CHICAGO AND BOSTON IN THE NINETIES
Shortly after our marriage my husband’s work took us to Chicago, where
he was already known as a decorative painter, through his “History of
the Vintage”, a frieze and ceiling executed for Mrs. Potter Palmer’s
fine house on the Lake Shore Drive. Letters to my family give my early
impressions of the place.
[To my Mother.]
Chicago, January, 1888.
I am growing to feel at home in this queer grimy city. Life is
pretty laborious. We get to the studio at nine. I drape J’s model,
an old German soldier posing for St. Peter. Then I go to my den and
grind away till lunch. Last Saturday the studios were turned into
fairy land. A dainty table was spread and fourteen leaders of
Chicago’s “sassiety” were invited to meet me at luncheon. Mrs.
Pretyman, who gave the party, proved a wonderful decorator. All the
working details of the rooms were hidden under soft draperies
brought out from dark chests and drawers. In J’s studio his
portraits of Uncle Sam and Julia Richards were hung, also his new
sea babies and the big ceiling panel of cupids with apple blossoms.
After luncheon, excellent music and hosts of people. It was as well
done as it could have been in London or Paris, a perfect _fête
d’atelier_.
Chicago, May, 1888.
I like the place, I like the people, I love the civic spirit here,
but I can never like the climate. Thermometer dropped forty degrees
yesterday in eight hours. The lake has as many moods as I have,
with the difference that all are beautiful,--storm, squall and sun.
Lake Michigan is as handsome as the Mediterranean, but it lacks
salt,--salt, the savor of life. This morning to hear David Swing
preach. He poured out vials of bitterness against the narrow
doctrines of the Puritans. I have sold my story “Phil Owens” to the
_American_ for one hundred dollars. Reginald De Koven is the
editor. Anna De K. has been kinder than kind. I meet delightful
people at her house. I am writing the Vampire story for Oscar
Wilde’s magazine. All the women in the house are reading my
“Mammon” in _Lippincott’s_.
[To Laura Richards.]
Chicago, May, 1889.
The last of my lectures to-night. Want to know the titles? P.G.
signifies pretty good.
Literature of New England. P.G.
Our Southern Literature. P.G.
The West in Literature.
The Metropolitan School (New York). P.G.
Has America produced a Poet? P.G.
English Poets.
English Novelists. P.G.
France in Literature To-day.
Dawn of Russian Literature. P.G.
Contemporaneous Russian Writers. P._D_.G.!
In all the winter’s cramming for these talks, the books I have
enjoyed most are Gogol’s “Taras Bulba” and Walter Pater’s “Marius,
the Epicurean.” It’s been a beast of a grind to prepare so many,
but how I have enjoyed it! I am very happy and busy since I began
my hard work. All the devil blues vanished. They came of the fiends
_ennui_ and idleness, bara boom, bara boom!
This, my first lecture course, was held at the house of our friends, Mr.
and Mrs. George Armour. The talks were given two evenings a week during
Lent. In the audience were some of the men who had created
Chicago,--Marshall Field, John Crerar, Charles Farwell, Wirt Dexter,
Franklin MacVeagh, Potter Palmer, and scions of the powerful Pullman,
Deering, and McCormick clans. The generation to which these men belonged
loved their city as other men love a favorite child, with a passionate
devotion and a pride I have never known equaled. That is the secret of
Chicago’s strength; it is founded upon love, the strongest thing in the
world. With these merchant princes came their wives and daughters,
hardly less active than they in shaping the city’s social and artistic
life. What a clever, brilliant group of women they were! By common
consent Mrs. Potter Palmer was the acclaimed leader among them. She was
greatly beloved and treated like a little queen.
Bertha Honoré Palmer was handsome, elegant, and distinguished, but so
were many other women of her set: what made her preëminent among them
was a rare gift of leadership combined with great executive ability.
After the terrible fire of 1871, her husband, like other prominent
business men, found himself a heavy loser from the disaster. It was at
this time that the property which later became the Lake Shore Drive came
into the market. When a great slice of this land was offered to Mr.
