Chapter XXV: The Art Association of Newport (1)

When I was asked to write that paper on “Artists’ Life in Rome” for the Current Topics Club of Newport, I little thought what the consequences would be! Glad of the opportunity to tell those thoughtful women about our wonderful years in the Eternal City, I set gaily about my task. Had I foreseen just what those consequences would be, would I have accepted the club’s invitation?

Looking back, I now see that between us all we sowed a seed that afternoon destined to germinate and grow into a living plant, whose nurture was to become the controlling interest of my life and my husband’s. For the direct outcome of that innocent talk was the Art Association of Newport, an institution of which, since its founding, I have been the secretary and pulling horse, and he has been the power behind the throne.

In the month of May, 1912, a group of artists living in Newport issued a circular letter proposing the incorporation of an Art Association, whose prime object should be the cultivation of artistic endeavor and interest among the citizens of Newport. The response was instant and cordial. A month later, the new association was organized with one hundred and forty-one charter members. Our first home was the old Hunt studio on Church Street, formerly used by William Morris Hunt, the painter, and by his brother, Richard Hunt, the architect. In her diary for 1865, my mother speaks of having given a lecture in the Hunt studio, to help the fund to send her beloved pastor, Charles Brooks, on a much-needed vacation to Europe. In this studio Henry James, his brother William, and John La Farge studied art under William Hunt. When he moved to Boston, Richard Hunt took over the studio, and here the plans for some of the famous architect’s noble buildings were drawn. After Mr. Hunt’s death, the studio passed out of the hands of the family and, when we took it over, it had fallen from its high estate, having served for some time as an upholsterer’s workshop. The place had an atmosphere about it, though, as if some influence of the extraordinary personalities of those two men of genius still lingered there. Though it was in a rather dilapidated condition when our artists took possession, they saw great possibilities in it and bravely set to work to restore it to its original status of an art center. In the little garden at the back, syringas, lilacs, and shade-loving flowers were planted. The two spacious ateliers on the ground floor and the large upper studio were transformed into excellent exhibition galleries. The paved courtyard, connecting the main building with the old stable in the rear, soon took on a picturesque air, and here on warm summer afternoons the artists and their friends gathered round the tea table and discussed the future of the young institution.

Among those who rallied to our fellowship were several men and women well acquainted with the history of the old town; with their help I began to hunt up the art traditions of Newport. These proved astonishingly interesting to us all, and we spent much time in tracing out what was to be learned of the earlier artists who had lived here. Their names are legion, the best known perhaps being Gilbert Stuart, Edward Malbone, the painter of those exquisite miniatures treasured in many old American families, and John Smibert, the Edinborough carriage painter, who came to Newport in the train of Bishop Berkeley and made the famous portrait of Berkeley and his family at Yale University.

From the beginning, the founders of the new association were filled with enthusiasm and worked for it early and late, in season and out. It will be seen from the following extracts from my journal how it grew to fill an ever larger and larger place in the lives of my husband and myself, and that it always had a certain breadth of character, from having from the first been identified with matters of national and international significance.

January 7, 1913. To the William Sargeant Kendalls’, where we
discussed plans and laid out an excellent programme of work for the
Art Association. We must not abandon this enterprise into which J.
and I have already built so much of our time and energies. As I
work more in these matters of public service, I see that all human
undertakings are merely different uses of the stone from the same
quarry. Institution building is perfectly fascinating--you can
throw all of yourself into it, make it a means of self-expression
and yet get rid of the sense of ego that underlies all mere
personal work. We are to have a course of lectures, I to open it
with a paper on “The Art Traditions of Newport.”

* * * * *

January 31, 1913. J. busy about his Red Cross picture show and sale
for the Balkan Relief Fund at the Art Association. He has shown
great energy and persistence and the artists have rallied
generously, as they always do! He has secured paintings by
twenty-five of the leading Rhode Island painters. Kazanjian, the
Armenian, frames the pictures as his gift. A Greek resident, Mr.
Cascambas, has contributed some of his excellent confectionery for
the tea, and all the Greeks have shown a fine spirit. One tall
fellow said to J., “I have often taken flowers to Dr. Howe’s grave
at Mount Auburn!” I have not been allowed to work at this venture
at all, J. preferring to put it through himself, with the help of
an excellent committee, Doctor Terry, Doctor Brackett, and others.
William Safford Jones issued a stirring call, beginning with the
words:

“Come over into Macedonia and help us!”

* * * * *

February 3, 1913. Opening of J.’s Red Cross exhibition. A terrific
blizzard--a large attendance for such a day. The pictures looked
fine. The first to be sold was Mrs. Kendall’s landscape, bought by
Miss Ellery, perhaps the person who could afford it least of all
who visited the show. Mr. Cantrell read Byron’s “Isles of Greece”,
then Whittier’s “Hero.” Mr. Merrill explained the connection, how
the first poem had aroused the Philhellenes of England and America,
how S. G. H. had gone out to help the Greeks, and how Whittier’s
poem described an incident of which Papa was the hero, in the Greek
campaign. George Merrill also recited a lovely poem in French by
his brother, “La Pluie.” The rain drumming on the roof made it very
real.

* * * * *

March 23, 1913. News of the killing of poor King George of Greece
came two days since. I danced with him more than once at the court
balls in Athens years ago. The murderer seems to have been a crank;
how many such murders there have been, and how near we have been to
some of them. We were in Rome at the time of the murder of King
Umberto; in Madrid when poor Don Carlos of Portugal was killed, and
when the attempt on the life of the King and Queen of Spain was
made on their wedding day. How uncomfortable to be a crowned head!
They are fast becoming real martyrs to the cause of monarchy, as
they must think.

