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Piedmont Writers and ArtistsGeorge and Carrie Sterling and the Havens FamilyBaumIn the years you lived in Piedmont, both as Elsie Whitaker and then as Mrs. Xavier Martinez, you met many of the creative people of the Bay Area. We've discussed your father and your husband and Jack London - now, what do you recall of these other picturesque people? Martinez Well, of course the Sterlings were most prominent in that group. George Sterling was a nephew of Frank C. Havens and it was to work as secretary to his uncle that he came out to Piedmont in the first place. Baum Did you know Frank Havens very well? Martinez I'll never forget Frank C. Havens. He had the cool assurance of a financial genius, an arrogant, but pleasant, easy manner with friends, and he wore an emerald as big as a pigeon egg - the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen. He was a very interesting personality, but I didn't see too much of him. When they opened their big home in Piedmont we were all invited. I went with Carrie Sterling. Ruth St. Denis was there, sitting, a gilded Buddha in a niche. [*] At the appropriate moment she came to life and danced. Marty, Frank C. Havens and George Sterling, towards the end of the party, having had plenty to drink, with their arms about each other, faced this very middle class audience and sang the revolutionary songs - especially the beautiful ones with a Latin rhythm - ― 156 ―
the famous French revolutionary songs that Marty had taught them. It was delightful. All three holding on to each other and
singing at the top of their lungs.
Walker Jones insists that Sterling's voice was rather querulous and flat when he tried to sing. Martinez His voice was a curious, unusual voice. When he read his poetry it was sometimes almost sonorous. Normally it was, as Jones said, querulous, complaining. Often he had a complaining tone when things didn't suit him; or his tone could be startlingly clear-cut, clipped, when he was angry. It was not a low voice, nor was it a high voice. It could range from thin to surprising richness. He was always excessive. When he was affectionate and dear his voice was soft and caressing, especially with women. When he was angry at anyone it really was shrill and as sharp as vinegar. When he read poetry, he read it beautifully. His voice could be mellow and warm when he was inspired. Walker Could he sing? Martinez Very badly, very badly. Marty had a very good baritone and used to sing a great deal. Baum Frank Havens must have been outstanding in this middle class audience at his housewarming. Martinez Yes, he was one of those personalities that are outside of class. You know, he made a big fortune in Piedmont real estate , as well as other ventures. I remember seeing the check he had for a million dollars - the check that he had made out for, I think it was the ― 157 ―
Dingle properties, for the Water Company he bought.
For a while he was Borax Smith's partner, you know. But Havens was too imaginative and too reckless to suit Smith, so they parted company. He put in the Key Route system. Later, he became a speculator on a large scale. He was very lucky until he took the fortune he had made in California and went to New York. Wall Street stripped him down to his last dollar. There was only a little land in his wife's name left for the family. He returned to California to recover or remake another fortune. But the confidence in his genius was lost and he could find no one to back his really brilliant schemes. Soon afterwards he died. Baum What was the family relationship of all the Havens? I haven't got it straight in my mind. Martinez Well, there was Frank C. Havens; George Sterling was his nephew, and brought him out to be his secretary. He brought out the whole Sterling family. George's mother was Havens' sister. She reminded me of one of the old French marquises. She had a gorgeously decorated bedroom and sitting room and she always received like a court lady there. I was very much impressed when I was a child and my father took me there. She was handsome, still, in her late seventies, and was interested in everything, with a socially brilliant mind. That's the mother of George Sterling. They lived at the bottom of Scenic Avenue hill in a big old house. There was Lillian (Rounthwaite), Madeline, Marian, Avis, and ― 158 ―
Alice. George had two brothers, one a priest, who later became a mental case and died. All of the girls were beautiful, too.
