Upward Panic

The Autobiography of Eva Palmer-Sikelianos

John P. Anton, John P. Anton

• Verlag: Routledge
• Jahr: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781134347858
• Auflage: 1
• Thema: Medien & darstellende Kunst
• Thema: Darstellende Kunst

First Published in 1993.A complete autobiography of Evalina Palmer-Sikelianos (1874-1952), a woman of immense spiritual strength who fought for the arts against the background of war. She contributed impressively throughout her life to the revival of interest in classical Greece, the theatre and choral dance, and advocated an adherence to mythical authenticity rather than a romanticised view of Greek tragic drama.

CHAPTER 1
My Father

Among these earliest memories are the meetings of the Nineteenth Century Club. Leaning over the banisters from our third storey vantage ground, we three red-heads, all carefully dressed for the occasion, used to watch the grand ladies coming up to my mother's sitting-room, and the gentlemen to my father's bedroom, to leave their coats. Edging down a little on the stairs we would sometimes greet the people we knew; and then, when all were seated in the drawing-room and the library, we would slip down as far as the lower landing on the stairs to hear my father's voice; and afterwards the speaker of the evening; then the opponent of the speaker; then rebuttals from each; and finally an open discussion.

I suppose, at that time, we three were too young to have followed the intricacies of the many subjects which were discussed; but at each of these meetings there was a diffused excitement, a sort of lurking danger which held our interest, and kept us keyed up at hours when we should normally have been asleep. At the end of the speeches we children must have been allowed to come in; for I remember mingling with the guests when the time came for punch, ice-cream and cake.

Probably, even then, my father's reason for taking all this trouble was not strange to me. In a society which had raised impassible barriers between differing forms of religious dogma or political belief, and where each believer was listening only to his own interpreters, he wanted to make people listen to what their opponents had to say. There were many kinds of dogma, and many kinds of opposition.

My father made it his life-work to see to it that the most distinguished representatives of opposite sides of various questions meet, and that they listen to each other in a spirit of courtesy. To me he was a heroic figure. I loved to follow his brilliancy in discussion, with people who were constantly dropping in to lunch or dinner in the dear old Gramercy Park house. And how varied they were!

I remember the commanding figure of Robert Ingersoll, the atheist, in a procession of Protestant ministers, Catholic priests, Hindu swamis, Jewish rabbis, anarchists, painters, politicians, poets, journalists, musicians, novelists. My father would go to any trouble to obtain key people for his Nineteenth Century Club meetings. When the Russian Douma was founded he brought one of the founders from Russia to speak about it. No doubt there was something heroic in his choice of a mission, and in the directness of his attack in carrying it out. Today we can judge of the difficulties he must have encountered by the fact that at first he was ostracized from New York society for daring to bring opponents on any subject together. But he went right on; and the thing became so interesting that gradually those who had turned a cold shoulder to it would filter in to listen, somewhat on the sly; then these disapprovers would see each other there, and so the ice would be broken. Later on, requests for invitations became far greater than the capacity of our house, and it was decided to move the Club to Sherry's ballroom; and so the original charm was lost.

But he himself wished it to grow. It was not for him an intellectual play-thing for the benefit of a small circle of clever New Yorkers. "Are we furthering charities, art, culture, independent thought," he wrote to Mrs. John Sherwood, "or are we simply amusing ourselves?" In fact, in founding his club, he probably was indifferent about the adherence of these people except as a means to an end: a small starting-point toward a mighty goal. He hoped to bring about mutual understanding among small hostile groups: between denominational Christians, then between world religions; between political parties, then between nations. I think that he really believed that open discussion, joined with true kindness, would be enough to regenerate the world.

And so, when the Nineteenth Century Club outgrew the old house, he felt it was strong enough to take care of itself in New York; and his next idea was to sow the good seed in London and, after that, in other capitals of Europe. He obtained letters to many distinguished Englishmen; and the whole Palmer family went abroad on the City of Rome. then the largest ship on the ocean, on the 9th of May 1885. I was then nine years old.

