The Titanic Memorial, by Mrs. Harry Payne Whitney. (To be erected in Washington) the models are posed, so that the artist may work in the surroundings in which the sculpture will be placed when the fountain is completed. Miss Scudder's fountains are filled with the pagan joy of life; her children and young maidens are sylvan spirits that overflow with joy and vitality. Edith Woodman Burroughs has achieved distinction in her two large fountains for the Panama-Pacific Exposi tion. One, "The Fountain of Youth," which was in the Court of Flowers, shows a figure of a young girl treated with the utmost simplicity and sympathy. The entire architectural arrangement- the fountain is a mural one-is happy, and overflows with the spirit of youth. "The Arabian Nights Fountain" is redolent with imagination of "The Thousand and One Nights." There are fancy, humor, naïveté, and the youthful love of story-telling, Rodin. Wave group by Anna V. Hyatt of a cross. The money for the memorial Mrs. Whitney was one of the three or four women chosen to design fountains for the Panama-Pacific Exposition. Her "Fountain of Eldorado" aroused much enthusiastic interest, especially for the modeling of the figures in the relief, which seek with straining. nerves the magic fountain that lies hidden behind the half-closed doors, the access to which is barred by two guarding figures. The idea of the design is original, the technic of the eager figures remarkable. Mrs. Whitney has won an honorable mention in the Paris Salon and the first prize at was contributed in sums of ten cents each by American women as a tribute to the daring men who did not hesitate to give their lives to save the women. Miss Evelyn Longman is a third woman who contributed a fountain to the San Francisco exposition. The group "L'Amour," exhibited not long ago at the Gorham gallery, is one of the purest and most idealized expressions of the love of a man and a woman known to the writer. Miss Longman has recently won by competition the design for the new Longman is a young woman, a pupil of Isidore Konti and Daniel Chester French, and has done some impressive work in her short artistic career. She designed the doors of the chapel at the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis, and was awarded a silver medal at the St. Louis exposition. Miss Anna Vaughn Hyatt is unique among American women sculptors, because she deals ited at the Salon in Paris, won an honorable mention. The jury remarked that if they had been convinced that it was the work of a woman and that a man did not do the actual work, they would have given it the first prize. It was a significant illustration of the attitude of the French Study of a Great Dane, by Anna V. Hyatt almost entirely with expression of animal life. She has an instinctive understanding of animals that has been equaled by few modern sculptors. The peculiar characteristic of each is seized by her mind and portrayed convincingly. She understands what lies behind the outward form, and effectively expresses it. Her equestrian statue of Jeanne d'Arc, when first exhib mind toward woman's creative ability. It was, however, a proved fact that no sculptor had entered Miss Hyatt's studio during the time she was at work upon the group, in order to guard possible misun derstanding or misrepresentation. This same design, enlarged and improved, has been erected on Riverside Drive in New York. Miss Hyatt's work is remarkable for its strength, spirited handling of subject, and truth to the scientific fact of underlying structure. The fountains of Edith Baretto Parsons are original, spontaneous, delicious expressions of charming fancy. Mrs. Parsons is also a mother, and thinks that a woman's freedom from the burden of breadwinning is an opportunity for a broader, happier spirit in artistic work untainted by pessimism. It is an interesting conception of woman's power in creative work. YES, By MAY SINCLAIR Author of "The Divine Fire," "The Creators," etc. VES, it looks like a commission; that 's why I keep it stuck up there. But it is n't a commission; it's a portrait of my uncle, Colonel Simpson-Simpson of Chitral. No, he did n't. Does he look as if he 'd sit for anybody for five minutes? Does it look as if he 'd sat? You don't get portraiture like that out of sittings or out of any possible series of sittings, because, in the first place, you don't get the candor, the naïveté, the self-revelation. Of course I might have made an Academy thing of him, painted him in scarlet and crimson, with his decorations, or in khaki and a solar topi, if I'd wanted Simpson of Chitral. But I did n't want him. Simpson of Chitral was only part of my uncle, and this-this is all my uncle. Like the portraits of Strindberg, did you say? But he was like them. He was Strindberg. He had the same scored and crumpled face, the same twisted, tormented eyebrows, the same irritable, irascible scowl and glare. He had every bit of Strindberg's face except its genius and its great, square, bulging forehead. My uncle's forehead was rather like a lion's or a tiger's, straight and a little receding. But the torment 's the thing, and the torment 's there. He was worth painting as an instance of conjugal fidelity carried to excess, carried beyond the bounds of reason. This is a composite portrait: it 's my uncle and my aunt. You could n't separate their two faces. They could n't separate them themselves. It was not simply that they 'd lived so long together that they grew like each other; it was because they behaved like each other to each other. They said the same things to each other, they irritated each other, they tore at each other's nerves, the same nerves, in the same way. They devastated each other's faces with the same remarkable results. I've no clear recollection of my uncle's face before my aunt got to work on it, but there's a family tradition of Uncle Roly as a pink and chubby subaltern, and his regimental nickname was "The Cherub." He must have been home on his first leave somewhere in the later eighties. I remember him because of the model steam-engine he gave me. He always gave you interesting and expensive presents, and I never knew him tip you less than a sovereign. He was chubby even then, and absolutely uncrumpled, so it could n't have been India altogether. I think he 'd been engaged to her for ages, for he married her as soon as he got his captaincy, and took her out with him. Then for a time we lost track of him. India seems to have swallowed them up. They were two years in a lonely up-country station in Bengal where the heat was awful. The other men had left their wives up in the hills or sent them home, so he never saw any European women except my aunt. Fancy that through the hot season and for two blessed years! Their first child was born there. The heat seems to have had no effect whatever on my aunt. She was out five -six years. She simply would n't come home, and he-that 's the odd thing-did n't want her to. I've told you conjugal fidelity was a perfect vice with him. It was her vice, too. After Bengal it was Bombay-Poona-and another baby. She was told they 'd lose both their children if they did n't send them home, and she shilly-shallied. She did n't want to send them with strangers, and she did n't want to go with them herself. Her place, she said, was at her husband's side. She shillyshallied into another hot season, and the children died. That, you see, was where the vice came in. It was n't till the death of the babies that they began to feel the devilishness of |