Baum I have a little note here which says, "Carrie Sterling, a sister of Mrs. Frank Havens." Martinez Yes, they were sisters. Mrs. Havens and Carrie - Lila and Carrie Rand - were the first lady secretaries in Oakland. They wore little candy striped blouses with little collars and cuffs and little flat straw hats. Carrie was George's secretary. Lila was Havens's secretary. Baum This was before Carrie was married to George? Martinez Yes, and before Lila Havens was married to Frank Havens. This is how the two secretaries became part of the family. Baum Frank C. Havens was older than George, wasn't he? Martinez Oh yes, quite a bit. Havens was his mother's brother. He had had a family already in New York; the wife had died. Then he married Lila Rand, Carrie Rand's sister. Carrie told me that when she and George went on their honeymoon, they thought they'd take a boat and go to the Islands. That was the romantic thing to do then. It was not a large boat and the season was unseasonable - storms mostly - and the cabins dank and cheerless. They were both seasick and by the time they got off at the Islands, she said romance was almost dead. (Laughter) Carrie said even the Islands had a hard time reviving romance for them. After Lila married she started to build their beautiful home in Piedmont. It took years to build and it was very beautiful. Lila ― 159 ―
had brought over from India and Japan expert wood carvers. It was a labor of love and asceticism.
At that time Lila had become interested in Theosophy and belonged to a group of Theosophists in Oakland. When I first met George I think I was about twelve. He was one of the kind of people who, when they become friends, are all-absorbing. He was very kind and very gentle with us. We Whitaker children just loved him because he always brought tremendous amounts of the old-fashioned broken candy for us. He'd come to wheedle my father, who should have been writing at the time, to go to something special - much to the annoyance of my mother. For about a year or so George and my father were great friends and they saw a great deal of each other. Then my father introduced him to Jack London. I think my father was very hurt because George deserted this friendship and it was Jack who was the center of his universe. He was a little inclined to be that way. He was also a little inclined to carry on feuds. I still have a letter somewhere, I think it's in the album that is in the Oakland Art Museum, "I'm so angry with so-and-so and I'm telling my friends that no one should speak to him. But don't tell this to Elsie." (Laughter) I had always made fun of his feuds. Baum What was his mutual interest with your father? What did they do together or talk about? Martinez Literature, poetry, the British Empire. Like Jack London, he was a bit of an Anglophile. ― 160 ―
Baum
Did they go to meetings? Martinez Oh no, my father was out of socialism then. His interests became purely literary; he'd already gotten into Harper's Magazine. Socialism was dead as far as he was concerned. He used to give literature classes in Piedmont on writing, and I think it was at that period that he met George. George was beginning to be known as a poet, while still working for his uncle. I think his uncle probably supported him for the rest of his life really. George left Piedmont right after the earthquake and went down to Carmel. My father and Sterling were really separated then. I didn't come into the picture again until I married Marty and then I was snapped right bang into the center again. It was my father's old group of friends. Marty was my father's friend and he was three years younger than my father. When I was 17 my father was 40 and Marty was 37. Sterling went to Carmel and gathered about him a new group. Through Harry Lafler he knew Jimmy Hopper. Father was a friend of Harry Lafler. He had gone down the Coast with Lafler to homestead a bit of land, below Big Sur. He hoped to establish his claim with two or three of his boys to work on it. But, by the time he went to San Francisco to make out his claim, he found that Teddy Roosevelt had signed the papers making this land a National Park. Oh, was he upset about it! He was going to send down half of his boys to build a ranch house and they could have been, at least, useful. He had plenty of children to plant there and he would have loved real pioneering. ― 161 ―
Joaquin Miller every year used to have Whitaker day because in those days it was phenomenal to have families - imagine seven! Ambrose Bierce's nephew was Carleton Bierce. Through George Sterling we met Laura and Carleton Bierce and through them we got to know Ambrose Bierce. He came out every year to see his brother Albert, his nephew Carleton and Carleton's wife, to whom he was devoted. They also were great friends of Joaquin Miller's. Jack London, Carleton, my father, and George often went up to Joaquin Miller's place for barbecues. One time Jack London thought it would be fun to have rattlesnake stew. When we were kids and thought nothing of it - rattlesnakes were common in Piedmont in those days and we'd heard it was good meat - we tried it and found it like immature chicken. So he had this big stew and he told everybody it was a rabbit. I think he had put rabbit in it to disguise it. Anyhow, there were some Easterners at the party, and at the end of the party he said to them, "Well, I hope you'll live. This was a rattlesnake stew." Well, of course they were all ill. He loved to play tricks like that. Baum It sounds like George Sterling liked those things, too. Martinez Well, not as much as Jack. Jack was always the ringleader and the practical joker in the group. He would do the most wild and reckless things. As George's poetry became well known, thanks to Ambrose Bierce, who made a great deal of it. Soon he was a popular figure. Then the problems began for Carrie. She had never questioned too much about ― 162 ―
his poetic love affairs because, of course, he always told her it was poetry. She had not taken them very seriously until
it happened to come up with one girl, Vera Connally.