* * * * *

February 14, 1914. I had a wonderful visitation (I cannot use
another word) in the night. Mother was with me, looking in every
way like herself. It was a dream of course, but a more vivid one
than any I remember. We had a good deal of talk. I asked her, “Are
you happy?”

Her answer, in her most energetic and characteristic way, “Very
happy.”

I asked her if she had suffered much, referring to her end. She
said, with the same optimistic cheerfulness: “No, not much.” She
went on to say that she had rather expected to be left to the care
of nurses, “but when I saw my dear Maud’s face”, meaning, as I
thought, that she had been aware of the agony my face must have
expressed. She seemed to be accompanied by a tall silent figure
like Dante. At the end of the interview the side of the house
melted away, and the two figures seemed just wafted from me. A most
comforting and glorified vision! If I could believe such things, I
should believe that her spirit had sought to reach and animate
mine. I am none the less comforted and animated.

* * * * *

April 22, 1914. In the evening came rumors that war with Mexico has
begun, though not yet declared. Vera Cruz has been invested, the
Customhouse occupied. Four of our young men have been killed,
twenty wounded, Mexican loss about one hundred and fifty. This
dreadful news somewhat discounted by a talk with Captain Belknap,
who thinks there is strong hope the matter may go no further. Our
Japanese servant, Matsura, gave warning at six o’clock, with the
following note:

“They have a great Japanese (of East) an assembly at New York, so I
must go there to meet. I will start this night, and if you do not
pay money that I earned six days you may don’t pay.”

With this he departed. In speaking to J. of this meeting, he
mentioned “Carnegie Hall.” He came to us late one night two years
ago without recommendations, pale, thin, hollow-eyed, all his
belongings, a map of the U. S. A., and a Japanese and English
dictionary, tied up in a handkerchief. He leaves with two
handsome, brand-new, leather suit cases, much better than J.’s,
filled with clothes J. has given him, fat as a seal, and speaking
and writing English.

* * * * *

August 4, 1914. Looked in at Lady Decies’ tea. She afflicted by the
news of war, which now takes all the color out of life. We think
and speak of little else. I am deeply afflicted by this war. Where
is all the boasted progress, the hope of peace universal?

* * * * *

August 9, 1914. Captain Belknap sailed to-day with twenty-four
hours’ warning, on the _Tennessee_, as aide to Mr. Breckenridge in
carrying help to stranded Americans in Europe. The whole Continent
is honeycombed with Americans, gone over to spend the summer and
take their good American money out of the country. This war will
teach them how good a place U. S. A. is to live in! The papers are
too full of the small discomforts of these travelers. Millionaires
are coming home in the steerage; this may improve the conditions in
the steerage for future emigrants.

* * * * *

August 17, 1914. The war news always worse and worse, the whole of
Germany and the whole of England are pitted against each other. The
sweet summer earth has become one awful carnage pit. We in America
can only agonize and try to help the stricken peoples with a little
money, saved or earned, so that we are morally helped by our
intense desire to serve those others. There are also great
commercial opportunities, brought us now by the conditions of world
struggle, and every day the press harks on the people to take
advantage of the fact that we can supply the markets that, for the
moment, neither of the fighting nations can supply. Still we seem
to suffer, too. The prices of flour, sugar, beef, almost
everything, except fruit, have gone up dreadfully.

* * * * *

September 24, 1914. The grim tragedy of the war settles more and
more upon our spirits. The horror of horrors is that so many
intelligent people feel that the peace movement and all the ideals
of the higher civilization are proven to be all in vain, and that
the world must and will, after this lesson, return to the more
purely military attitude of an earlier time. What we call the
higher civilization seems to these people merely a symptom of
effete weakness. The word for the hour is “In time of peace prepare
for war!” People talk most about our own unpreparedness. Roosevelt
says in a recent speech that he has seen the plans of two foreign
nations for the conquest of the United States; it is understood
that Germany is one of these nations. His comment is:

“Let them destroy our cities, but do not let us give a dollar for
ransom.”

The ransoms demanded by these modern Goths upon the cities of
Belgium, the cheerful, hard-working, little nation, are enough to
sicken the stoutest optimist. Laura and I are now glad that Mother
has not lived to endure this pain. The worst of it is, the mildest
people are turned into furies, even by the faint and distant echoes
of the passions that are destroying Europe and England. I feel a
savage exultation when I hear of so many Germans killed or wounded.
Then comes remorse for the hateful feeling, the remembrance that
those men are inspired by a passionate patriotism, that their wives
and mothers love them as much as English wives and mothers love
their men; but the ugly feeling was there, was uppermost before
reflection seized and tried to down it.

* * * * *

Gardiner, October 19, 1914. Here in my sister’s house they do not
feel the war quite as we do, and the gloom is not quite so intense
as in our own house, and yet the news, of course, is the thing of
the day, but after it is read the day’s work is taken up quite
firmly. The girls are all knitting socks for the soldiers. The idle
hands of many American women, I trust, will grow as tirelessly
useful as the hands of the German women! A telegram from the
Progressive National Service, asking me to speak for Gifford
Pinchot in his campaign for senatorship in Pennsylvania. I am more
interested in relief work. The whole political world seems to be
overclouded and obscured by Europe’s horror; we somehow feel that
our fate, too, is bound up in the great struggle.

