But I should omit half my small story were I not meanwhile to make due
record of the numerous hours at which one ceased consciously to
discriminate, just suffering one’s sense to be flooded with the large
clean light and with that suggestion of a crowded “party” of young
persons which lurked in the general aspect of the handsomer regions—a
great circle of brilliant and dowered _débutantes_ and impatient youths,
expert in the cotillon, waiting together for the first bars of some
wonderful imminent dance-music, something “wilder” than any ever yet. It
is such a wait for something more, these innocents scarce know what, it
is this, distinctly, that the upper New York picture seems to cause to
play before us; but the wait is just that collective alertness of
bright-eyed, light-limbed, clear-voiced youth, without a doubt in the
world and without a conviction; which last, however, always, may
perfectly be absent without prejudice to confidence. The confidence and
the innocence are those of children whose world has ever been
practically a safe one, and the party so imaged is thus really even a
child’s party, enormously attended, but in which the united ages of the
company make up no formidable sum. In the light of that analogy the New
York social movement of the day, I think, always shines—as the whole
show of the so-called social life of the country does, for that matter;
since it comes home to the restless analyst everywhere that this
“childish” explanation is the one that meets the greatest number of the
social appearances. To arrive—and with tolerable promptitude—at that
generalization is to find it, right and left, immensely convenient, and
thereby quite to cling to it: the newspapers alone, for instance, doing
so much to feed it, from day to day, as with their huge playfully
brandished wooden spoon. We seem at moments to see the incoherence and
volatility of childhood, its living but in the sense of its hour and in
the immediacy of its want, its instinctive refusal to be brought to
book, its boundless liability to contagion and boundless incapacity for
attention, its ingenuous blankness to-day over the appetites and
clamours of yesterday, its chronic state of besprinklement with the
sawdust of its ripped-up dolls, which it scarce goes even through the
form of shaking out of its hair—we seem at moments to see these things,
I say, twinkle in the very air, as by reflection of the movement of a
great, sunny playroom floor. The immensity of the native accommodation,
socially speaking, for the childish life, is not that exactly the key of
much of the spectacle?—the safety of the vast flat expanse where every
margin abounds and nothing too untoward need happen. The question is
interesting, but I remember quickly that I am concerned with it only so
far as it is part of the light of New York.
It appeared at all events, on the late days of spring, just a response
to the facility of things, and to much of their juvenile pleasantry, to
find one’s self “liking,” without more ado, and very much even at the
risk of one’s life, the heterogeneous, miscellaneous apology for a
Square marking the spot at which the main entrance, as I suppose it may
be called, to the Park opens toward Fifth Avenue; opens toward the
glittering monument to Sherman, toward the most death-dealing, perhaps,
of all the climaxes of electric car cross-currents, toward the loosest
of all the loose distributions of the overtopping “apartment” and other
hotel, toward the most jovial of all the sacrifices of preconsidered
composition, toward the finest of all the reckless revelations, in
short, of the brave New York humour. The best thing in the picture,
obviously, is Saint-Gaudens’s great group, splendid in its golden
elegance and doing more for the scene (by thus giving the beholder a
point of such dignity for his orientation) than all its other elements
together. Strange and seductive for any lover of the reasons of things
this inordinate value, on the spot, of the dauntless refinement of the
Sherman image; the comparative vulgarity of the environment drinking it
up, on one side, like an insatiable sponge, and yet failing at the same
time sensibly to impair its virtue. The refinement prevails and, as it
were, succeeds; holds its own in the medley of accidents, where nothing
else is refined unless it be the amplitude of the “quiet” note in the
front of the Metropolitan Club; amuses itself in short with being as
extravagantly “intellectual” as it likes. Why, therefore, given the
surrounding medium, does it so triumphantly impose itself, and impose
itself not insidiously and gradually, but immediately and with force?
Why does it not pay the penalty of expressing an idea and being founded
on one?—such scant impunity seeming usually to be enjoyed among us, at
this hour, by any artistic intention of the finer strain? But I put
these questions only to give them up—for what I feel beyond anything
else is that Mr. Saint-Gaudens somehow takes care of himself.
To what measureless extent he does this on occasion one was to learn, in
due course, from his magnificent Lincoln at Chicago—the lesson there
being simply that of a mystery exquisite, the absolute inscrutable; one
of the happiest cases known to our time, known doubtless to any time, of
the combination of intensity of effect with dissimulation, with deep
disavowal, of process. After seeing the Lincoln one consents, for its
author, to the drop of questions—that is the lame truth; a truth in the
absence of which I should have risked another word or two, have
addressed perhaps even a brief challenge to a certain ambiguity in the
Sherman. Its idea, to which I have alluded, strikes me as equivocal, or
more exactly as double; the image being, on the one side, and splendidly
rendered, that of an overwhelming military advance, an irresistible
march into an enemy’s country—the strain forward, the very inflation of
drapery with the rush, symbolizing the very breath of the Destroyer. But
the idea is at the same time—which part of it is also admirably
expressed—that the Destroyer is a messenger of peace, with the olive
branch too waved in the blast and with embodied grace, in the form of a
beautiful American girl, attending his business. And I confess to a
lapse of satisfaction in the presence of this interweaving—the result
doubtless of a sharp suspicion of all attempts, however glittering and
golden, to confound destroyers with benefactors. The military monument
in the City Square responds evidently, wherever a pretext can be found
for it, to a desire of men’s hearts; but I would have it always as
military as possible, and I would have the Destroyer, in intention at
least, not docked of one of his bristles. I would have him deadly and
terrible, and, if he be wanted beautiful, beautiful only as a war-god
and crested not with peace, but with snakes. Peace is a long way round
from him, and blood and ashes in between. So, with a less intimate
perversity, I think, than that of Mr. Saint-Gaudens’s brilliant scheme,
I would have had a Sherman of the terrible march (the “immortal” march,
in all abundance, if that be the needed note), not irradiating
benevolence, but signifying, by every ingenious device, the misery, the
ruin and the vengeance of his track. It is not one’s affair to attempt
to teach an artist how such horrors may be monumentally signified; it is
enough that their having been perpetrated is the very ground of the
monument. And monuments should always have a clean, clear meaning.