Palmer, it seemed a hopeless proposition and he decided to turn it down.
His wife, however, persuaded him to make the investment; she had the
vision to foresee that what was then mere waste land on the borders of
Lake Michigan was destined to become the fashionable quarter of the
city. Mr. Palmer, who was much older than his wife, made a will that for
chivalry is unsurpassed. After leaving the larger part of his immense
fortune to his wife, he added a clause setting aside a certain sum of
money, the income from which should be paid to Mrs. Palmer’s husband, in
case she should marry again.
Mrs. Leiter and her handsome daughters had already given up Chicago for
Washington. They were sometimes at their country place at Geneva Lake,
where we spent a pleasant week-end. I studied Mrs. Leiter’s curious use
of English with some care and came to the conclusion that she was word
blind as some people are color blind.
“Mr. A. is a very deep-seated man,” she once said to me of a common
acquaintance, repeating the phrase earnestly, “a very deep-seated man”,
shaking her handsome head and dismissing Mr. A. in an imperial manner. I
never quite knew what she meant to imply about poor Mr. A.
One evening at the Auditorium Theater a friend brought Eugene Field into
our box and introduced him to us. We had a brief chat between the acts.
What had struck me first about him was his closely cropped, almost
shaven head, so unlike other poets I had known. When he had gone, our
host asked:
“What do you think of Eugene Field?”
“Doesn’t he look rather like a convict?” I laughed, meaning to be funny.
As we were leaving the theater, Mr. Field came up to me in the lobby and
said cheerily:
“I hear you say I look like a convict. Remember I am not a bird of
plumage, but a bird of song. As for you,” with a low bow, “you look like
the daughter of the ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic.’”
I almost forgot my mortification in my admiration for that gracious
turning of the tables. He bore no malice, and on the too few occasions
when we met, I found him companionable and understanding. The last time
I saw Eugene Field was at a dinner at Mrs. John Root’s. He was in great
vein and kept us in a gale of laughter till past midnight. John Root, of
the firm of Burnham and Root, was already at work making the plans for
the Dream City of the World’s Fair. He was a gifted man who had made his
mark as an architect. He was a Virginian, a full habited _rosso_, with a
magnificent physique, extraordinarily brilliant in his talk as in his
profession. He insisted upon putting me in my carriage though it was
below zero weather. I can see him now, standing at the carriage door in
evening dress, with bare head, while he said some last witty thing.
“Go back! You will catch your death of cold,” I chided.
The words were prophetic; he took a chill from the exposure and died of
pneumonia a few days later.
William Pretyman was at this time established in Chicago as an interior
decorator; during our stay my husband was associated with him in the
decoration of some of the city’s fine houses. The Pretymans built a home
at Edgewater, then a suburb of the city. As soon as they had moved into
their new home, these generous people invited us to share it with them.
I remember the day we took possession. All morning the lake had been
veiled by an opal haze. The sun came out just as we arrived and in an
instant it was a sheet of palest green, shimmering with blue and violet
shadows.
To reach the great living room two stories high we went down a flight of
stairs. In one corner stood the table spread for dinner, in another
Pretyman’s easel and drawing stand, opposite were Jennie Pretyman’s
grand piano, her work basket, and bookcase. There was an enormous open
fireplace where logs of silver birch blazed and crackled on a pair of
ancient andirons. The windows were too high to allow us to look out.
When I saw the room I exclaimed:
“The world forgetting, by the world forgot!”
Pretyman liked this so much that it became the motto of this unique
center which was to become a Mecca to the Pilgrims of Art from many
lands.
The day’s work over, we gathered round the hearth. When he was in the
mood, Pretyman, who was a thirteenth-century Crusader in
nineteenth-century clothes, told of his adventures among the Head
Hunters of North Borneo when he was British Resident. More often than
not he brought a stranger home to dinner, some stray Englishman sorely
in need of a friend. How _did_ they all find him? Or did he find them?