* * * * *

Gardiner, October 22, 1914. Harriet Blaine Beal came down for tea,
delightful as ever. I had bought a nice pair of aluminum needles.
She set up my first muffler for the British Relief. The war news
continues indefinite.

General John Richards to dine. He is wonderfully rejuvenated by the
war that has so sadly cast down most of us. His old stories of the
Civil War are again rubbed up and thrill us as all real war stories
do. We were reminded of his military skill and the part he played
as Adjutant General of the State of Maine at the time of the
Spanish War, when his Maine militia were the best equipped men who
appeared in response to the call to arms. The fact that we all
looked up to him as a military authority helped to animate what has
seemed of late a very much diminished vitality. It’s an ill wind!

* * * * *

November 1, 1914. To Providence to speak before the People’s Forum
on the report of the Voters’ League, a very valuable document,
non-partisan in character, giving the political history of every
candidate for election in the State, and all the measures he has
stood for or opposed. I never was in such a bear-pit before. After
my forty minutes’ speech, which they had the patience to listen to,
I was asked many questions; and afterwards the members made
five-minute speeches. Most of the speakers were socialists, the
others anarchists or cranks. One demagogue, a cockney Englishman,
spoke very well as far as force and fluency goes, but his doctrines
were poisonous. He contended that organized capital had no end save
the exploitation of the workers. The spirit revealed was dour,
bitter, and most distressing. Hatred seemed the dominant note. I
have not often been so depressed. The atmosphere of passionate
discontent appalled me. I have read of such things, but have never
before actually felt the atmosphere of angry hatred and distrust.

* * * * *

November 3, 1914. To a fashionable tea party of ladies, where no
mention was made either of war or politics! It was known early that
Mr. Beeckman, Republican candidate for Governor, would carry the
State. The election has proved a Republican landslide. A good deal
more depressed than is philosophical. Well, it’s a long way to
Tipperary! This fight goes on under other names and other
leadership. The longer I live, the more sure I grow of the justness
and wisdom of the middle course Roosevelt has steered, between the
rancor of the “have nots” and the greed of the “haves”! The
Progressive platform, in its essentials, will gain year by year in
the Nation’s councils.

* * * * *

November 9, 1914. My birthday! Well, I still am glad to answer
“here” when the roll call sounds, and that’s all there is to say. I
have some cares and some pains, but I like life, I like my husband
and my job, and that’s more than many a woman can say. Therefore, I
have much to be thankful for, but I don’t like to grow old.

* * * * *

November 25, 1914. Last night a gentleman said to me at dinner,
“When Count von Bernstorff, the German Ambassador, was at the
Newport Reading Room last summer, he said, ‘If we win, we shall be
over here in another five years.’ Is it possible that he could have
said this? If so, it ought to be made public!”

* * * * *

Thursday, November 26, 1914. To-day is Thanksgiving. Filled with an
immense gratitude for all that I have to be thankful for: health, a
beloved and loving husband, a warm house, plenty to eat, a faithful
helper, farther off a circle of kindly neighbors, and, not too far
away, dear sisters, a beloved brother, nieces, nephews, friends,
and oh, my country! Well may we Americans hold our heads high. This
is our hour of success, in spite of Roosevelt’s defeat--if he is
defeated! With the world gone war-mad and murderous hate beside us
in Mexico, beside us in Canada, we cling to our ideals of peace, we
are the courted of all the belligerents and we, out of our plenty,
are the naturally appointed helpers and friends of all who are
wounded, ravaged, desperate, bankrupt. “Golden Hope of the World,”
said Roosevelt, and said it well. Never shall this golden hope be
dragged in the dust. In this _dies irae_ the Americans are proving
to be all we hoped. The women of fashion, many of them only known
as society belles, are nursing the wounded in France and in
England. Everywhere is the same story of help and sacrifice, warm
generous giving, giving, giving. And yet let us not forget two
words of the hour,--Kaiser William’s advice to his army “to
remember Attila and the Huns and strike terribly”, and Kipling’s
“The Hun is at the Gate”!

This conscious savagery from a highly intellectual people like the
Germans seems new in history. There is something deadlier in this
barbarity that knows it is barbarous and openly admits that it is
using barbaric methods than in the unconscious brutality of the
wild Moroccan hordes of savage men whose gospel is war. The
cynicism of the man who assumes that he is acting as God’s partner
and representative on earth, and yet is willing to lead his people
through the Red Sea of blood, in order that they may win to the fat
lands of his rivals, passes anything I remember in history.
Beginning with his treatment of his mother and following with his
treatment of his enemies and of Belgium, his record grows from bad
to worse. And Belgium? On the scroll of History she has written a
deathless name, for as long as men shall tell over the stories of
great heroic acts, they will thrill at the names of Thermopylae and
of Liège.

We dined at Mrs. Shaw Safe’s. Sir Arthur Herbert took me in to
dinner, and we had much talk of the war. He echoed Kitchener’s wish
that some bomb might fall in London to wake up the people; said
that our papers gave better news than the English. He spoke of the
behavior of a certain type of his people, who wrote letters to the
papers, complaining when German waiters were dismissed from hotels
“that it was hard on their wives and children.” Said that in the
clubs Austrians and Germans were allowed, the common law holding
that if you elected a German a member of your club, you could not
put him out. Said that in wartime these civil laws should be set
aside for military laws. Said a certain German nobleman, of whom
many people were very fond, had a big house in the country, where
all the important political people visited. It was proved that all
the servants at this house were German soldiers or spies. The place
is still honeycombed with spies. He himself had been hoodwinked
completely. Until war was declared, he had no suspicion that
Germany was unfriendly to England. Had heard that the Crown Prince
said to Mrs. Whitehouse (née Armour) that Germany wanted war; would
crush France first, England second, and two years later, would come
to America!

