A Gentleman Convalescing at Biltmore
When my family set out for a Sunday drive through the Blue Ridge Mountains, I never imagined it would end at a place called Biltmore.
We had no real destination in mind that day. Rebecca and I had loaded the children into the car and set off to explore the winding roads outside Asheville. The GPS guided us along unfamiliar routes while music played through the Bluetooth speakers. Pickup trucks and the occasional semi passed in the opposite direction, but otherwise we seemed to have the road largely to ourselves.
It was an ordinary family drive—until the fog appeared.
It rolled across the road so quickly that within moments the mountains, trees, and pavement ahead of us had vanished. I slowed the car and leaned forward over the steering wheel, convinced we would pass through it in another minute or two.
Rebecca thought I should pull over.
I thought I had driven through worse.
As usual, Rebecca was right.
A few seconds later, the front tire struck something hidden in the road. The impact jolted the entire car, followed by the unmistakable thumping of a flat tire. I managed to guide us onto what I hoped was the shoulder before bringing the car to a stop.
The fog was now so thick that I could barely see beyond the hood. The GPS had lost its bearings, my phone had no signal, and even the music had stopped. There was nothing we could do except switch on the hazard lights and wait.
That was when an overwhelming exhaustion came over me.
This was not ordinary tiredness. One moment I was sitting behind the wheel, waiting for the fog to lift, and the next I could scarcely keep my eyes open. I remember trying to fight it, but within seconds everything faded into darkness.
Rebecca later told me that when I pulled over to the side of the road, I was simply awake one moment and out cold the next. She tried to rouse me by shaking me and calling my name, but I was like a dead weight, slumped forward with my forehead resting on the wheel.
Fearing something was seriously wrong, she waited for the fog to thin, scooted me across the front seat, and took the wheel herself. She then continued along the road in search of the nearest house where she might find help.
The next thing I remember was opening my eyes with Rebecca beside me and the children in the back seat. I felt groggy and more than a little embarrassed by what had happened, but otherwise I seemed perfectly normal again.
Rebecca explained that she had brought us there hoping someone inside could help. I was still groggy, and the sudden loss of consciousness frightened me more than I wanted to admit. Nothing hurt, however, and my thoughts seemed clear. I assured Rebecca that whatever had come over me had passed and that I felt well enough to continue. As I turned toward her, however, something about her appearance caught my attention.
I asked where she had gotten the hat.
She looked at me as though she did not understand the question.
Only then did I take in the rest of her clothing. The blouse she had worn when we left home was gone. She was dressed instead in a long traveling dress, complete with gloves and a hat that belonged to another age.
I turned toward the back seat. The children’s T-shirts, shorts, and sneakers had also disappeared. They wore neatly pressed clothes that made them look as though they had stepped out of an old family photograph.
Then I looked down at myself and found myself dressed no differently.
That was when I began to panic.
I demanded to know what had happened to our clothes, but Rebecca only stared at me in confusion. The children looked frightened—not by their surroundings, but by me.
Then I realized that the car itself was wrong.
I was no longer sitting in our modern vehicle. The dashboard, steering wheel, and seats were entirely unfamiliar. I scrambled out and found myself standing beside a polished touring automobile with brass lamps, wooden-spoke wheels, and a folding canvas top.
The Cutler Family
Biltmore Estates, 1913
I pointed frantically at our clothes and the unfamiliar automobile, but Rebecca only stared at me. With every word I spoke, her expression grew more alarmed. She told me to remain in the car with the children, then hurried away before I could stop her. Within moments, she was running toward the front door of the enormous house, calling for help.
Rebecca later told me that she pounded on the great front door until it was opened by a formally dressed butler. Between hurried breaths, she explained that her husband had lost consciousness while they were stopped in the fog and, after awakening, had begun behaving strangely. The butler informed her that the master of the house was away hunting but assured her that Mrs. Vanderbilt would assist her.
Until that moment, neither of us had ever heard the name Vanderbilt.
