Among those who rallied to our fellowship were several men and women well acquainted with the history of the old town; with their help I began to hunt up the art traditions of Newport. These proved astonishingly interesting to us all, and we spent much time in tracing out what was to be learned of the earlier artists who had lived here. Their names are legion, the best known perhaps being Gilbert Stuart, Edward Malbone, the painter of those exquisite miniatures treasured in many old American families, and John Smibert, the Edinborough carriage painter, who came to Newport in the train of Bishop Berkeley and made the famous portrait of Berkeley and his family at Yale University.
From the beginning, the founders of the new association were filled with enthusiasm and worked for it early and late, in season and out. It will be seen from the following extracts from my journal how it grew to fill an ever larger and larger place in the lives of my husband and myself, and that it always had a certain breadth of character, from having from the first been identified with matters of national and international significance.
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.