* * * * *

Boston, December 1, 1914. Busy all day preparing for the Belgian
Relief meeting at Tremont Temple, where I am to preside. The
meeting was very fine. I took great pains, wrote out my speeches,
and took the whole day to think out what I should say. Thrilled by
the sight of the familiar old hall, crowded to its capacity; there
were thirty-five hundred people present and one thousand turned
away. I introduced first Margaret Deland, next Josephine Peabody
Marks, last Madame Vandervelde. Major Henry Higginson, who has just
celebrated his eightieth birthday, sat in the front row, many other
old friends scattered through the house. Madame Vandervelde was
deeply interesting. We took in $5,000 for the Belgians. It was a
heart-warming occasion, reminding me of many notable gatherings in
Tremont Temple in the old heroic time. Isn’t this perhaps the new
heroic time? I think so. To see Mrs. Gardner’s new additional rooms
at Fenway Court. The Chinese room downstairs like a Chinese temple,
rather awful in its dark thrill, like a tomb. These new rooms seem
to me the best in the palace.

I first remember Mrs. Gardner in the old Boston Music Hall. Any
picture of the Harvard Musical Thursday afternoon concerts would be
incomplete without her elegant figure, her expressive face as she
glided quietly to her seat escorted by--to be exact--_escorting_
three conspicuously well dressed, very young tow-haired gentlemen,
Mr. Gardner’s orphan nephews, much of whose up-bringing was
intrusted to her care. Two of these blond boys lived to attain
considerable distinction. The oldest Joseph Gardner died young, the
youngest, Augustus, familiarly known as “Gussie”, served his state
and country well as a member of Congress, made a name for himself
in the Spanish War, and gave his life for the preservation of
civilization in the World War. He married the daughter of Senator
Lodge, and is said to have remarked when the newspapers were full
of his good service at San Juan Hill:

“They cannot say I did _that_ because I was the son-in-law of Cabot
Lodge!”

The third brother, Mr. Amory Gardner, is still with us; he is a
classical scholar of note and a member of that interesting group of
masters who have made Groton School famous the world over.

In those days Mrs. Gardner was called “Mrs. Jack” by her intimates
to distinguish her from the elder Mrs. Gardner, her husband’s
mother. At that time it was the custom for ladies to carry bouquets
at balls or evening receptions. There was a good deal of rivalry
among women of fashion as to the number and style of these votive
offerings. Mrs. Gardner was always among the most favored of our
belles, and I have a vision of her now, coming into a certain
assembly at the old Horticultural Hall, resplendent in a Worth
dress of white uncut velvet,

From the portrait by John S. Sargent]

her arms filled with flowers. It was an open secret that, while
outside the houses of many of our belles one could see on Friday
mornings, before the city carts made their rounds, the faded
bouquets of the week thrown carelessly into the ash barrels, the
flowers Mrs. Gardner had worn or carried were never thus
desecrated. It was said that she herself committed the faded
blossoms to the clean flames. I have always remembered this as a
small instance indicative of the good taste that in her has proved
equivalent to genius, and to which the art world owes beautiful
Fenway Court, in the future to be known as the Isabella Stewart
Gardner Museum.

At the time of which I am writing, the Gardners lived at Number 152
Beacon Street, an attractive house whose windows looked out upon
Charles River. Mr. Gardner was a genial, kindly man, greatly
beloved by a large circle of friends and relatives by whom he is
remembered as the prince of hosts. I learned from him one valuable
secret I pass on to all young housekeepers.

“Why is the coffee at your house so much better than other
people’s?” I once asked him.

“Because we are very extravagant. The only way to have good coffee
is to buy the best, and use a lot of it!”

The Gardners lost their only child, a promising boy, in infancy.
They both took a great interest in young people of talent, and if
all the boys and girls this generous couple helped to educate
should raise their voices in grateful praise, there would be a
veritable chorus of appreciation.

Among Mrs. Gardner’s qualities is the capacity for making enduring
friendships, not too common a trait in our restless age when people
are continually on the move. Her circle has always included the
talented and brilliant people of the day, and most distinguished
visitors to Boston pay their court at Fenway Court. With all the
pressure of her busy and interesting life, she always finds time
for her old friends, among whom I am happily numbered. In our
family she is best known as Kepoura, the Greek word for gardener, a
nickname given her by my brother-in-law Anagnos, who greatly
admired her.

* * * * *

January 3, 1915. Finished reading aloud Richard Harding Davis’
“With the Allies.” A good walk over the winter fields to Lawton’s
Valley with A. He is very comforting and fine in many ways, but
there is a note not quite in tune. “It’s the easiest thing in the
world to make money or a reputation,” he said. This shows in a
nutshell what I have always felt about him. It is _not_ easy to
make either! This is a false view of life and not good, I think.
Still it is a wholesome antidote in these materialistic days of
grab and swagger.