In London, men of letters, diplomats, musicians, gathered in the studio of Felix Mendelssohn Moscheles to hear my father speak. He expounded his plan to them with his charming ease of manner, and no notes in his hand. Several of those present arose afterwards and answered him at some length, and with apparent seriousness. From different points of view they all said practically the same thing: that his plan was no doubt excellent for America, where much clannishness was apparent between members of different sects; but that in England, and on the Continent, such conditions did not obtain; and that what he wished to establish existed already in the natural breadth of outlook common to Englishmen.

Among others who spoke was Oscar Wilde, whose ship, at that time, had not yet foundered on the reefs of scandal. His words were slow, and somewhat impressive; and afterwards, thinking back, I realized that the quality of his voice probably was beautiful. At the time, however, during his short speech, only my own mounting fury was real to me; and only his final sentence has remained in my mind:

"I do not think very much," he said, "of Mr. Courtlandt Palmer's ideas: but his style is wonderful!"

I could have killed him. All the people who had discussed my father's speech with a show of respect had not awakened my anger, even though their conclusions were mostly unfavorable; but to have someone make light of his ideas, and then talk admiringly of his "style" seemed to me the height of insolence. Yet, in looking back, I have sometimes wondered if perhaps Oscar Wilde was right. For certainly none of us would imagine, today, that open discussion, however courteous, would be enough to regenerate the world. We have seen enough of it in our time to know that this, by itself, has not the magic which my father attributed to it. And no doubt there was something a little childish in his going abroad as he did, to bring this panacea to Englishmen and Frenchmen, who rightly answered that to them it was not so new as it had appeared to be in America.

"But his style is wonderful!"

This phrase, which had seemed so outrageous to me as a child, now stands out with peculiar interest, I can see him, quite thin, middling height, auburn hair, standing there in that London studio speaking; and also at home in the dear old house, presiding, with his incredible knack of drawing the best out of people who were itching to spit out their worst. Courtesy, always the essence of his outward manner, went so deep with him that it became something else, very akin to love. "Style" which was "wonderful!" Well, it was.

Kilgraston is also a vivid memory. It was the first year that Mr. Andrew Carnegie had returned to Scotland after his long successful years in America. He had hired for that summer, an old Scottish manor-house, and had invited as his guests the whole family of James G. Blaine, the whole Palmer family, and Walter Damrosch, who, during that summer, became engaged to Margaret Blaine. We used to go off on long drives with a coach-and-four, and a bugle standing up at the back of the coach, announcing our departures and arrivals, and blaring out our passage through the villages, with the four fine horses clattering through the streets. It was very gay. And there was also a bagpiper, who swaggered up and down the terrace in front of the house as the coach returned, his Scotch kilts and bright tartan swaying like a pendulum as he moved. Then, when we were all dressed for dinner, the piper would start up his Scotch tunes again, strutting around in the central hall. We would gather behind him in single file, and start strutting too, until all had arrived; then, with the piper leading the way, we marched into the dining room, circled once around the whole table, and finally sat down.

The conversation at these dinners was monopolized almost entirely by the three older men, and centered largely on the possibility which my father and Mr. Blaine saw in the distribution of Mr. Carnegie's wealth for objectives other than those he had so far favored with donations. Up to that time, Mr, Carnegie had limited his gifts to buildings for public libraries in many American cities. Mr. Blaine and my father both thought this an excellent objective, but they were both aiming at bigger game. Why not establish a World Court where the differences between nations could be handled peacefully instead of always resorting to arms? 1 do not know, after so many years, which of these two men first launched this idea. No doubt it is well in line with my father's passionate belief in discussion as a panacea for world problems, and with his whole life effort to foster "sweet reasonableness" in the human race through a broader knowledge of the opponent's point of view. But we also know that Mr. Blaine's vision reached beyond national boundaries and prejudices; and his work later, in founding the Pan-American Union, is only one of the proofs of his universality of spirit. Both were brilliant talkers; and certain it is that, up to that time, Mr. Carnegie had not considered using his wealth for any other cause than to supply the public with buildings for libraries; and it is also certain that, before that time, no World Court had been founded.