Vera Connally's father was an English army officer and she, her mother and brother had come over from the Orient to San Francisco. I met her in Berkeley through a friend of mine there. She was going down to Carmel. I said, "Well, I'll send you to Carrie Sterling and you'll meet George Sterling, the poet". I didn't dream anything would come of it; she was not too attractive. She was a big handsome girl but, I did not know then that when she wanted anything, she went after it. She met George and decided that George was her man. Anyhow, they had quite a Greek episode. This was old Carmel. She made herself a beautiful Greek, filmy garment and George had a Greek outfit and they used to float through the woods. It was terribly romantic to her. She used to tell me about it. But alack and alas, that romance wound up in San Francisco in a miscarriage - poor thing. That experience cured Vera of men. She went to New York and became a Christian Scientist. She was on one of the women's magazines for years as a sub-editor or something. After Sterling died, she published this book of Poems to Vera, the only memento of her romance. Walker Was it the affair with Vera Connally that broke up his marriage to Carrie? Martinez Well, it didn't cause the break up with Carrie herself. It was Mrs. Havens, Lila, who had become a society woman and very proper. I ― 163 ―
think she'd become a Theosophist, too. She decided that Carrie could not stay with George. Carrie was a darling and still
devoted to George, and I think she thought poets were that way, that's all. But he'd gotten the girl — she was 23, not so
young — into trouble and it was a scandal. Lila said to Carrie, "You've got to leave George. This won't do. You can't be involved."
Walker Was this in the newspapers? Martinez Not all of it, no. Some of it came out in a sort of veiled form, for gossip was not as open as now. That's when Carrie went to live on the Havens place in the little house in the oak tree built by the Japanese carvers. It was during that period, while she was there, that I saw so much of her. She was taking care of the art gallery that Havens had. There was a large collection of Russian paintings in the Custom House, held for custom duties. After the allotted waiting time and no duties forthcoming, the collection was sold at auction. Havens picked it up for a song and built a gallery to house it on his property. And Carrie took care of it. It was simply adorable. There was a beautiful gilded Buddha on a bamboo stand and just beyond that were the doors, or rather, beautiful movable Japanese screens. Lila had bought, Carrie told me, Oriental birds — exquisite Bantam pheasants that wandered in and out of the house. Every day one little female pheasant would come up to where the screen doors were opened, wait until the screen opened, then she'd hop into the lap of Buddha and lay an egg. She laid thirteen eggs before she felt she'd ― 164 ―
done her duty and didn't appear again. So Carrie took these thirteen eggs to a bird fancier she knew and had them hatched.
Every single one of them was a rooster. Every one of the entire thirteen laid in the lap of Buddha was a rooster, which delighted
Carrie, and mystified the bird fancier.