* * * * *

January 25, 1915. To-day came the news of the sinking of the
_Blücher_ with many men. The ship carried over eight hundred and
between one and two hundred were rescued. Strange that she should
bear the name of the famous, or infamous, Prussian Field Marshal,
who, when he visited Barclay and Perkins’ Brewery in London, after
Waterloo was manhandled by the British workmen because of the
cruelties committed by his soldiers at his command, in the
Napoleonic war. The worst of it all is that we have all grown so
full of wrath that the first instinct was a primitive savage joy at
the loss of the _Blücher_. Only as an afterthought comes sorrow for
the men who were drowned and for their families, but the first
impulse was the natural brute instinct, alas!

* * * * *

January 27, 1915. War news, chiefly echoes of the last real
happening we have knowledge of, the naval battle in which the
_Blücher_ was sunk. The Germans insist the English lost three
ships, one large and two small. This the British deny. They must,
however, have been somewhat punished. To-day was the Kaiser’s
birthday. The Germans interned on the _Princessen Cecile_ in Boston
got leave to have a concert in his honor at the bandstand on the
Common. Nothing was said about this in the evening papers. If the
celebration did come off, our press would not notice it.

* * * * *

January 28, 1915. Mr. Samuels’ lecture on the “Humor and Philosophy
of Woman Suffrage in England.” He was neither humorous nor
philosophical. He was loudly applauded by a group of Antis. I had
written Flossie to come and heckle him at the close of the lecture,
which she did extremely well. Going out, I shook hands with him and
said:

“No hard feelings. You will make more converts to our cause than I
ever can!”

* * * * *

February 2, 1915. To Boston and to the Opera House to see the
ballet, “Silvia”, given for the Suffrage cause. Spoke with Alice
Blackwell, Maud Wood Park and others. They advise Beatrice
Forbes-Robertson to take the taste out of Newport’s mouth after
that unspeakable Samuels. Stayed with the L.’s, much Christian
Science in the air. It’s an excellent thing for both of them,
especially for M., “to get religion”, but people of this sort act
as if they had a patent on Christianity and all other sincere
religious conviction. I have yet to meet the Christian Scientist
who ever thought seriously about any other form of religion before
he took this up. They are like the lovers who think they have
discovered love, and the young mothers who believe that they only
understand the true depths and meaning of motherhood. In the
evening to the reception for the opening of the new wing of the
Museum of Fine Arts, given in memory of Robert Evans by his widow.
Found it just as it should be; everybody there,--Beacon Street in
evening dress and diamonds, Shawmut Avenue and the South End in
half dress, Jamaica Plain and Dorchester in bonnets. My portrait by
Porter in a place of honor. It holds its own well.

* * * * *

February 9, 1915. Scareheads in the papers which I believe to be
German propaganda, stating that the _Lusitania_ was flying the
American flag as she sailed into the harbor of Liverpool. Much talk
of this simple fact, which proves a common and justifiable
expedient in war. I grow more and more afraid of Germany and of a
certain exasperating density of the British that is Germany’s great
ally!

* * * * *

February 14, 1915. To-day the one hundredth anniversary of peace
between the United States and Great Britain was observed in the
churches. Safford Jones’ sermon was to the point, and the quotation
from Emerson’s Manchester Address very apt. To see Mrs. Lorillard
Spencer. She is most interesting in telling of her experiences in
the Philippines and her work under Bishop Brent for the Moros. The
change of administration and the poor appointments Wilson has made
have brought about a state of things out there that she describes
as “hopeless.” Spoke of the work done there by Cameron Forbes and
the others of his kind as of some splendid structure whose
foundations have been shaken! More and more it seems to me we
should follow the methods of France and cut out the spoils system.
All people concerned in constructive work should be permanent and
not floating appointments to suit the politicians.

* * * * *

February 17, 1915. Many serious developments in the war. Talked
over the matter of an entertainment for the local British Relief
association. To meet Beatrice Forbes-Robertson, who arrived late
through the mistake of her agent. To the hall in fear and
trembling. Had worked hard to get an audience and found we had
succeeded beyond all hopes. The president and vice-president of the
Antis and all the Suffragists were there. She gave a good summing
up of the suffrage situation in England and then spoke of the woman
question in the U. S. A. A very fine address; she spoke nearly two
hours and nobody felt it too long. Her art as an actress made it
admirable from the dramatic point of view, as well as good sound
common sense.

* * * * *

February 28, 1915. To see Mrs. ---- after church, found her and her
husband at home. A signed photograph of the German Emperor in her
parlor,--the mark of the beast! Wherever you find this, you find
the people who own it completely pro-German. It has cost him a good
deal in photographs, and it has cost our people a good deal in gilt
and silver photograph frames with an imperial crown atop, but it
was a cheap outlay for what it has brought about for German
propaganda.

* * * * *

May 7, 1915. To-day Germany dropped the mask and stood, declared to
all the world, a Savage Nation. She has thrown behind her with both
hands the civilization which the ages have slowly raised, and
stands an exultant rebel, a magnificent Brute with all the human
qualities gone. The Cunard steamer, _Lusitania_, was torpedoed by
German submarines off Kinsale, three miles from the coast of
Ireland, and sank eighteen minutes later, carrying down more than
one thousand souls. Our neighbor, Alfred Vanderbilt, died like a
brave man; he is reported to have given away his life belt and also
tried to save some of the children. The shock of it stuns us all.
Elbert Hubbard and his wife are lost, and many others known to us
by name. The first outcry is for war--revenge! Sober second thought
with most takes on another complexion. Germany did this thing with
the idea, above all else, of provoking us to fight. From the
observation of the clever spies who live among us, it was known
that the two events which had roused our people more than any other
since the Civil War were the sinking of the _Maine_ and of the
_Titanic_. This outrage of the sinking of the _Lusitania_ was the
thing best calculated to make us declare war. As we stand now, the
silent friend behind the Allies, we are one thousand times more
deadly to Germany than if we went into the war. The great stream of
food, arms, money, stores of all sorts, doctors, nurses, helpers
of every kind, the resources of our nation, in fact, would be
diverted and kept at home. The hot-bloods clamor for war, but not
the long-headed,--or so it seems. Italy would never have attained
her freedom and the unification could never have come about, if
England had not stood solidly and quietly behind her, the great
friend and helper of the liberals. To-day we stand much in the same
attitude as the England of that time, and we must fulfill the rôle
as best we can.