A few minutes later, Rebecca reappeared with an elegantly dressed woman walking briskly beside her. She was slender, with dark hair arranged neatly beneath a fashionable hat and a composed manner that seemed at odds with the commotion surrounding her. Her clothing was stylish without being showy, and she carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to having a large household respond when she gave an instruction.
This was Edith Stuyvesant Vanderbilt, the lady of Biltmore.
Edith Stuyvesant Vanderbilt, circa 1913
\I would later learn that she had married George Vanderbilt in Paris in 1898 and first arrived at Biltmore that autumn. By the time we appeared at her door, she had presided over the enormous estate for fifteen years and was known for taking a personal interest in the families who lived and worked there.
None of that meant anything to me at the time.
All I knew was that my wife had returned with a complete stranger, and both women were approaching the automobile as though I might require immediate restraint.
Mrs. Vanderbilt spoke to me calmly while the butler took hold of my arm and helped me from the automobile. I protested that I could walk, but my legs were less steady than I expected. Between the two of them, I was escorted through the front entrance and into the house.
I remember little of the journey upstairs beyond dark wood, high ceilings, and corridors that seemed to have no end. Eventually, I was placed in a great canopied bed in a room unlike any bedroom I had ever seen. Nearly every surface was carved or ornamented. Heavy red curtains surrounded the bed, carved figures watched from panels high upon the walls, and several candles added their light to the dim afternoon filtering through the windows.
A cool cloth was placed across my forehead, and I was instructed to rest until a physician could examine me.
George Vanderbilt returned from his hunt later that afternoon accompanied by his personal physician, Dr. Livingston. Though fifty years old, Mr. Vanderbilt appeared younger at first glance. He was slender and impeccably dressed, with dark, carefully combed hair and a prominent mustache curled slightly at the ends. His reserved expression and steady gaze gave him the thoughtful appearance of a scholar rather than the master of such an enormous estate.
Dr. Whitcomb discusses my present condition with Mr. Vanderbilt as I remained convalesced in bed.
Dr. Livingston examined my eyes, listened to my heart, checked my pulse, and questioned me about what I remembered. Physically, he found little wrong beyond exhaustion and the lingering effects of my unexplained loss of consciousness.
My answers concerned him far more than my condition.
I insisted that my family’s clothing had changed, that the touring automobile outside was not ours, and that we had arrived with devices no one in the room appeared to recognize. Dr. Livingston listened without interruption while George Vanderbilt stood beside the bed, studying me with quiet interest.
The two men eventually moved a short distance away to discuss my condition in lowered voices. They did not move far enough.
From what I could overhear, Dr. Livingston believed I had suffered some form of nervous collapse accompanied by confusion and false memories. He advised that I remain in bed under observation and warned that further agitation might worsen my condition.
George Vanderbilt agreed that my family and I should remain at Biltmore until I had fully recovered.
I accepted his hospitality, but not Dr. Livingston’s explanation. I did not believe that I was confused or suffering from false memories. My thoughts were clear, and I knew exactly who I was and where I belonged. The problem was everything around me.
The clothes, the automobile, the house, and even my own family’s memories all belonged to a world that should no longer have existed. I considered the possibility that I was hallucinating, but every detail was too solid, too consistent, and far too real to be a dream.
Everything around me felt real.
Everything except the world itself.
One day became two, and before long we had spent an entire week at Biltmore.
George Vanderbilt, circa 1913
George Vanderbilt’s generosity toward my family was entirely in keeping with the man I came to know. He and Edith invested heavily in the people of Asheville and Western North Carolina, providing employment, educational opportunities, and medical care. They helped establish the Clarence Barker Memorial Hospital in Biltmore Village and founded Biltmore Industries to teach local young people useful trades. Much of their giving was done quietly, without any desire for recognition. As one associate observed in 1909, the Vanderbilts preferred to do what was right “without beating a drum about it.”
