Three generations

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,

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.

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!

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 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.