Oh my! If you could have only seen fin de siècle Peasant Grove! The air itself crackled with gaiety and light. The rich earth of those pioneer strawberry fields exhaled a literary ambiance that rivaled the most splendid salons of Vienna and Paris. From whence came that fragrant belletristic air? That blossoming artistic fervor? I can tell you, it emanated from a large twelve-room frame Edwardian bay-and-gable house set back on the corner of Main Street and 2and North. The magical aspect of its design and architecture might have popped from the pastels of an Emma Florence Harrison illustration. Large elms graced the fore and box elder bushes lined the walkway, while a profusion of flowers erupted that would not have looked out of place in a fairy queen’s summer cottage. It was venue to stately expressions of art, music, science, philosophy, and a sanctuary wherein the greatest minds of the wide world gathered to write, to converse, and yes, even to argue. I think of the mural that Gustav Klimt painted on the parlor wall in, I believe 1903, expresses those times better than my poor words can convey. In characteristic golds, browns, and yellows, it shows a very stylistic Annie Sophie Cory sitting on a divan with Henry James, they are wearing golden robes and arrayed with crowns. On the right, facing to the right, as if peering somewhere off of he mural is thin black-suited Arthur Conan Doyle, looking, if I may say so, rather frightened and unsure of himself. This will seem hard to believe, but so it was! The luminary gods of North and South America, Europe, the Far East, and from the heart of Africa, or even from climes unmapped from distant and forgotten isles, once a year descended on Pleasant Grove to spend three months together to individually create pièce doccasion that would be housed only in the private library of what was called simply Das Haus unter den Apfelbäumen, so named for a small apple orchard the small mansion replaced. The solon was managed in absolute secrecy, with an agreement that the guests were never to speak of it again. Indeed, so true to the vision of the place were its boarders, that not a single one of the many elite souls who passed through its doors left a record from which their biographers might have received a hint that they had been ensconced in Utah. Most did not even report that they had entered the United States. I break the silence now only because it was my father who was sworn to secrecy, and his promise is not mine, and I have his journal before me and cannot resist shouting to the world what I have discovered. The gathering was the brainchild of former vaudeville actors Emile Frank and Jane Dunkirk. He was a seven-foot giant and she a three and one half foot dwarf whose unlikely love affair caused such scandal among the Orpheum Circuit that they decided to abandon the theater and retire on Janes fortune, inherited from her fathers streetcar rail monopoly. Pleasant Grove, simple, quiet and unknown, seemed perfect for such an escape. It is here they would curate the greatest tribute to human aesthetic creation ever conceived. They devised their salon in the late 1890s and by 1900 had brought it fully into existence. The basic formula was to bring together from three to five artistic cynosures for several months to individually create, in absolute secrecy, a work that would remain hidden from the world. Only those graced to be guests of the house would ever have a chance to savor these exquisite works. And the guests? The crème de la crème of the worlds most accomplished lights. The recherché company selected for each year would be picked up in the finest conveyance available in their country, then travel First Class by steamship to New York or San Francisco, and then in a private rail car by train to Salt Lake City, and on by limonene to Pleasant Grove. At the house was employed a fulltime Parisian chef, often stolen for a sabbatical gig especially for that given year. Also on hand was a butler, or ladys maid, for each attendee, and on call day or night two drivers, and a full staff to run the house. A Pinkerton man was stationed outside the dwelling during the event to ensure security. During the day they might picnic or travel to Salt Lake to visit the theater or go to exclusive restaurants. Sometimes they would go on excursions to Utahs national parks, or take a ride down the Colorado River, if the group were amenable to adventure. While the full tale must be told at some later point, let me paint a single picture from my fathers journal. It is 1906 and the current group has gathered in the parlor for the final presentation of their projects. Madame Dunkirk calls the meeting to order. Scott Joplin is given pride of place and plays his newest composition Timpanogos Rag, (It became a tradition among the participants to name their works after local features and concerns). Edith Wharton, presents excerpts from her new novel, Uinta Preludes, and Jack London, reads a travel log of his attempts to get close to the mountain goats near Emerald Lake. Finally, John William Godward unveils a painting called, Mormon Woman Holding a Pail of Milk in her Night Clothes, by all reports one of his best and most evocative. Can you even imagine this! Here are some of the years that I find most amazing: 1908 (Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis, E. M. Forester, Florence Lawrence, Ernst Mach); 1910 (Carl Jung, Karl Kraus, Beatrix Potter, Alfred Russel Wallace, Diego Rivera); 1922 (Ludwig Wittgenstein, Virginia Woolf, Buster Keaton, Igor Stravinsky, Kume Keiichiro); However, the rarefied flame was not to last. Most people in Pleasant Grove thought Das Haus was a whorehouse, and it must be admitted that Emile and Jane did nothing to dissuade the misimpression. A red light was kept burning on the porch. A flowery sign discouraged would-be johns by stating that entrance was by invitation only. If they persisted, the butler and the Pinkerton man would act quickly to remove the troublemaker. However, in 1930 a violent terrorist organization emerged in Pleasant Grove, known as the RSTL (Relief Society Temperance League) that began to actively hunt down speakeasies, or other illicit operations, and burning them to the ground or murdering their owners. Unfortunately, they put their eyes on the house. My father, who was clearing snow for the next days early morning activity, saw it all. At 1 am on the night of December 22, a group of women, singing Christmas carols approached the Pinkerton man. One offered him a hot chocolate, while the other pulled out a derringer and shot him in the back of the head. A wagon loaded with cans of petrol pulled up, and the women quickly spread it around the house, my father tried to protest but was shot in the leg by one of the terrorists and he crawled wounded into the box elders lining the sidewalk. The scene that unfolded was one of horror and heroism. My father said the house went up quickly and as smoke filled the upper floors. He despaired of anyone surviving. Suddenly from the front door came the young Russian poet, Vladimir Nabokov, carrying Dorothy Sayers in his arms, setting her down in the snow. He ran back inside and a few minutes later reappeared fireman carrying Langston Hughes on his back. At that moment, a nearly undressed Dorothy Parker walked out and said, Well if it was going to happen, I should have known Id be the one in attendance. Most sadly of all, Miss. Parker had tried to raise Emile and Jane, however, as their door was locked, and as they regularly took laudanum as a sleep aid, she could not get them to stir. When the smoke became too much for her, she fled, and they were lost. Luckily, all of the staff got out in time. A loss beyond imagination. The most amazing collection of the art, literature, music, science, and film ever collected in a moment was gone forever. The Pleasant Grove Sentinel reported only that a local house of ill repute had burned to the ground, and two customers, a Negro and a Russian, and two of the woman known to have worked there, escaped—as well as the staff, who all were rescued.
Posted on: Sun, 07 Dec 2014 15:22:33 +0000
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