But Carrie was never happy. She hadn't yet divorced George and George begged her not to divorce him. Finally, Lila decided Carrie should divorce George and start life over again. Carrie didn't want a divorce and George didn't want it, either. In the meantime the affair was over and the scandal had died down. After all the girl was 23 and that's a little bit old to pursue them with Victorian disapproval. Carrie herself was not sure she should go on with the divorce; she talked it over with me at the time. She was seeing George quite often; he wanted her to come back to Carmel; he promised her it would never happen again. She was thinking it over very seriously, but Lila was dead set against it. She said, "You can't trust him. Maybe it's the beginning of a series, because women pursue him. He is too weak, how could he resist?" So finally she persuaded Carrie to get a divorce. So the divorce was granted and Carrie shortly regretted it tragically. After two years she finally decided she could not adjust herself to the dull single life. She missed the gay, colorful life in Carmel, the swarm of visitors, and sharing the honors with her poet. She realized that she'd made a mistake and that there was nothing to do about it except to take the suicide route. ― 165 ―
I saw Carrie the day before her death. She had a photograph taken by a friend and she afterwards gave us the picture. She phoned me on the morning she died to say "Goodbye". I had spent hours with Carrie two or three times a week those last two years. I felt chilled and exclaimed, "Carrie, `Goodbye' sounds rather ominous!" She laughed so heartily that the feeling of tragedy faded out as she talked naturally and gaily. She had a grand sense of humor and I called her "Madame Rabelais". Her humor some Victorian souls called coarse, but we found her very acute and sometimes very witty. (Marty made a very delightful drawing of "Madame Rabelais", which is in his scrapbook.) However, the tone of her voice at that "goodbye" still worried me, so I went down to see her at noon. But she was as gay as usual, so I returned satisfied that all was well with her. However at four o'clock she carried out her plan to commit suicide as the only way out of her tragic dilemma. She had put on her beautiful dressing gown over a lovely filmy nightgown, arranged her hair elaborately, and on a little record machine beside her bed, put on Chopin's Funeral March. Then she took cyanide and passed away before the record stopped. The old friend who found her in the morning told me how beautiful she looked, peaceful at last. It was a shock to us, we had grown so fond of Carrie and would feel the loss for some time to come. The funeral service was very simple and only a few old friends were present — Laura Bierce and myself, and several others I did not ― 166 ―
know well. The only jarring note in it was her mother; her mother came in, stood at the head of the coffin and said, "Carrie,
you've done a terrible thing and you're no daughter of mine," and walked out. We were all upset and tried to hide our tears.
The minister made no reference to suicide, so we decided he knew nothing about it. If I remember, it was some days before
the newsmen found out and published it.
Baum Did George come? Martinez No, he was in New York. He was terribly upset about that whole thing. He said he'd always felt that Carrie hadn't wanted the divorce and he blamed Lila for it. At first, of course, he felt himself as part of the guilt for her suicide, and then finally, little by little, he felt that the whole thing had been done by Lila. I guess that eased his conscience considerably. He'd always begged her not to divorce him; Carrie told me that over and over, and he asked her to come back to Carmel. He took it very hard. He returned immediately and was terribly upset. His friends had difficulty trying to make him feel that he was not entirely responsible. Of course the Bierces — Laura and Caret — blamed Lila entirely, because they were very fond of George. But there was a side of George not generally known. His father, a Catholic convert, persuaded George and his brother to become priests, and they were sent to the Paulist St. Charles Seminary. While he was in the Paulist Seminary, Father Tabb, also a poet, discovered George's poetic talent, developed it, and finally told him he had ― 167 ―
he had no vocation and that he should go into the world and be a poet.