Cornelius Vanderbilt, age 13, circa 1913
The Vanderbilts had a thirteen-year-old daughter named Cornelia. Despite the difference in their ages, she proved a gracious young hostess and an eager playmate to the children. She often entertained them at the piano, filling the great rooms with music while they gathered around her.
Medical Case Record of patient, John Cutler, at Biltmore Estates, dated May 7, 1913
Dr. Livingston continued to visit, though his examinations always ended the same way. My body appeared healthy, but my memories remained a source of concern.
Rebecca Cutler, Biltmore Estates, circa 1913
Rebecca and the children, meanwhile, settled comfortably into life at Biltmore, accepting the rooms, servants, and customs that seemed so unfamiliar to me as though they had known nothing else.
Selah Cutler, age 6, with Baby Lissie at Biltmore Estates, circa 1913
Selah quickly discovered the library and could spend hours there among its towering shelves. She would settle into a chair with her doll, Lissie, tucked beside her and read aloud as though the two of them had the entire library to themselves.
Arie Cutler, age 4, Biltmore Estates, circa 1913
Arie preferred the outdoors. Every path, stable, garden, and wooded corner of the estate seemed to offer him another place to explore. He followed Cornelia across the grounds whenever she allowed it and returned each evening with grass-stained clothes and stories of places I had not yet seen.
Liza Cutler, age 21 months, Biltmore Estates, circa 1913
Baby Liza was content simply to totter through the gardens, reaching for flowers and keeping Rebecca—or whichever unfortunate adult had been assigned to follow her—in constant motion.
Liza found endless opportunities for mischief in the gardens at Biltmore.
The 90-foot Tapestry Gallery—the longest room in Biltmore House—became one of our family’s favorite places to gather. Its walls displayed three magnificent 16th-century Flemish tapestries depicting the Triumphs of Prudence, Faith, and Charity.
Selah’s favorite pastime was choosing a book from Biltmore’s library—home to nearly 10,000 volumes—and reading it aloud to her doll, Lissie.
The children’s happiness should have comforted me. Instead, it made our circumstances even more unsettling. They remembered another home, but it was not the one I remembered. Rebecca spoke of our little mill house in Greenville, a textile town already known as the home of baseball player Shoeless Joe Jackson. As far as she and the children knew, that was where our Sunday drive had begun. Their memories belonged entirely to 1913.
Mine did not.
I spent much of those first days searching for some flaw in the world around me. I examined newspapers, calendars, books, and every object I encountered. The dates all agreed. So did the people. Nothing ever slipped or changed when I looked away.
The year was 1913.
The Oak Sitting Room connected George and Edith Vanderbilt’s bedrooms and was normally reserved for family and close friends. As guests of the Vanderbilts, our family often gathered there, enjoying its green-and-gold Knole-style seating, with adjustable sides that could be raised for warmth or lowered for conversation.
Liza Grace in peaceful slumber after another busy morning exploring Biltmore.
As my strength returned, I was permitted to leave my room. George and Edith regularly invited our family to dine with them, walk through the gardens, and explore parts of the estate.
The menu from a formal dinner given by the Vanderbilts for the Cutler family on May 21, 1913
Our formal dinners with the Vanderbilts were served in Biltmore’s Banquet Hall, where a 40-foot table could seat as many as 64 guests beneath a soaring 70-foot ceiling.
The scale of Biltmore continued to astonish me. There seemed to be another staircase behind every door and another hallway beyond every staircase. The house had electric lights, telephones, elevators, indoor plumbing, and a system for heating its many rooms—modern wonders for the time, though primitive compared with the world I remembered.
Biltmore’s four-story Grand Staircase curved around a 1,700-pound chandelier suspended from a single bolt in the roof—a fact Rebecca preferred not to know whenever the children peered over the railing.
One of Biltmore’s quieter sitting rooms, where I often withdrew to read, write, and attempt to make sense of my peculiar memories.
