in sculpture. “I have learned,” he said, “what the human body looks like in motion. I know there must be strange techniques in the art that permits the transfer of this motion to blocks of stone or metal. I can sense it. I can see it although I cannot comprehend it. I have been able to recognize master productions. I have never failed to see that they were master productions—and I may say that so far I have never seen any that move me the way that yours do.”
“And you are not an artist?” inquired Mr. Borglum.
Mr. Gavin sighed. “Ah, no,” he said. “I wished to be. As a child I haunted the art galleries. But there were financial difficulties in the family and I was discouraged. I have given much of my life to sports.”
“Interesting,” murmured the sculptor.
“Yes, indeed,” returned Mr. Gavin. “In a way it has been an odd path—and not one, perhaps, that I should have chosen if I had been given the selection. But I feel that I have done a worthwhile thing. The strength of the nation may be said to depend upon its horses, rifle shots, swimmers, tennis champions, boxers, and, of course, cricket players. I have tried to make these people constantly better—and, in my small way, I have succeeded.”
“I like boxing,” admitted the sculptor.
“I had believed you would,” said Gavin. “At the moment boxing is my own principal interest. That is one of the reasons why I have come to talk with you. Unfortunately few people in New York have ever seen a boxing match. They do not know what it means to watch the effortless movement of a pair of skilled boxers—to note the extreme precision with which their effort is controlled.” To him, he said, such contests were the most beautiful thing in the world—expressive of the fundamental male instincts, inspiring. And after that he got around to the reason for his visit.
It had occurred to him, he said, that Mr. Borglum might be of help to him in raising the level of boxing in the United States. He had come from England because he hoped to do what Lord Lonsdale had done over there to get outstanding people interested in the art instead of the heedless ruffians who now controlled it. Gutzon’s name had been given him, he said, as that of a man whose integrity was well known to the community and who had expressed some sympathy with the people who were trying to make ring contests legal. If Gutzon would join his list of sponsors, he said—and he named several highly respectable men of Gutzon’s acquaintance—he would form an immense club, restore the manly art and form a national association to promote it. He, himself, he mentioned, would advance all preliminary expenses.
The sculptor joined this crusade without further pressure. Nobody connected with him could have doubted that he would. Boxing had some of the artistic appeal for him that it theoretically had for Gavin. He had known about fisticuffs since boyhood, and, as his sculpture progressed, his continuous swinging of the tools had broadened his shoulders and put power behind his punch. Boxing had become one of the things that he thought he might learn to do better than anybody else, and he had tried to prove it. His friend Bob Davis had brought the world’s heavyweight champion Bob Fitzsimmons to the sculptor’s studio just as a test. Borglum had made a somewhat secondary showing against the champion, but that hadn’t hurt his enthusiasm. Maybe he didn’t know as much about ring mayhem as a champion, but he still knew as much about the theory of boxing as anybody else. That’s what he was thinking when he signed Gavin’s prospectus—which was quite a prospectus.