“Chicago is like a sieve,” he used to say, “it is the first place that
catches the down-and-out British rancher on his way east.”
How many of his stranded countrymen he helped to tide over a bad moment,
only he and his wife know.
I once met at their house her cousin, Mary Leiter, afterwards Lady
Curzon. They were as like as two sisters, though Jennie Pretyman was the
handsomer and more gracious. The likeness went as far as the speech and
even the handwriting.
My mother visited us in Chicago while on one of her western lecture
tours.
During the greater part of the time of the World’s Fair we were in
Chicago. My mother was active in the World’s Parliament of Religion and
I had the pleasant task of editing a volume on the work of women at the
Columbian Exposition.
1890 saw our return to Boston and to my mother’s house where I took up
my old position as “boss.” Nothing was changed; each day was still too
short for the task and frolic it brought. The clan constantly rallied
round the old Chieftainess; children, grandchildren, relatives, “near”
relatives, distinguished strangers, poor things in need of a bed, a
meal, a cup of tea, a “jollying”! How did she do it? In these
inhospitable post-war days it seems incredible.
My diary gives glimpses of the busy hive and its queen bee.
January 1st, 1890. Mama down early for breakfast. Her mail was
mostly composed of bills. She threw up her hands in mock dismay. J.
said, “People ought to send you _billets doux_ instead of _billets
duns_!”
January 14th. John Pickering Putnam proposes my name for membership
in the National Club.
This association grew out of Edward Bellamy’s “Looking Backward.” The
book made a great furore. I heard Bellamy speak at Tremont Temple that
winter. Edward Everett Hale, who introduced him, said,
“Some time ago I wrote a book called ‘How They Lived at Hampton.’ Nobody
read it. Mr. Bellamy has written a book on the same theme and everybody
has read that.”
January 15th. Lecture from Professor Royce on Kant. He said the
modern man of the best sort to-day embodies Kant’s principles,
which were that out of pure reason a man should build up for
himself a system of ethics, that he should act as if there was a
God, and that he should do right always because it was the manliest
part to play.
To a “Recollection of Tristan and Isolde”, Mr. Preston giving the
music on the piano, Ralph Adams Cram reading a description of the
opera.
January 17th. To dine with Mrs. Louis Stackpole, where we met Dr.
Holmes. He spoke of the pleasure he had in reading his own poems.
“I have written one hundred,” he said, “and I like thirty.” I asked
the names of his favorites.
“‘The Last Leaf’,” he said. “Then perhaps ‘The Chambered Nautilus’
and ‘Dorothy Q’.”
He spoke of passing through the old tunnel at Salem this autumn and
finding the voice of the train as wicked as ever. “It said, ‘Why
don’t you _now_? Why don’t you _now_?’ in such a tempting and
delightful fashion that if I had been sitting by the Cumaean Sybil
I should have taken her hand in mine.”
The Doctor described having made and put up his first “shingle.” He
cut out the frame, covered it with tin and painted on it: “Dr. O.
W. Holmes, last door but one.” Having nailed up the sign he walked
down to Tremont Street and looked down Montgomery Place to see the
effect it produced. “No, that will never do!” he exclaimed. “What
if it should strike the patient that if I am the last door but one
I must be next door to the tomb?” He took the sign down and
repainted it, making it read, “Dr. Holmes, 8 Montgomery Place.”
I told Dr. Holmes I thought it was rather hard that he was getting
all the credit for my _mot_ about Mama being “seventy years young.”
“Yes,” he said, “I sympathize with you. Many of my good things are
credited to Nat Curtis or Tom Appleton.”
I repeated this to Mama. “Never mind,” she said, “you have added a
phrase to the language!”
January 18th. To South Boston to make copies of Papa’s letters from
the old letter books. The school journals of the early days at the
Perkins Institution are very good reading. To Mrs. Fairchild’s in
the afternoon where I found a sea of beaux about Sattie and Lucia.
