T HE man who is in search of an argument for
Capitalism v. Socialism in the United States need not confine himself to the hospitals or universities dowered by princely financiers ; he can also betake himself to the Museums which are the glory of America's many capitals. Incidentally, he will not only obtain the requisite argument and feast his eyes on " things lovely and of good repute," he will obtain unexpected side- lights on Transatlantic psychology and be brought into touch with romance itself.
For consider the genesis of some of these collections. Often their creator has laid the foundation of his vast fortune by pushing a barrow or peddling small wares. In America this is no uncommon miracle. But the arresting feature of the story is that he does not remain content with piling up dollars. Like Monte Cristo, he realizes that satisfaction is best obtained by using wealth as an instrument rather than as an objective. Obedient to the beckoning figure of Romance, the pauper of yesterday—the illiterate pauper it must be remembered now that he has " arrived " sets himself to explore the treasure hoards of the world, at first for his own benefit, and finally for that of his adopted city. It would be curious to speculate as to the spark which lit the flame. Perhaps the very squalor of the emigrant's beginnings furnished the initial reaction towards the Beautiful. Anyhow a new ambition is kindled within the man, and the quick wit and common sense which made him a Captain of Industry go to the making of an art patron. Just as he knew how to pick his salesmen; he now selects the guide and philosopher for this new adventure, and the guide rapidly develops into a friend. Candour is an endearing quality. Who would refuse enlightenment to the ingenuous seeker who enquires " Was Velasquez really a great painter ? " It is true that when reassured on this cardinal point the good man still insists that he will only buy canvases that " please him personally," and the heavy-jowled Philips, the stiff Infantas do not at first enjoy that privilege. For a space no Velasquez need apply. But eye and brain are meanwhile being trained ; shortly the mil- lionaire recants, and with a true convert's fervour sends forth his emissaries to compel Velasquez portraits to come in. When he dies, the nation becomes the heir to the old tradesman's Vision Glorious.
It would be wrong, however, to suggest that it is alone the " rich come quick " who benefit the com- munity. Mr. Pierpont Morgan is an instance to the contrary, and there are many other cultured men who have opened vistas of beauty to their fellow-countrymen.
Perhaps the latest and most individual gift from a citizen to a city is the legacy of Fenway Court to Boston by its builder and maker, Isabella Stewart Gardner. Advisedly I say an individual gift, for this lady's ambition was set on bequeathing not, in Goncourt's phrase, a " cold tomb of a Museum," but her home which at every turn she had stamped with her own image, and stamped so deep that long after she was laid to rest " Mrs. Jack Gardner's " personality would remain an integral part of her " lordly pleasure house." From the moment of entrance in the cloister built in orthodox fashion round a patio radiant with flowering shrubs, where the gentle trickle of a fountain in itself brings a sense of leisure, rare in those latitudes, you realize that you have left the stirring capital of Puritan New England for Venice. But it is a sublimated Venice, a Venice that might have been let down in a napkin from Heaven, pure of blemish or flaw. Not that the exquisite palazzo is over-polished, over-varnished. Mrs. Jack Gardner was too good an artist to commit that mistake. She herself would climb the workman's ladder to splash the colour on to the walls, which, if true to type, must show the action of sea-fret on rose colour stucco. Yet the wondrous place has not " growed " ; it has sprung from one amazing brain to confront and confound artistic criticism. In the chapels which branch off from the cloister nothing of painting or sculpture short of perfection is suffered to find room. So is no chapel or house which has " growed." Yet there is nothing constrained about the whole scheme. Mrs. Jack Gardner knew that if you are dealing with masterpieces you need not worry about archaeological exactitudes. It is only the mediocre of differing periods which, in the American phrase, should be " parked " widely asunder. Though in the main building strict attention to epoch is observed, at one end of the cloister a thirteenth-century Pieta, which must have brought consolation to many a penitent soul, is built into the wall. At the other end, Sargent, in " Carmencita," his Spanish dancer, seems by some magic spell to have transferred life itself, breathing, palpitating life to the canvas. But, indeed, not the least glory of Fenway Court is its association with that great master, whose greatness is perhaps best realized in Boston. Sargent and Mrs. Jack Gardner were close allies. From the first she divined his genius, and as wonderful in its way as the " Carmencita," painted when he was a stripling, is the water-colour of his friend in her old age. He had already portrayed her twice. Others had done the same. She was weary of the ordeal and steadfastly refused to give any further sittings, and Mrs. Jack Gardner's decisions were irrevocable. Mr. Sargent was, however, also ill to baulk. One day he came to see her declaring himself sad and heavy of heart. In reply to enquiries, he explained that he wished to paint a woman, but " the horrid woman " refused to be painted. Upon which. Mrs. Gardner exploded. Who was the creature, she impetuously demanded, who had the insolence to decline such an honour ? And like Nathan of old, the wily artist retorted " You are the horrid woman ! " The humour of the situation was too much even for Isabella Gardner's adamantine decrees, and she capitu- lated, stipulating that the sitting should merely last two hours. Sargent produced a paint-box from his pocket, draped her in a semi-transparent white veil, and within the given time achieved a presentment of this remarkable woman as haunting and arresting as the St. Gaudens' statue in the Rock Creek Cemetery at Washington, or the Leonardo, who after four centuries sets us a riddle which none can solve.
In the States, elementary standards of beauty have', still to be created, as the trail of squalid rubbish witnesses which fringes road and railway. Indeed, the ribald! European sometimes wonders whether the old tin problem' is second to the colour problem. Let us not be Phari- saical. In Pitt's generation the floor of the House. of Commons was strewn with orange peel. Given time and the efforts of benefactors like Mrs. Gardner, civilization in its true sense will effect the change. That the efforts are appreciated by the multitude the eager holiday crowds in the museums amply testify. No one can leave such collections, Monsieur Jusserand wiselysays, save " as a better man. The added worth may be an infinitesimal worth, it may be a considerable one ; in all cases some worth will have been acquired." In truth, if Isabella Stewart Gardner's ghost ever walks her beloVed palazzo she may rejoice in her life's work.
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