George then came to his uncle, Frank C. Havens, in Oakland, or Piedmont, rather, to be his secretary. The Catholic side of George - we only hear the pagan side that's been too much emphasized. There was a compassion in George. He felt very strongly his friends' troubles and woes. He always was helping people, always doing things for people. That side of George I never understood until I was a Catholic convert. George's fine qualities were very Catholic; his gentleness and his compassion for his friends when they were unhappy. They always turned to George because of his gift of understanding. Cyril Clemens, who was a nephew of Mark Twain . . . Walker You should say, a bogus nephew. Martinez . . . he was a writer for The Commonweal, and he came out to write an article on George Sterling. After seeing many people who knew him in Carmel, Clemens said, "Mrs. Martinez, what I have heard of the pagan side of Sterling has grown very tiresome. I've met about eight or nine of his friends and I haven't heard one word except all about his paganism." He said, "I'd love to hear something different." I told him, if you could find the correspondence with the Bierces - Laura Bierce had all the correspondence of Sterling's for twenty years - there are letters in which he talks about his past. Laura had said definitely to me, however, "I am not going to let ― 168 ―
anybody look at them. I'd feel I'd be betraying our friendship." Anyhow, before she died in Guerneyville she might have destroyed
them. Her newphew inherited everything, but there was no mention of any letters. All those letters, documents and masses of
photographs that Laura had — what has become of them I don't know. There are a number of Ambrose Bierce letters there, too.
I said to Clemens, "The one who knows the Catholic side of George is his sister, Madeline Dimond, you write to her. She lives in the Hawaiian Islands. She was the oldest one of the girls and remained a good Catholic, very orthodox. All the rest of the girls drifted away from the church, but Madeline. She was a very fine person and George loved her very much. She can give you that side of him." I never heard from him after that; an article never came out, so I guess she couldn't give him enough to write about the spiritual side of George, which was what he wanted to write about. In George Sterling's yard at his home in Carmel, he had a beautiful circle of trees. On all the trees he had placed beautiful animal skulls - deer mostly - whenever he found one, he'd put it on a tree. The legend went around that this was a Greek altar and he used to hold pagan services there. Of course it was most excessive, but he loved the talk and helped develop some of those legends himself. He believed, as Jack London said, "Make them talk about you. Anything is better than nothing." Baum Did you see George Sterling again after Carrie's death? Martinez Oh yes, a great number of times. We saw him often and I had become ― 169 ―
fond of him. It gave him much consolation to have me tell him of Carrie's real devotion to him.
Two days before he committed suicide, he came up to see Marty and brought him the poems of Jeffers. There was a beautiful dedication to George in it. He said, "I'm leaving you this, Marty. I want you to have it." And he said twice, "I want you to give my love to Elsie." He took cyanide two days later. Baum Then he was contemplating suicide; I think the general impression is that it was really the immediate events of Mencken's ... Martinez No. Before George committed suicide, he often talked of it, so when he did commit suicide we knew it had been brewing for some time. In the same way, London's had been mounting for some time. As far as George was concerned, what brought it to a head was the fact that Mencken hadn't come to see him. As a matter of fact, for quite a while, he'd been talking about how he hated age and loved youth. It disturbed him terribly to grow old. To him, to think of growing old was really terrible; it was part of his pagan philosophy, too. We looked upon that as a temperamental thing, but it was all part of the undercurrent. Baum Was he aging rapidly? Martinez He was about fifty then, I think. Baum Had he changed noticeably? Martinez No, but when you reach fifty - thirty is the first time that you begin to look back, at forty you begin to say it's over, at fifty you look into what's coming and see age ahead of you. All of them had the cult ― 170 ―
of youth then. Jack London had it too. Marty had a young painter friend who said that everyone should commit suicide at thirty.
Marty said, "Well, I'm not fifty yet, so I can't agree." He said he thought perhaps fifty was the right time to do it. The
boy did commit suicide at thirty; Marty didn't at fifty, he lived to be 74.