In a little more than four years after its founding, the Art Association had already outgrown the little Hunt studio and, thanks to the group of powerful men and women who had become interested in building up the new association, we secured for its home the fine estate, formerly belonging to Mr. John N. A. Griswold, on the corner of Bellevue Avenue and Touro Park. It was with something of a heartache that we gave up that modest first home of ours, for the larger dwelling with the greater possibilities of service. One of the last general gatherings in the Hunt studio was a New Year’s reception.

January 1, 1916. To the Art Association for the New Year’s
reception and musicale. Lydia Hughes (Dudley Foulkes’ daughter)
sang charmingly. My brief speech was all about our new home, the
Griswold house. I recalled the story of Apollo coming to Delphi to
establish his temple, and how the god, finding no people to serve
him, compelled some sailors who were passing in a boat to come on
shore and act as his servants. I then sketched the wonderful
influence of the Delphic oracle through many centuries; spoke of
the part played in history of civilization by the temple, the
oracle, and the priests, and likened ourselves, the pioneers of the
new temple of the Arts, to those sailors compelled by the god to
serve him,--the servants of Apollo!

When we were youngsters we played a game in which one child, placing a closed fist on the palm of another, whispered:

“Hold fast what I give you.”

From the moment war was declared and I realized that all I held dear and sacred was in danger of being wiped out, I was haunted by those words. If our civilization is to survive, the two main factors of its salvation must be religion and art. Those of us who worked for the young Art Association were a small band, holding an outpost of civilization against the forces of anarchy and materialism. Because the garrison was small and hard pressed, the fight was worth while. In the great cities were thousands far better equipped to carry on the forlorn hope; here in the small community, where for so long my people had lived and labored, I saw my chance to “hold fast.”

In the midst of the chaos that seemed to threaten the civilization I knew and loved, I had the feeling that, like the coral insect, my duty was to sit tight in my own little cell and work at it for all I was worth. The impulse to toil at the building of this particular cell--the Newport Art Association--was more like a blind instinct than a conscious exercise of will power.

It was borne in upon me from the first that I could do my best war work in my own country. Though often tempted to depart from this decision, I managed to resist the ever-returning impulse to go overseas. The lure of active adventure was ever present and I constantly felt the urge of it, but my better judgment told me that my task was to “Keep the Home Fires Burning.” Some of my contemporaries accomplished great things by “going across”; more of them were sadly in the way of the younger people and gave endless trouble by falling ill and having to be taken care of. Only great wealth or very exceptional qualifications excused a woman of sixty for trying to throw in her lot with the field workers. There was enough to do at home between transforming my own particular charge, the Art Association, into a nerve center of patriotic activity, raising money for the war sufferers, and holding meetings to rouse public opinion and combat the enemy propaganda so insidiously spread in our community!

In the spring of 1915, one of the earliest of these meetings was held with the double purpose of raising money for the British War Relief, and of rousing the public to a better understanding of the great struggle overseas. It was part of our policy to bring speakers from the larger cities on all such occasions, as well as to give our own people the opportunity of expressing their convictions. In the last days of 1916, my husband and I called together an influential group of persons and with their help organized a citizens’ meeting to protest against the deportations of the Belgians by Germany. This meeting followed close upon the great gathering in Carnegie Hall, and was the second of the kind to be held in the United States. Mr. Daniel Fearing, the genial and popular president of the Historical Society, presided at the meeting, which took place December 22 in the Auditorium of the Historical Society, a beautiful ancient hall piously preserved by the society and formerly the old Seventh Day Baptist Meeting House, where my ancestor, Governor Ward, worshipped. After the long series of patriotic functions I attended during the war, this gathering still remains as clear to me as if it had happened yesterday. Our fellow citizens made a good showing, and two distinguished speakers from out of town came to join in our protest, William Roscoe Thayer, and Major Louis Livingston Seaman. It was a glowing meeting. Major Seaman’s flaming indignation roused the audience to a white-hot heat, and Thayer’s graver, but not less ardent, appeal led the way to the final feature of the programme, the reading of a letter from Theodore Roosevelt written for the occasion to Mrs. Hamilton Fish Webster. I quote but one of his burning sentences:

This last and crowning brutality, which amounts to the imposition
of a cruel form of slavery on a helpless and unoffending people,
must make our people realize that they peril their own souls, that
they degrade their own manhood, if they do not bear emphatic
testimony against the perpetration of this iniquity.

The meeting closed with a resolution of protest to President Wilson, and a telegram of sympathy to King Albert of Belgium.