After that summer in Kilgraston and other parts of Scotland, we came back to Gramercy Park. The Nineteenth Century Club was then large and ugly, but still animated by my father's spirit. This may have been the year when he went to Chicago to try to save the lives of the six anarchists who had been condemned to be hanged. He did this not because he was an anarchist: he was not: but simply because of his sense of justice. He felt that these men were innocent; and he threw himself into the breach to obtain a retrial. William Dean Howells was, I think, the only other New Yorker who did this. Of course, this again caused a temporary eclipse of my father's social authority. He was called all the names which were considered insulting: anarchist because he stood up for men who seemed to have been unfairly condemned: atheist because Robert Ingersoll was his friend. He was none of these things. He called himself an agnostic and he gave to this word its true meaning: one who does not know.

Three stories I will record which seem to me characteristic of my father. The first one I know only through hearsay.

His own father loved him more dearly than his other children, and so made a will leaving the bulk of his fortune to this son, and smaller portions to the other three. But when my grandfather was dying, my father secretly drew up another will, leaving share and share alike to all; this he took to the bed-side, saying casually that he needed a signature, without saying for what. My grandfather, because he had always trusted him signed the paper without knowing what it was.

The second story falls within my own recollection. He went one day to my mother and said to her:

"You call yourself a Christian, and Christ said: 'Sell all you have, and give to the poor.' Are you willing to obey this command? If you are, I will follow it to the letter: not for the sake of Christ, but because I feel that wealth is unfair."

My mother took days to think this over, and finally stated her belief:

"Destiny places us" she said, "in the circumstances in which we can do the most good." She felt that he himself, and the children, would do greater good with the portion which had been given us than the very inadequate distribution which his sacrifice might accomplish. Both of them, I believe, were completely sincere.

The third story is about myself. I was about seven years old when he said to me.

"Listen to everyone. Read everything. Accept only what appeals to you personally as true."

I took this seriously, as I did everything he said. But the responsibility and anxiety it placed on me were certainly beyond my years.

Lake Dunmore, in Vermont, was the last place where my father saw the summer. It was far from cities, or even towns. He was happy rowing on the lake, especially round the edge, under the birch trees, with the water lapping quietly; or riding horse-back with us on the nice dirt roads. The far-awayness of it all delighted him, and the freshness. It was perhaps this very isolation which caused his death. There was no telegraph. Days passed before the surgeons from New York could reach us. And so an attack of appendicitis had become general peritonitis before they arrived. He lived through the operation, and his brain was perfectly clear in the end. But it was only to say good-bye to us very quietly.

After his death, the objective for which he had lived, to find a common ground for human beings, above and below and beyond their creeds and dogmas, seemed to have gained a momentum of its own. Just as, during his life, he had brought earnest and intelligent minds together, so his passing seemed to weld them closer in their common devotion to him. As one reads today the funeral orations of Robert Ingersoll and Dr. Heber Newton, something more seems to emerge than the usual heightening of the virtues and accomplishments of the dead. These two men, one an atheist, the other an Episcopalian minister, must each have reached out beyond the impetus of his own life-movement in thus presiding together over the funeral rites of a friend. The antithesis of disbelief and belief in a life after death throws a light on the compelling force which, at such a time, and for such a duty, brought them there, and lends to what each one said a solemnity out-measuring the half century which has intervened. Thus the impressive periods of Robert Ingersoll seem not merely rather fine oratory, but somehow make one believe that there had been a man "to whom majorities meant nothing...who gave better than he received." And when Dr. Newton tells us of the intellectual narrowness of New York before my father's time; of the complete isolation of the sexes in social and intellectual pursuit; and of how, for the first time, a rich man had given to the poor something better than charity, one believes that what he says is true, and that these gatherings of men and women in the old Gramercy Park house did bequeath to New York certain permanent legacies, notably Town Hall.