They were all very much concerned with suicide as the noble end, as the proper end of your life when it ceased to be vital. London did it, Bierce did it (though Bierce was a man of seventy), Sterling, and half a dozen others. Somebody asked Marty if there wasn't a suicide club, because eight of his friends committed suicide. But they all had tremendous vanity, and naturally the loss of youth was a painful thing to face. Bierce had gone before and they were all shocked by Bierce's death, you know. He had meant a tremendous amount to George and had brought George into the public eye, mostly. And Carrie's death upset him, too. Baum There'd been a girl named Nora May French much earlier in Sterling's life. Did you know her? She committed suicide about 1907. Martinez Yes, Carrie told me that story. Carrie said Nora May had been very despondent and was staying with her while George was away. Baum She was a budding author, I think. Martinez A poetess. That night, Carrie told me, Nora May talked at great length about her disillusionment of life and everything, especially men. Carrie was somewhat worried but decided she was too young to follow through yet. Carrie woke up suddenly in the night and heard ― 171 ―
a strange sound. She turned on the light and went over to Nora May who was dying — she stopped breathing just as Carrie reached
her. She saw the glass with a tiny film of white in its depths and she knew what it was — cyanide. Carrie was quite shocked,
but then she remembered the evening's talk: Nora May French was disillusioned, she was not in love with anybody. The silliest
thing of all is in that Footloose in Arcadia. Joseph Noel said she was in love with Jimmy Hopper. She loathed Jimmy Hopper; we actually knew that. Jimmy didn't like her
and she didn't like Jimmy.
Baum I thought Nora May French had been associated with George Sterling. Martinez Oh no. Harry Lafler was the one who brought her down to Carmel. He was the one who found her and developed her talent. Oh, yes, George knew her; whether they had an affair or not I never knew. All I knew was that he was very interested in her. But at that time she was disillusioned in men. Carrie said she had been disillusioned for years and there was nothing to live for. Baum I read that Carrie carried that little phial of cyanide— Martinez Oh, yes. Marty had one, too. Baum I mean Nora May French's phial, the remainder of it. Martinez Yes; that's what she used. Baum That's why I wondered if Nora May French's suicide had anything to do with George Sterling. Martinez Oh, no. This cyanide had been given many years before to the group and there was enough for each person. Baum Who gave them that? Or maybe there was a suicide club. ― 172 ―
Martinez
I know who gave it to them, yes. (Laura Bierce's sister had one boy — that's the only descendant of that family. I don't know what became of the boy — but I can tell you now.) Well, Carleton Bierce was in the Mint, worked there in the chemical division. His friends had asked why couldn't he bring them some of this because at that time they all believed that if you didn't get what you wanted out of life that poison was the easiest way out. So he was the one who brought it. Marty was given a little phial of it. George had a little phial — Jack London had a phial, but he didn't use it — and George distributed some among his friends, too. It's very potent, it takes just a few drops. Marty had it and he buried it somewhere in our cellar here. Baum This was very much a part of the whole group's philosophy, then. Martinez Oh, yes. It was a kind of a cult — though Marty was not going to do it [laughing]. He lived his life out. Baum Was Carrie your age? Martinez No, Carrie was much older. When I married Marty, he and my father and George were all about the same age. Baum How did you and Carrie Sterling become friends? Martinez Well, the reason we became very close friends was that after she left George I sensed that she was very lonely, and I used to go down to the Havens' art gallery which she looked after, every other day at least, and sit and talk to her for hours. I loved to hear her reminisce about the past. I found a sensibility that I had never dreamed of, and the sadness that had come of her leaving George, and the ― 173 ―
mistakes she was conscious of having made. She considered her life ended. She had followed Lila, with her Victorian notions,
and that was why she decided it was all gone and ended. When she died I was pretty mature, 28, and she was 45 or so. There's
not an awful lot of difference between thirty and forty, though there's a lot of difference between twenty and thirty.
