DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.68288#0304
24s MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE
seemed to find so much to interest him in the studio and in
the country, which was of course very different from that
of his home in the West, that we asked him to spend a few
days. Mr. French and in fact all of us were busy, and he
claimed that he was quite equal to taking care of himself.
He was. I felt that he saw every inch of everything that
was in the studio, and every tree and shrub and growing
thing on the place. I think of him standing in the middle of
the lawn, gazing at the view and clouds, at the air itself,
breathing it in. It seemed to me, during those days, that,
whenever I looked out of the window, I saw this slim, boy-
ish;,figure standing somewhere, anywhere, breathing in the
beauty which he found everywhere, and which I hoped he
found more there than in some other places. I always like
to think of him with us, alone, with only art and nature
about us, before any one else knew him; before, in fact, he
really knew himself.
Madame Homer never lived there, but I always as-
sociate her with Stockbridge, because it was there that I
first knew her. I had remembered her always as did so
many of her admirers as ‘Orpheus’ in the opera of that
name, in her boyish drapery and beauty, a green wreath
upon her brown hair; but it was lovely to know her in our
simple village life as just the radiant, joyous mother and
wife and friend. I remember one day on the village street
she put her arm through mine, and said, ‘Come over to
the church with me. I am going to sing there to-morrow
morning, if they can find anybody to play for me.’ So we
went around to the back of the old-fashioned Congrega-
tional Church where the young woman who played the
organ of a Sunday was waiting with the key. We entered,
seemed to find so much to interest him in the studio and in
the country, which was of course very different from that
of his home in the West, that we asked him to spend a few
days. Mr. French and in fact all of us were busy, and he
claimed that he was quite equal to taking care of himself.
He was. I felt that he saw every inch of everything that
was in the studio, and every tree and shrub and growing
thing on the place. I think of him standing in the middle of
the lawn, gazing at the view and clouds, at the air itself,
breathing it in. It seemed to me, during those days, that,
whenever I looked out of the window, I saw this slim, boy-
ish;,figure standing somewhere, anywhere, breathing in the
beauty which he found everywhere, and which I hoped he
found more there than in some other places. I always like
to think of him with us, alone, with only art and nature
about us, before any one else knew him; before, in fact, he
really knew himself.
Madame Homer never lived there, but I always as-
sociate her with Stockbridge, because it was there that I
first knew her. I had remembered her always as did so
many of her admirers as ‘Orpheus’ in the opera of that
name, in her boyish drapery and beauty, a green wreath
upon her brown hair; but it was lovely to know her in our
simple village life as just the radiant, joyous mother and
wife and friend. I remember one day on the village street
she put her arm through mine, and said, ‘Come over to
the church with me. I am going to sing there to-morrow
morning, if they can find anybody to play for me.’ So we
went around to the back of the old-fashioned Congrega-
tional Church where the young woman who played the
organ of a Sunday was waiting with the key. We entered,