John Sargent was there. He is painting Mr. Booth for the Players
Club. A gay evening. Mrs. Norman to dine, Arthur Terry and Edward
Bacon, the Walker boys and Sam Hall. We had dumb crambo, charades
and singing to amuse Mama, who had been headachey but was much
jollied up. How she loves the _gioventude_!
January 20th. With Mama to see Booth and Modjeska in the “Merchant
of Venice.” His Shylock greater than ever,--the art so perfect as
to be imperceptible. Kate Vannah came from New York. A discussion
about a personal devil, in whom she firmly believes. Agreed to ask
the people we meet for the next week their opinion. Ned Elliott,
Miss Lockwood and Mrs. Fairchild believe in a distinct principle of
evil.
January 21. To Professor Royce’s lecture on Fichte and the German
idealists who followed Kant. Very interesting. In the evening Mama
talked about Papa. She spoke of her having for twenty years lived
in thinking about thoughts; _i.e._ studying metaphysics and
philosophy, on which she wrote many papers. She went one Sunday to
the Parker Memorial and read a paper about the Causality of Things.
When half through she realized that the audience did not understand
her and moreover that it was her fault that they did not
understand. Then came a period in which she determined to learn
from experience, from thinking about people and life, and to think
no longer about thoughts. Now she can amuse herself with
philosophy, but it is not the pleasure to her that a thorough study
of history is, or of the different religions of the world. She
enjoys above all other reading the Greek classics, poetry, history
and plays.--To a Russian dinner given by Count Zuboff at the
Tremont House. Very amusing. All sorts of queer fishes and queer
dishes.
January 27th. A letter from Mr. Booth thanking me for mine. I had
written telling how much we had enjoyed seeing him act during his
Boston engagement. He writes:
“Forgive an old man’s tardiness in thanking you for your charming
note anent the plays I struggled through in Boston, it gratified me
very, very much indeed, and I cordially thank you for it.”
The handwriting not so firm as formerly, though the signature is
perfect. Shylock was the best thing he did this time,--an old man’s
part!
February 7th. Fourth anniversary of our marriage. Supper, music,
dancing, for a dozen of the original wedding guests,--only true
lovers were invited. Mama said that every woman should be allowed
to choose her own mate until she was thirty, every man till he was
forty; after that the State should marry them. What a scrambling
there would be in the twenty-ninth and the thirty-ninth years!
Richard Mansfield had asked me to write a play for him founded on
Chamisso’s “Man Without a Shadow.” I found time for this and to
give a series of talks of arts and literature in Boston, New York,
Philadelphia and Newport during this year and the following. It was
a time of great activity and consequent happiness.
April 1st, 1891. Began to work on Act Fourth of “The Man Without a
Shadow” and sent the third act to Mansfield. Mr. Herne asks me to
sign a petition that a play of his be produced. The petition opens
with a letter from W. D. Howells. The moral of the play is like
that of the “Kreutzer Sonata”, a plea for the single standard of
conduct for man and woman. To see Mr. Howells and ask his advice.
He said, “I advise you not to sign a petition to produce a play you
never have read.” He thinks highly of Herne, the man and the actor,
and spoke of the play as “an epoch-making drama.”
Mr. Howells was enchanting. He wore a black velvet jacket and
seemed to be reading a pile of letters when I came in. He said the
success of his last book was due in his opinion to the scene having
been laid in New York. “Everybody likes to read about New York,
only a few people about Boston. I have to describe the place I am
in. If I am in Boston, I write about it; when I am in New York I
write about that.”
“But New York is such a friendless place,” I said.
“Yes, it is,” Howells replied, “but it is so easy, it always seems
to me to be standing about with its hands in its pockets. I can
never hope to have so many pleasant friends there, or anywhere, as
in Boston.”
I am sorry he is going. He will be greatly missed. Everybody loves
the man though not all the novelist.
April 4th. At the Delands’ last evening. Stepniak made an urgent
plea for his country, wishing Americans to bring the pressure of
their disapproval on the Russian nation. He was eloquent and full
of pathos.