George and I passed many evenings discussing the world I claimed to remember over a game of billiards. The room formed part of Biltmore’s Bachelor’s Wing, with a concealed door leading to the adjoining Smoking and Gun Rooms.
George took particular interest in my stories. He was an educated man, a devoted reader, and fascinated by new technology. Perhaps that was why he listened more patiently than anyone else. I explained the life I remembered more than a century beyond his own. I described automobiles that traveled without brass lamps or hand cranks, highways crowded with traffic, airplanes carrying hundreds of passengers across oceans, and small devices that allowed people to speak across the world or summon almost any piece of information in seconds.
Edith listened with polite concern. Rebecca sat quietly beside me, unable to confirm any part of what I said. As far as she knew, we had always belonged to this time.
I knew how my story sounded. Had another man told it to me, I probably would have agreed with Dr. Livingston’s diagnosis. Yet George never laughed or dismissed me. He asked practical questions—how the machines were powered, how far the airplanes could travel, and what had become of the railroads that created his family’s fortune.
I answered what I could and admitted what I could not.
Over the following weeks, our conversations continued. Sometimes we spoke in the library after dinner. At other times, George found me walking on the grounds and joined me. He never said that he believed my story, but he listened with the curiosity of a man willing to consider that the world might contain mysteries even his books could not explain.
The library’s painted ceiling is every bit as grand as the Sistine Chapel.
Before long, I stopped trying to convince everyone.
As part of my prescribed recovery process, I took to swimming in the indoor pool, started exercising, and even learned to bowl.
The Cutler Family at the Biltmore pool, 1913.
Dr. Livingston considered regular exercise in Biltmore’s basement gymnasium essential to my recovery. Its rowing machine, parallel bars, Indian clubs, and other equipment were considered remarkably modern in 1913.
Our family often escaped rainy afternoons in Biltmore’s two-lane bowling alley. With no automatic machinery, attendants reset the pins by hand after every turn.
The Asheville Citizen, dated May 10, 1913
The newspapers still read 1913. The clocks continued to turn, and each morning I awoke beneath the same roof. Whatever had happened in the fog showed no sign of reversing itself.
As the weeks passed, Rebecca embraced life at Biltmore with surprising ease. She became especially fond of riding and was soon spending long afternoons exploring the estate on horseback.
Rebecca dressed for an afternoon ride before John La Farge’s stained-glass panels representing Hospitality and Prosperity. Commissioned by George Vanderbilt’s father for the family’s Fifth Avenue home, they were brought to Biltmore in 1910.
The children had never been happier. Between Cornelia, the library, the gardens, and thousands of acres waiting to be explored, they found little reason to miss the small mill house in Greenville they still remembered as home.
Arie Cutler, Biltmore Courtyard, 1913
Rebecca encouraged me to continue writing about my peculiar memories. She believed that if I recorded them carefully and read them again with the passage of time, I might eventually recognize them as delusions—the remnants of an imagination strained beyond its limits.
The stone walls and arbor marked the approach to Biltmore’s Walled Garden, part of the landscape created under Frederick Law Olmsted’s direction. Beyond them, the gardens became one of our family’s favorite places to wander, with Biltmore House rising above the trees.
Over time, I have begun to suspect that Rebecca is no longer particularly anxious for my recovery. The longer we remain at Biltmore, the more determined she seems to make our stay permanent.
I cannot say that I blame her.
Little Liza Grace pauses along Biltmore’s South Terrace to admire the sweeping view of the Blue Ridge Mountains and distant Mount Pisgah.
Perhaps Rebecca is right, and these pages contain nothing more than the wanderings of an overtaxed mind. Or perhaps I have simply decided that some mysteries are better left unsolved.
John Cutler, prolonged guest of the Biltmore Estate, 1913
Either way and currently at the present time, I find myself no longer in any particular hurry to leave Biltmore.
Happy Travels,
Big John
Posted in Historical Journeys, North America, Tall Tales and Big Fish Stories and tagged Asheville, Biltmore Estate, North Carolina
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