When the Netflix anthology Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story hit streaming platforms on September 17, viewers were greeted with a stylized recreation of a meeting between the infamous acquitted killer and the celebrated tragedienne Nance O’Neil. While the series takes artistic liberties, the core of the encounter is rooted in a documented 1904 Boston production of Hermann Sudermann’s Magda. That night, a young Lizzie Borden, still living under the shadow of her parents’ 1892 murders, slipped into the audience and became instantly fascinated by O’Neil’s performance as a rebellious daughter.
Contemporary reports from the era describe the actress as a “tall, graceful woman with magnificent proportions” and applaud her “magnificently magnetic” eyes. The Boston Globe even hailed the 29-year-old O’Neil as “Boston’s New Tragic Sensation,” a title that likely resonated with Borden, who was herself a local curiosity. According to theatre scholar Michael Martins, Borden sent a handwritten note accompanied by a bouquet of flowers to the actress, politely requesting a personal audience. The request was granted, and the two women began a brief, intense correspondence that has fascinated historians for over a century.
How the two women first met
The meeting took place during a run of Magda at the Bijou Theatre in Boston. O’Neil, already known for touring productions of Shakespeare’s Macbeth and other tragedies across the United States and Australia, was at the height of her early-career fame. Lizzie, still using assorted aliases like “Mary Smith” to move incognito, was drawn to the privacy of darkened theatres, where she could observe without being observed. A note found in Lizzie’s hotel drawer, later reproduced in the historical monograph Parallel Lives reveals her admiration: “Your portrayal of the tormented daughter moved my soul; I would be honored to meet you.”
O’Neil’s response was surprisingly warm. In a brief interview she gave in 1927, she recalled that she was unaware of Borden’s criminal trial until after their friendship had begun. Scholars such as Dr. Jennifer Jones Cavenaugh dispute that claim, arguing that the notoriety of the 1892 axe murders would have been hard to miss in Boston’s tightly knit social circles. Nevertheless, the actress invited Borden backstage, and the two women shared tea, exchanged poetry, and discussed the challenges of being a woman in a male-dominated public sphere.
The fragile alliance and its dramatization
Fast-forward to the 21st-century screen adaptation: creator Ryan Murphy re-imagines the encounter as a charged “meet-cute” set against a sapphic-tinged matinée date with Lizzie’s Irish maid, portrayed by Vicky Krieps. In the series, Lizzie (played by Ella Beatty) asks O’Neil (Jessica Barden) for an autograph, then nervously invites her to dinner, where O’Neil reportedly orders beef Wellington. While this dialogue is fictional, it underscores the dramatic tension between a notorious outcast and a rising star.
Historical records confirm that the two women spent time together at the Borden family home, Maplecroft, a seven-bedroom Queen Anne mansion. In May 1904, with Lizzie’s assistance, O’Neil purchased a nearby farm where they could retreat from Boston’s social scrutiny. By June, O’Neil presented Lizzie with an expensive poetry volume, inscribed “for my dear Lizbeth with love from Daphne,” hinting at a personal intimacy that scholars continue to debate.
Whether the bond was platonic or romantic remains unsettled. Historian Cara Robertson argues that the women were “definitely romantic, but maybe not sexual,” while Cavenaugh suggests that the precise nature is less important than the fact that contemporaries perceived the relationship as scandalous. Local newspapers of the time, such as the Fall River Daily Globe, relished rumors of an impending engagement between Borden and a member of O’Neil’s troupe, even publishing a false story about a marriage to a juror.
Aftermath and historical speculation
The alliance began to fray as O’Neil’s career faltered. After an unsuccessful London tour and mounting debts, the actress declared bankruptcy in May 1906 and fled to Paris, leaving the Borden household behind. In a 1927 interview with The Sunday Standard O’Neil downplayed the friendship, describing Borden as a “frail, little gentlewoman” with “grey eyes and graying hair,” and insisting the double murder was never discussed between them. Critics view this revisionism as self-serving; O’Neil, now married to British actor Alfred Hickman, was eager to distance herself from the lingering stigma attached to Lizzie’s name.
Meanwhile, Lizzie’s sister Emma, who had long disapproved of her sibling’s flamboyant gatherings, eventually left the family home in June 1905, citing moral concerns. Newspapers seized on the split, running headlines like “Sisters estranged over Nance O’Neil” and “Bordens decide on a separation.” Scholars agree that the rift was likely the result of multiple pressures—financial strain, social ostracism, and possibly the emotional weight of Borden’s alleged crimes—rather than solely O’Neil’s presence.
Today, the brief friendship between Lizzie Borden and Nance O’Neil remains a tantalizing footnote in American cultural history. It illustrates how a notorious figure could still find moments of connection in the theatrical world, and how modern storytelling re-examines those moments through contemporary lenses of gender and sexuality. As viewers binge the new Netflix installment, they are invited to reconsider the line between historical fact and creative interpretation, recognizing that the true story, though partially lost to time, continues to inspire curiosity.
