No person shall be convicted of treason unless on the testimony of two witnesses to the same overt act, or on confession in open court.

“Those are the words written in the Constitution. My learned colleagues for the United States have argued, and will, I’m sure, continue to argue, eloquently about the meaning of those words. If I may humbly submit, however, from personal experience, I know we who wrote the Constitution did not pull the definition from thin air or sudden divine inspiration. They were informed by the deep history of the law, stretching all the way back to the Statutes of Edward III.”

His nerves ease as he fell into arguments about precedent and legal meaning. Marshall nodded as he made his points, clearly agreeing with his thread of logic.

“There is a reason in law that we do not permit an accessory to a crime to be tried before a principal without a charge of conspiracy to make the underlying act their own. I would remind the Court that no single person from Blennerhassett Island at the time the prosecution alleges such treasonous actions to have been undertaken has been arrested, tried, or convicted of any offense. How then, could Mr. Burr be found guilty of treason for aiding or even inciting these activities? What crime has been committed? Were these men, in fact, levying war against the United States, as the Constitution requires? Why are they not here standing trial beside my client, then?

“And what, then, is the meaning of levying war? War is an appeal from reason to the sword; and he who makes the appeal evidences the fact by use of the means.2 The United States has failed to prove that Mr. Burr, or anyone for that matter, used those means.”

He maneuvered himself that he might address the greater room along with Marshall. “Many of you know that Mr. Burr and I have had…difficulties, in the past.” A swell of laughter rose from the onlookers at the carefully selected phrase. “I have no reason to make arguments on technicalities to set my client free. This isn’t a matter to be decided on clever legal maneuvering or moldy precedent. It is a matter of justice. Perhaps God spared my life for this purpose, to see the Constitution and all it’s promised protections preserved. We are Americans. We, like our fathers before us, fought and bled to see our liberties preserved, that we might not be bound by the dictates of a tyrant. There is no evidence against my client, save that which has come down from an office on high.”

Jemmy’s face darkened, and he fidgeted in his seat behind Hay, as though itching to make a retort. He’d caught the references to Jefferson, the allegations that he had abused his office by pronouncing Burr guilty before the trial had even begun. Marshall, however, appeared to take the argument seriously, his pen moving across the paper to make a note.

“I ask the Court to find in favor of the defense’s motion to arrest the prosecution of submitting yet more evidence which can only be called corroborative, at best. And if they have nothing more to add on the subject at hand, the jury must be left to their deliberations. God will justice be done.”

Marshall gave him a deliberate nod, and Hamilton felt tension in his chest ease.

“Mr. Hay? Have you a rebuttal?” Marshall invited.

Whatever arguments Hay might have devised, Hamilton felt certain that Marshall’s decision would fall in like the with the defense. The jury would be left to deliberate, and without further evidence by the prosecution, would be bound to find Burr not guilty. When he’d rolled back to his seat, Hamilton gave Burr a companionable nudge.

“I think congratulations will be due to you tomorrow, Mr. Burr,” Hamilton whispered, adjusting to ease another twinge in his back, sharper than the others had been.

Little did he know in the moment, that he wouldn’t be present to give Burr any such well wishes.

#hamilton fanfic #alexander hamilton #eliza hamilton #aaron burr #life hereafter #chapter 10

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