Among the other valuable experiences of the war was our work for the Italian Relief. We were charter members of the Boston society and served upon the executive committee, and when the time came to found a kindred association in New York, it so happened that this too devolved upon us. Our choice of the leader of this work was a very fortunate one, and I shall always take great pride in the fact that I, personally, not only proposed the name of Robert Underwood Johnson for chairman, but that I also was able to prevail upon him to accept the office which he filled so ably and which I like to think may have had some bearing on his subsequent interesting experiences as American Ambassador to Italy.

On April 7, 1917, the _New York Times_ brought us the news that war was declared against Germany by the United States. On the front page under a cut of the American flag, the _Times_ printed the “Battle Hymn of the Republic”, now become one of the popular war songs not only in our country, but in England and France. The effort often before made to have it declared the national hymn would have succeeded at this time, I believe, but for one reason. While the words were acceptable to all sections of the country, the South could not forget that the music was formerly sung to other verses, and the supporters of the Confederacy and their descendants could not forget or forgive the words of the older song:

We’ll hang Jeff Davis to a sour apple tree!

I first learned of this sentiment at a patriotic meeting at the house of Arthur Curtis James, when the “Battle Hymn” was recited by Julia Marlowe. I happened to be sitting near two Southern ladies who were much moved by the recitation and overheard one say to the other:

“Why on earth do they persist in singing those beautiful words to that abominable tune?”

Many earnest efforts have been made to set the “Battle Hymn” to other music, but I believe this to be a hopeless task. The words were inspired by the music and are inseparable from it. When we remember that the same air is sung to the words of the English “God Save the King”, to the German National Hymn, and to our own “America”, may we not hope that in the future the bitter memories connected with the air will be forgotten, and that every section of our country will accept both air and music?

After the Art Association moved to its larger quarters, my husband took the old Hunt studio, and when war was declared, turned it over to the use of the Surgical Dressings Committee, which under the leadership of Miss Renée Cortazzo, did such magnificent work, and to the British and Italian War Relief societies. Among the memories of that time are certain joyous quilting parties. An ancient quilting frame was unearthed from the lumber room where it had long slept, and groups of gay young girls gathered around the old frame to make warm wadded quilts for the soldiers. Another pleasant memory picture of the old studio is of an exhibition and sale of fine Belgian laces brought to this country by a pair of patriotic Belgians, M. and Mme. Dethoor, who by their efforts managed to support the families of many Belgian lace makers during the war.

The most haunting and touching of all the war memories that center about the old studio is the exhibition of portrait drawings, by my husband, of certain young American soldiers who, before we entered the conflict, gave their lives for the great cause. Two of these young men, both members of the Lafayette Escadrille, were of our kindred, Victor Chapman, the stepson of our cousin, Elizabeth Chanler, and Norman Prince, whose grandfather, Mayor Frederick Prince of Boston, called my mother “cousin.” Others, like Quentin Roosevelt, Hamilton Coolidge, and Marquand Ward, were the sons of intimate friends. The names of these heroic youths will never be forgotten, for they were the first fruits of the harvest of sacrifice, and, by their example, led the way to all that followed.

On the sixth day of January, 1919, the mail brought me a letter from Mrs. Roosevelt, written in answer to one from me to her husband, who “was not feeling quite equal to write himself.” A few hours before the newspaper had brought the news of the passing of our great leader in the night. The following Sunday I called the first of the many Roosevelt Memorial Meetings. It was held at the Strand Theatre in Newport. The meeting opened with a prayer by Dr. Roderick Terry, and closed with a resolution prepared and offered by me:

RESOLUTION

The standard bearer has fallen, but his colors still lead us on.
Having met together to express our sense of a common loss in the
death of that great American, Theodore Roosevelt, we pledge
ourselves anew to the service of the country he so greatly served
and so deeply loved. Thankful for his life, we are thankful for the
manner of his death that seems as a reward for his great service,
coming painlessly while he slept; He giveth his beloved sleep.
While sorrowing for our lost leader, we know that his dearest wish
would be that instead of wasting ourselves in vain lamentations for
his death, we should gird ourselves anew to fight the good fight
with all the strength that is in us, and show our sense of his loss
by the added impetus for good in our lives gained from his high
example. I move that this resolution be adopted as an expression of
the feeling of this meeting and a copy thereof be sent to Mrs.
Roosevelt.

One of the miracles of the World War was the way in which all manner of institutions, factories, plants of every kind were transformed from their original purpose to meet the needs of the hour. There never was a more striking exhibition of American genius than the Protean changes that all sorts and kinds of institutions underwent. In Rhode Island, Brown University, like Harvard, became a training school for reservists, our famous jewelry factories were turned into munition plants, and so we were only doing what every other sort of institution was doing, when we transformed the Art Association from a purely cultural æsthetic institution, into a live patriotic nerve center. Every Sunday afternoon and every holiday during the war, and while the large number of reservists and enlisted men remained in Newport after the war, the Art Association kept open house for the soldiers and sailors. We found among the reservists many high-grade professional musicians. One of the best features of our Sunday afternoons was that they gave these men the opportunity to practice the art they had perforce laid down for the time of their service. Among the performers were several artists of great talent, pianists, violinists, ’cellists, and singers. To these men the opportunity of expressing themselves in their own calling, was life saving. A group of our members got together and bought a Steinway piano for these artists. I shall never forget the face of a certain pianist who, after six days of hard manual labor, stretched his fingers for the first time over the keyboard of our Steinway.