April 5th. With J. to the Symphony Concert. The leader was ill and
Kneisel conducted extremely well. They gave Beethoven’s Second
Symphony: more beautiful than ever. J. much excited by the music.
He said that most painters loved music, while the musicians he knew
did not care much about pictures. Their ears are trained to the
disadvantage of their eyes. “They are so used to looking at _dots_
that they don’t really see.”
Have invited Mr. Mansfield and Miss Beatrice Cameron to lunch next
Sunday.
April 6th. Worked hard at my play.--To see “Beau Brummel” with
Mama, J. and Arthur Terry. Mr. Mansfield wrote that the rehearsals
for “Don Juan” took all his time and that my play will be prepared
in the early summer for the stage.
April 10th. Mr. Stepniak addressed a meeting at Mama’s house, the
object being to raise money for the paper, _Free Russia_, and also
to send responsible persons to Russia to gather first-hand
information about the misrule, outrages and general oppression.
Mama would not let me give my name for the committee, as she knows
that I want to go to Russia and thinks if I was connected with this
movement it would not be expedient for me to go there.
April 18th. To the Lunch Club at Edith Wendell’s. Mrs. Roland
Lincoln told us about the sad condition of the pauper asylums. We
drew up and signed a letter to Mayor Matthews, asking for a
hospital to be built on Rainsford Island for the paupers. It is a
puzzling matter. It is not possible to make their state an enviable
one and yet it is terrible to think of the helpless mass, the dregs
of the city left alone, outside the pale of humanity. I asked Mrs.
Lincoln if any one ever thought of them. She said, “No one goes
there but the priest!” Cruel that Protestantism is not more imbued
with the spirit that made a Father Damien!
April 20th. The reception at the Kindergarten for the Blind. A
lovely day, a great crowd of people. Helen Keller the main
attraction, as in the old days at the Perkins Institution, Laura
Bridgman. She is a most extraordinary child. I think Anagnos has
made a mistake in choosing Miss Sullivan for her teacher. Miss S.
is well prepared in one way, having herself been educated at the
Perkins Institution and having known Laura Bridgman and become
familiar with Papa’s methods, but she has not the right feeling,
remembering the beautiful modesty of Laura’s behavior, compared to
the almost hoydenish ways of this child. Helen recited some verses
of Dr. Holmes’. Her voice, Mr. Dwight said, was like that of a
Pythoness. It was to me the loneliest sound I have ever heard, like
waves breaking on the coast of some lonely desert island. The work
of raising the fund for the New Kindergarten building goes bravely
on. Twenty thousand dollars is already subscribed. Michael wants
fifty thousand and I believe he will get it.
At the instance of Michael Anagnos, my sister Florence Hall and I
now set about writing the story of my father’s greatest
achievement, the education of Laura Bridgman, a many times told
tale, first by S. G. H. in his reports of the Perkins Institution,
then by Charles Dickens in the “American Notes”, later by scores of
writers in many tongues.
“All history that survives must be rewritten every twenty years for
each fresh generation,” Anagnos insisted.
This work brought me nearer my father as a teacher than ever
before. The hours spent copying his letters from the ancient files
of the Institution and deciphering Laura’s faintly penciled diary
taught me much about both of them. M. A. deW. Howe, our kinsman,
helped sift the chaff from the wheat in the mass of material that
confronted us; my husband brought his craft to our aid, making
careful drawings to illustrate the book.
April 22nd. Richard Mansfield gave a matinee performance of “Beau
Brummel” at the Globe Theater for the benefit of the Kindergarten
for the Blind, an admirable performance.
April 26th. To lunch with Mrs. Fairchild. John Sargent there and
Miss Julia Marlowe. She is very sweet, not so sensitive as Beatrice
Cameron, but with a larger field probably before her. In the
evening music at the Montgomery Sears’. Very lovely. Ernst Perabo
and the Adamowski quartette. Mr. Sears a perfect host, the
musicians at their best. Mr. Sears spoke of the plan to have J. do
a decoration for the Public Library. Said he ought to have it and
would be glad to serve on the committee.
