Trinity Church in Boston is another example of the same thing. Richardson’s original idea might have been a masterpiece, but, long after it was wise to change his plans, the city authorities decided, either from economy or from some other good reason, that, as the building was situated on made land, it would not stand the weight of the tower. They made him cut out fifty feet in height. You might as well cut out two inches from a woman’s neck. Also, it is not fair to criticize our own Grant’s Tomb. The architect’s plans were, I am told, that one should see a building of stone capped by a great mass of bronze figures on the top and one group on each of the four corners. The best modiste in Paris might plan a hat with four large bunches of blue flowers. It is not fair to call the hat her creation if you remove the bunches. Those in power, again probably from economy, considered the tomb of the President good enough as it was and did not add the bronzes.
Now in the days of the great men in art such things were generally in the hands of a dictator—pope, king, or Mæcenas—and the people had nothing to do with them—except like them. Whistler says that the warriors, on returning from battle, did not care pro or con whether the artist-man, who stayed at home, had carved their goblets or not, as long as they were just as good to drink out of. I suppose one worships in the Trinity Church just as well, but I do not believe that Grant receives the honor that the building as it was planned would have given him, in the mind of either laborer or lord.
This time was quite a social period in my life. Good plays, good music and much of it—there was a spontaneity in the New York folk that has never touched me at any other time in America. I was strong, though never muscular, with the vitality of five men; and to work all day, run to the club in the late afternoon, dine well, and then be in the company of congenial friends most of the night, did not put a dent in my surplus energy. Stanny was the great driving force of all our entertainments, and as he was the type of man who always paid for everything and shoved anyone aside who tried to get in first, my lack of money did not make much difference. It was in 1893, I think, that he made me a member of the Vaudeville Club. In those days, that large space to the left, in the second tier of the Metropolitan Opera House, was given up to men only, and behind was the bar, a set of rooms, and a small stage. Here a member could meet a friend, have a drink, go in and hear what he wished of the opera, and come out when he felt bored. After the performance there would be a supper and a show given by the leading vaudeville people from Broadway. Relaxation after the music, good food and drink, and much talk and fun. Such entertainers as Vesta Victoria would be on the program, and once we were honored by the presence of Mr. Sandow. The latter was quite a lion for a time. I remember him, in evening clothes, coming into the box of a lady very highly placed socially. He seemed to be paralyzed by the attention given him. When he said good-by, and evidently wishing to return his social obligations, he handed each feminine occupant of the box a ticket to his private performances out at his quarters, where they “could see more of him.”
I remember one dinner party which was much criticized, but in reality how very moral and dignified it was! The guests, all men, were socially and artistically of the best set of the town. We wanted a “blowout” and we did not propose to be limited by New-Englandism, politics, or anything else. There were fifty men; everything was in perfect taste, arranged by the best artists in America. There was remarkably good music, made by a colored orchestra, and—mirabile dictu!—no talk, no speeches, and no toasts. Every man at that dinner knew that his next-door neighbor would be a treat to talk to and a man on his feet would be an interruption. Two girls—models—in exquisite costumes, one blond and one brunette, poured the drinks, each one serving the colored wine which corresponded to her complexion. At the dessert, solemn servants came forward, bearing a huge six-foot pasty which was placed in the center of the great horseshoe table. The negro musicians began to sing, in that inimitable manner and rhythm of their race.
“Sing a song of Sixpence, pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie—”
At the next words,
“When the pie was opened—”
one of the artists leaned forward and skillfully broke the crust, and myriads of canary birds (blackbirds not being obtainable even by Monte Cristo) outpoured and flew to every corner of the room, just as a charming young figure of a girl, draped from head to foot in black illusion, with a stuffed blackbird upon her head, arose from the dish. It was so new, original, and pretty, that comment upon it is absurd. The society of these men was so good, so envied, and so far above the average “low-brow” that it was preyed upon (probably more than other class at any other time in the social history of America) by the jealous and the criminal, and blackmailed to an extraordinary degree. It just naturally broke itself up; Beauty is sensitive and would rather disappear than run the risk of unwelcome publicity.
Referring to the character of Stanford White, his right hand never knew what his left was doing. I think he more nearly fitted Emerson’s definition of the word “gentleman” than anyone else I have ever known. It runs something like this: “A gentleman is one who never brings his mental or physical troubles from his bedroom; if he cannot leave them behind, he stays with them.” If the word can be divided into its two constituents—“gentle” and “man”—Stanny was certainly both, and I think “gentleness” (the opposite of “weakness”) is possibly one of the words which implies that we are now some distance from our ancestors, the cave dwellers. He may have had troubles of his own, but we never knew about them, for he was always so busy doing something for some one else that he hadn’t time to talk of himself.