“Nothing is too good for our boys”,--that was the word for the hour. It is as true now as it was then, let us remember. Besides those blessed Sunday afternoons, when the Art Association coffee made a name for itself that is known from Maine to California--we opened classes in mechanical drawing for the enlisted men, and included in the regular classes of our art school all such reservists as were able to profit by the opportunity. Meanwhile the other functions of the Art Association were maintained, and the building was a humming hive of workers every day in the week, Sundays and holidays included. Those Sunday afternoon festivities always closed with the boys singing the popular war songs,--“There’s a Long Long Trail”--“Pack up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag”--“Tipperary”, the whole company joining in the chorus with a right good will. There are certain of those songs I can never hear without a vision of the shining faces of our boys as they sat cheek by jowl with our dainty belles, our grave social workers and clergymen, our plain workaday folk, and our summer plutocrats. The light that never was on land or sea glowed in those faces, young and old, familiar and foreign, for many nations were represented in those gatherings, as well as all classes,--Jews and Gentiles, Scandinavians, Teutons, Celts, Latins, and Slavs. One common feeling bound them all together, the love of our country, the hope of the world.

If, sometimes in these post-war days, I feel a moment of doubt or fear for the future of America, to find comfort I have but to call to mind the memory of those Sunday afternoon gatherings and to listen in fancy to the strong young voices singing the familiar words:

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat!

FINIS

INDEX

Abbott, Jere, 52

Abdin Palace, and the Khedive’s wives, 179;
ball at the, 181

Abdul Hamid, Sultan, 257

Aberdeen, Lady, 235

Abolitionist, author first learns meaning of, 58

Abyssinia, war between Italy and, 275

Accoramboni, Palazzo. _See_ RUSTICUCCI, PALAZZO

Acropolis, the, 193, 311

Adams, Henry, his Washington home, 337;
genius for friendship, 337;
and Saint-Gaudens’ bronze “Nirvana”, 337-338;
and “The Education of Henry Adams”, 338;
last meeting with, 338;
comment on treatment of our presidents, 342; 343

Addams, Jane, 358

Aesthetic movement, height of the, in 1877, 147

Agassiz, Louis J. R., 25

“Age of Fable, The”, Bulfinch, 29

Aïdé, Hamilton, 241, 297, 299

Albani, Madame, 151

Albert, King, of Belgium, 387

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 298

Alexandria, Egypt, 176

Alger, Abbie L., a gifted woman, 24

Alger, Kitty, intimate friend and classmate, 24, 46, 56

Alger, William Rounseville, characteristics of, 24;
and his “Poetry of the Orient”, 24-25;
at home of, 25;
preaches in Music Hall, 25

Alhambra, the, 253

“Alice in Wonderland”, Carroll, 29

Alma-Tadema, Sir Laurence, home in London, 142

Alma-Tadema, Mrs. Laurence, 142

“American House Building at Messina”, Belknap, 327

American Relief Committee, and its work for the earthquake sufferers, 327-328

American School for Classical Study in Rome, 310

American School of Archaeology in Athens, 312

_America’s_ Cup, the, 148

“Ami des femmes, L’”, 271

Anacapri, 291-292

Anagnos, Michael, 80-81;
and Helen Keller, 228; 380

Anagnos, Mrs. Michael, the author’s sister, 6;
characteristics of, 37 61;
reads aloud to author, 62 78, 79;
engagement, 81;
marriage, 86;
death, 216

Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company, 12

Andalusia, 254

Anderson, Larz, 256, 334

Anderson, Mrs. Larz, a year of travel with the author, 271-282;
presents “Diana of the Tides” to New National Museum, 334; 348

Andrew, Bessie, 18

Andrew, Edith, 17, 18

Andrew, Forrester, 18

Andrew, Harry, 18

Andrew, John Albion, the great War Governor, 17;
his home, 17-18;
personal appearance, 18;
letters from S. G. Howe to, 19, 20;
Howe’s services, 19-20;
and the box of snakes, 19

Anglin, Margaret, as _Phedra_ in “Hippolytus”, 348

“Antiques and Horribles”, 11

Appleton, Henry, of Leeds, England, 280

Appleton, Thomas Gold, 196

Apthorp, Robert, 40

“Arabian Days”, 248-255

Arctic exploration, compelling fascination of, 100-101

Armour, Mr. and Mrs. George, course of lectures at home of, 218

Art, acquiring a love of, 62-63;
Centennial Exposition did much for, 135;
one of author’s absorbing interests, 135

Art Association of Newport, inception of, 367;
first home of, 367-368;
researches in early art traditions of town, 368-369;
enthusiasm of founders of, 369;
larger quarters of, 384;
last reception and musicale in old home, 384;
importance of work of, 385-386;
effect of World War on, 391;
welfare work for service men by, 391-392

“Artists’ Life in Rome”, lecture on, 351, 367

Ascension Church, New York, 317

Ashburton Place, Joseph Howe’s home in, 36-37

Association for the Advancement of Women, 135

Assouan, 273

Aston Clinton, country seat of Sir Anthony de Rothschild, 148-150

Astronomy, study of, 59-60

Asylum for the Insane, Taunton, 83

Asylums, conditions in the pauper, 227

Athens, Greece, 190-193, 310-312

_Atlantic Monthly_, 289

“At the Sign of the Dollar”, Deland, 203

Austin, Henry, 214

Austria, Empress of, 278

Autograph collectors, impositions practised by, 84-85

“Aventurière, L’”, 281

“Bab Ballads, The”, Gilbert, 29, 151

Back Bay, new section of the, 54;
naming the streets of the, 55

Baden Baden, 278