All the oil wells of Texas would not be worth, to our descendants, one poem like the “Ode to a Grecian Urn.”
If I had the task of taking to Europe one thing as the best work of art of America, I should take the tomb from the Rock Creek Cemetery in Washington, which was created by those three artists—Saint-Gaudens, Stanford White, and Henry Adams. Nothing we have made in this country as yet, whether paint, carving, or architecture, can equal it. This figure, an expression of the idea of death, marks, I am told, the last resting place of the wife of Henry Adams, but there is no name and no commemoration to any individual, no signature of artist or architect; it is universal and might belong to any one of us. A pilgrimage to this monument of a man’s respect for the woman he loved is, of necessity, a sacred rite. One cannot pass gayly by in a motor car and give a careless nod of approbation, but one must alight (let us hope from one of those old-fashioned rickety open barouches, driven by the last of the negro coachmen) and proceed up the narrowest, most delightful little path, overgrown with shrubs and bushes, where at the top of a knoll and carefully concealed from common gaze is the Sphinx. Like the pilgrims to the ancient shrines, one wishes one had courage to go back and approach this beauty of all time and no time, upon one’s bended knees. And her surroundings! How wonderfully the loving architect has framed her; no word and no talk about death. There she sits and speaks to everyone, and the message is the secret of his innermost thoughts—so much as he brings, so much does she tell, and no more.
One day in Paris the Figaro started a reporter out to get the opinions of different intellectual men upon death. Some gave a column, some a half column, but when it came to Alphonse Daudet, he said:
“My idea of death?—la mort?—psutt!—”
There is nothing to say, and all I can think of when looking at the Rock Creek Memorial, are the words of Shakespeare,
The Rest is Silence
Chapter XII: Fine Arts in Relation to “A Number of Things”
It was during this period of my life that I did my best work; I had a good studio in Carnegie Hall, freedom from money worries, and abounding spirit. Also, my imagination was still fresh from the influence of Europe, and the Old World was enough in retrospect for me to realize its worth. One of the most interesting orders I received at this time was to decorate a room in the new part of the Waldorf Hotel, that addition called the Astoria. It was a long, narrow hall, the Astor Gallery, with boxes all around a dais at one end. The room was an attempt at the French of Louis Seize—bastard architecture, I think—fancy work and rococo with curves and bends everywhere. After my work was all finished I had to get up and paint over again the ribbon held by one of the Cupids. It was taut and I changed it to wavy, as it proved to be the only straight line in the whole room.
After I had submitted my sketches and they were accepted by the architect, I had to go and sign my contract at the offices of John Downey & Son. There was a large room full of stenographers and bookkeepers, with a glass place on one side for the boss. John Downey came out to greet me. As we sat at a big table, he pushed toward me a long document, saying:
“There’s your contract. If you’ll read it over and it is satisfactory, you’ve only to sign it and get your first payment.”