Baum I wondered if these people all accepted you as an equal, since you were Marty's wife, though you were younger, or were you still little Elsie Whitaker? Martinez Well, sometimes when I was annoying, I was little Elsie Whitaker. [Laughing] But I also, as I grew older, grew very much mellower. At thirty I had lost a lot of that annoying sharpness that youth has. I'd come closer to a number of them. The last time I saw George he put his arm around me and said, "Elsie, I really love you." And I said, "I know you do, George. In my way, I love you too." I never would have thought that possible years before. Then I was practically thirty and I had learned to understand much about him. He was trying to tell me that he thought that I thought he disliked me, but he wanted to show me he didn't. And the last thing he said to Marty he said twice, "Be sure and say goodbye to Elsie for me." After Carrie's death we had grown very fond of each other. I'd gotten more mature and he'd mellowed too, but his mellowness was like Carrie's, a kind of sadness and withdrawal from life. He'd lost his pettiness, he no longer had feuds as he'd had in the early years, and I recognized in him that change as he recognized the ― 174 ―
change in me, that I'd gotten more mature, more human, and he'd gotten more detached from the excessive prejudices and disliked
he'd had. There was something sad about all those people at the last. Carrie would go over her whole life with me and explain
what mistakes she had made, and how naive she'd been in accepting George's telling her all this was just nothing but poetic
fancies and then when it became a reality — Vera and George's scandal — it was very upsetting, of course.
Baum Did she think she'd made a mistake in not stopping George's poetic affairs before? Martinez No. She simply felt that she should have understood George. I don't think she thought at all about the affair, except the scandal. That was the reality that hurt; that was the reality for which she was blamed, too. Baum Was Carrie as cultured and educated as George was? Was she able to keep up with him on an intellectual basis? Martinez No, she never attempted it. Carrie was one of those lovable people who have no particular mental interests. George kept her in contact with the poetical and literary events that were happening; she'd meet people and learn about them, but she had no intellectual interests of any kind. She was a warm, lovable person. I think there was a lot in that warmth that kept them together all those years. ― 175 ―
Ambrose Bierce and Carleton and Laura BierceBaumLaura and Carleton Bierce seem to figure in this group quite prominently. Walker I take it that Carleton and Laura Bierce were both very attractive. Martinez No. I was very fond of him, but he was not an attractive man. He had something of the dour Scot about him, which was lightened by a dry sense of humor. Laura was sweet, one of those people who don't have any brains but they're lovable. And she just adored the Sterlings, because the Sterlings brought them in contact with the art world. I met them through George Sterling. Ambrose Bierce always stayed with Carleton and Laura when they lived in Berkeley. Laura was sweet and dear and lots of fun, and Carleton had a dry Scots sense of humor. He wasn't a particle picturesque. Walker Didn't he have any of the bitterness of his uncle? Martinez No, Caret was not in the least intellectual. Ambrose Bierce, a distinguished figure, was born in a log cabin in Indiana and he called his parents "unwashed savages". He was charming until you mentioned someone he didn't like, then the flood gates opened. He would drown the hapless victim in a flood of vituperation and disparagement. Walker I don't know whether you told the story about Laura and Carrie who, on hearing that Ambrose was coming — they were in bloomers — became panic stricken. ― 176 ―
Martinez
We were camping down at China Cove. Walker Is that the one Jack London refers to as Beach in Valley of the Moon? Martinez I think so. Jack was there. They were just on the other side of China Cove, and we camped where Jean Kellogg the artist lives now. We were camping on what is now her property. Then it was just wild. Laura and Carleton, Sterling and Carrie, and her sister and the little boy — the one who must have inherited all these letters — and Marty and I. George came back from Carmel with the mail, a note from Ambrose stated he was coming down to Carmel the next day. Well, there was just panic because Ambrose was terribly strait-laced. Laura began to cry and said, "If he sees me in bloomers he'll never speak to me again as long as I live." She was weeping away and Carrie was just as upset. They said, "Now, we'll have to plan: George, on the way to the train, stop at the house and get our skirts. Elsie can entertain Bierce while we put our skirts on." I was wearing skirts, not because I had anything against bloomers but I just happened to have a skirt on. They decided to get out of sight. If necessary they thought they'd pick a cave and say they were out after abalone. And George went in, and from the time he left everyone was upset. Then he appeared without Bierce. There was rejoicing from the women. Bierce had decided to stay in San Francisco. So the day was saved. Walker That must have been 1910. He did get down to Carmel for one or two days. ― 177 ―
