DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.68288#0204
i$8 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE
Johnsons, the beginning of a long friendship, and at their
house we afterward met many of the distinguished people
of the earth. Mrs. Johnson had a rare personality and a
flair for bringing brilliant people together and making her
dinners a success.
Sometimes there would be possibly only a dozen people,
and that was the best of all. We would sit in a group in the
front parlor, or later about an impromptu supper table,
and listen to some one talk. Sometimes it was Poultney
Bigelow, who used to tell us about his friendship with the
German Emperor. Emperors and kings were not so com-
mon in those days as they are now, and the first-hand ac-
counts were picturesque. Sometimes it was William Dean
Howells whose ‘ Silas Lapham ’ was just then the rage. He
was a small man, slightly stout, in no sense of distinguished
appearance, but of great personal charm. I always remem-
ber how pleased I was, when he sat at my right at dinner in
my own house, that he acted as if he really wanted to listen
to me — I who had always thought of him as far-off and
unapproachable.
Sometimes it was Kenyon Cox, who, my husband con-
sidered, spoke and wrote about art with greater authority
than all the critics put together. Cox was not always
gracious as to manner. He had a way of rather putting his
foot in it of which he was quite unconscious, being devoted
to his friends and of the kindest heart. Once, when a fellow
artist spoke rudely, just before leaving the room, Cox
turned to a friend — Chase, I believe — ‘Why should a
man speak like that?’ he asked. And Chase’s answer was,
‘For God’s sake, Cox, don’t you know that you always
speak like that?’
Also the story that at the Art Students’ League where he
Johnsons, the beginning of a long friendship, and at their
house we afterward met many of the distinguished people
of the earth. Mrs. Johnson had a rare personality and a
flair for bringing brilliant people together and making her
dinners a success.
Sometimes there would be possibly only a dozen people,
and that was the best of all. We would sit in a group in the
front parlor, or later about an impromptu supper table,
and listen to some one talk. Sometimes it was Poultney
Bigelow, who used to tell us about his friendship with the
German Emperor. Emperors and kings were not so com-
mon in those days as they are now, and the first-hand ac-
counts were picturesque. Sometimes it was William Dean
Howells whose ‘ Silas Lapham ’ was just then the rage. He
was a small man, slightly stout, in no sense of distinguished
appearance, but of great personal charm. I always remem-
ber how pleased I was, when he sat at my right at dinner in
my own house, that he acted as if he really wanted to listen
to me — I who had always thought of him as far-off and
unapproachable.
Sometimes it was Kenyon Cox, who, my husband con-
sidered, spoke and wrote about art with greater authority
than all the critics put together. Cox was not always
gracious as to manner. He had a way of rather putting his
foot in it of which he was quite unconscious, being devoted
to his friends and of the kindest heart. Once, when a fellow
artist spoke rudely, just before leaving the room, Cox
turned to a friend — Chase, I believe — ‘Why should a
man speak like that?’ he asked. And Chase’s answer was,
‘For God’s sake, Cox, don’t you know that you always
speak like that?’
Also the story that at the Art Students’ League where he