So also, at the Memorial Meeting, in the speeches of Dwight H. Olmstead, Alfred R. Conkling, Edgar Fawcett, Rev. William Lloyd, Rev. Charles H. Eaton, the Rabbi Gottheil and others; in letters from London of H. R. Harweis and O. B. Frothingham; in these records and many others reverently collected by Raymond St. James Perrin after my father's death, it seems as if the personality of a single man who realized in action this goal of human understanding beyond creeds and races had been itself sufficient to establish a bond between men of conflicting beliefs, which had been his declared mission in life. He evidently had created a region of agreement in which, without lessening their own strength and originality, the exponents and advocates of the most widely differing beliefs were completely at home in each other's company. Thus, the Rev. Charles H. Eaton seems to have spoken truly when he quoted a eulogy, once addressed, he said, to a brilliant prime minister of France: "Sir, you have labored for ten years to make yourself useless." And indeed, after my father's death, his own ideal seemed, as it were, to have taken his place, and rendered "useless" his own enthusiasm for the kindlier forces he was constandy evoking. In the many testimonies concerning him one often meets the equivalent of Professor Thomas Davidson's statement: "Although I differed from him widely on many and fundamental questions of theological and ethical thought, I was always exhilarated and encouraged by contact with a mind so honest, sincere and fearless.

They all "differed from him widely" for one reason or another, but they all considered "The Club" their own. There is a recurring refrain about "our Club" affectionately spoken by people who certainly could not have met each other anywhere else: because Courtlandt Palmer did succeed, in spite of marked beliefs of his own, in exercising what Edgar Fawcett, in his Elegy, called "clarion hospitality." "It was the genuineness of Palmer" said the Rabbi Gottheil, in describing what he called 'the First Church of the Nineteenth Century Dispensation', "that drew differing minds around him, and held them there. He must have been conscious of the strength of his position in our Club as its founder and trusted leader, yet he was always open to advice, even remonstrance; and often I have wondered at the deference he showed to the views of the members, both in private and public deliberations. The reason for this lay in the fact that the welfare of the Club was dearer to him than his own opinion; he loved his child better than himself."

"They may keep their theories" he said to Moncure D. Conway, "and their theologies; but they must abandon their bigotries."

That was all he cared about: to get the best side of people on top, and to make it expressive. He brought out the eagerness and the enthusiasm of others with what they spoke of as his intellectual avidity, or his sacred fire, or his kindness.

"His zeal" said H. R. Harweis, "sometimes outran his discretion; but in an age when discretion abounds and zeal is scarce, that was certainly a fault on the right side,...few people could resist the charm of his personal influence."

Again what they are all agreed about is the openness of his heart and his hand.

"A brave soul" said Andrew Carnegie, "intense and impulsive, . . . reared in luxury, he longed to throw away all the pecuniary advantages which he possessed over the meanest of his fellows; distressed, conscience-smitten that he should have and enjoy what others lacked ... He saw the want, the misery, the unequal distribution of desirable things, and he would like to plunge forward, Buddha-like, to remedy all wrongs, to make all right by drastic change at a stroke, ... his soul on fire for the good of humanity."

But Mr. Carnegie rather amusingly deplored this anxiety to accomplish in a day what would normally require a thousand years.

"His wealth and position he felt more as obstacles than helps," said Jennie Cunningham Croly, "and he wished above all things to be enrolled in the rank of the workers, the indispensable workers, those who are counted among the faithful."

But of all these tributes, there is one that is finest: it is that of Mrs. Charles Adams Coombs. She quotes as a motto words from I do not know whom.

"The reward of one duty is the power to fulfill another."

This I take to be the true measure of my father: th...