April 27th. To the fiftieth anniversary of the Church of the
Disciples. Very long and tiresome remarks from the early speakers.
When Mama got up to speak, the audience woke up. An electric
current ran through the house. It was quite wonderful. She spoke
beautifully of Theodore Parker and dear James Freeman Clarke, and
drew a fine parallel between them.
June 5th. My dear brother-in-law, Edward Elliott, was drowned this
day at Prospect Hill Lake, Colorado Springs.
June 10th. At half past ten Phillips Brooks came to the house. I
had arranged the back parlor like a little chapel with many
flowers. He read the service in memory of dear Ned, prayed with us
and left my dear J. a little lifted up from his black grief. Ned
had been with us to the New Year’s Eve service and had been much
impressed with the sermon and the personality of the great
preacher. This was a gracious and a loving act.
Ned Elliott was my husband’s brother, a gallant young sailor, to whom we
were all much attached. He had gone to Colorado Springs to recover from
an attack of pneumonia. He entirely regained his health and was on the
point of coming to join us in Boston when this strange accident took
place. Prospect Hill Lake is a small artificial sheet made by damming
the mountain streams of ice-cold water. It was constructed to serve as
a plaything for strangers who come to Colorado Springs in search of
health. Having created the lake, the next thing was to provide a boat to
sail upon it. My brother-in-law was the only sailor in the place and he,
with two other young men, launched the sailboat for its first trip. She
proved to be a crank affair and turned bottom upward, throwing them all
into the icy lake. The other two were saved by clinging to the keel, but
Ned, who had sailed the high seas for years, been twice shipwrecked, and
had many hairbreadth escapes, was drowned in nine feet of water of a toy
lake. It is believed that his death was due to a cramp. It seemed like
an old pagan sacrifice to the darker gods!
July 17th. Mama said this morning;
“You owe me two dollars.” I replied that I owed her two dollars and
thirty-five cents. Then she cried out:
“You owe me for all sorts of things.”
“I owe you my life.”
“On the whole,” with a twinkle, “that has been of so much advantage
to me that I won’t charge you for it.”
January 3rd, 1892. Went with Mama to church, she preaching, as Mr.
Ames is ill with grippe. Her prayer was very moving. She asked for
faith, inspiration, and love. Also spoke of the church and the
noble souls who had built it up. The sermon was on the text, “Thou
Art Peter.” One of her best efforts. Have heard it before and went
largely with the idea of studying her methods of delivery. Daisy
Chanler advised me to study with her rather than any one else, said
she thought Mama’s was the most beautiful manner and speech she had
ever heard. Soon, however, the matter and the manner overcame me,
and I forgot to mark the intonations save to be moved by them. The
thought in the sermon was the strength of simple humanity. Sinful,
deceitful sometimes, but capable of heroism and self-sacrifice. On
this rock of the common sense and the right feeling of the simple
human being, Christ’s church was builded. The congregation was
much moved, I thought, and I bore her off rather fiercely from
“congregationing.” She had been very anxious about this service and
had hardly slept the night before. She is never so wearied as by
prayer; it is the thing she loves best. She was flushed and
beautiful at the end of the service.
November 11th, 1893. To the funeral of Francis Parkman, to which I
went as a matter of historical interest. It took place at King’s
Chapel, without pomp, ceremony or trappings of woe. The music was
pure classic, but passionless, the voice of the clergyman grave,
reverent, without emotion. It seemed as if all elder Boston had
come to the obsequies of one of the last great New Englanders. The
service was impressive from its very impassiveness. No rending
either of hearts or garments, no shrouding of pale faces with
crape,--all stern, granite, real. Barrett Wendell had been that
morning to the funeral of his choreman at the Catholic cathedral.
He compared the gorgeous ceremony for this humble servant with the
incense, the vestments, the velvet pall, the emotional music, to
the grave function at King’s Chapel. He spoke of the ringing Latin
words of the mass, _in sæcula sæculorum_. “In the matter of
funerals,” he said, “Thomas certainly had the best of it.”