Martinez
Yes. He was a very distinguished looking fellow, Bierce was. He had not lived thirty years in Washington for nothing. When he came to California he would always stay a night or two with the Bierces, and they'd call the friends in. Of course you know about Bierce's death — it was suicide as they found out later. You remember the story about Villa's lieutenant who described this handsome old man who came into their camp? They even gave the description of what he wore, when he went into the Sonora desert. They tried through the Mexican government, the consulates and everything, to find a clue, and finally one of Villa's lieutenants told this story: he said they had been crossing near the American border — they were raiding Columbus at that time; you remember the raid of Columbus [New Mexico] — he remembered this distinguished man had come into their camp. He didn't speak Spanish and they couldn't speak English, but they managed to communicate wonderfully by gestures. They tried to find out why he was there. He made it quite clear that there was no reason at all. Where was he going? Just nowhere. Then they tried to figure out this indifference and they decided to tell him about the dangers of the desert. They told him about the zapolotes, the vultures, and what they would do — graphically, as you can imagine a Mexican can — what happens to a person who falls — the vultures pick them to pieces. That didn't bother him a bit, not a bit. So they talked it over among themselves and decided that the charitable thing to do, since he had no horse and couldn't go with them, was to shoot him. The vultures would have gotten him, so they shot him. ― 178 ―
Wouldn't he have loved to have written that wonderful episode! The last story was the best story he ever could have written, the story of his death. They shot him and left him out there in the desert, and that was the end of Bierce. Joaquin MillerBaumYou've mentioned that Joaquin Miller seemed to favor the Whitaker family. Martinez My father was very fond of Joaquin Miller. My father and I walked up to Miller's, a mere four miles or so, I guess at least every other week, sometimes every week. Joaquin Miller was very fond of our family. He was a picturesque figure even as an old man; he was in his seventies then. We would go up there every year on the Whitaker day, and in between I'd go up with my father, I guess, two or three times a month. There were often a great many interesting people there and a great many interesting Orientals; I met Yone Noguchi, the famous poet there. I started to write a book on one year in the Whitaker life, and I had a whole chapter and I'm going to leave the manuscript with the album. In one chapter I had written a complete and perfect description of the Miller place. It was exquisite, with the picturesque little chapel and the little house in which his mother lived. She had just died. On one of our visits up there the famous old Indiana fiddlers had come to see Joaquin Miller. He was born, you know, in a log cabin ― 179 ―
in Indiana. He sat there with the most ecstatic look while those old fiddlers with great big beards — they'd have to stick
their long beards into the collar of their coats before they could play. Oh, it was just wonderful.
Then all through the trees — the place was beautiful then. The front of the house was enclosed in rose bowers — he loved roses — rose bowers and orange and lemon trees. There was a tiny bridge over the creek at the entrance of the chapel. Beyond the chapel was a little place where he used to demonstrate for his visitors that he could bring rain. He'd lived with the Modocs. So we decided we had to have him make rain for us, and we all — he held a Whitaker day at the Hights every year — because he said it was so unusual in those days to see a family of seven — good pioneer style. On the first visit all seven of us were marshalled into this little dark room which was sort of rustic looking, beautiful vines and everything over it, and nothing inside except a great buffalo robe on the floor. So he sat down and told us all to sit around him. Then he began to pray for rain in the Modoc language. First of all it was a gentle murmur, soft, put you to sleep almost, and then it got stronger until it was a roar and the whole place reverberated with the tremendous roar. He stopped suddenly: soon we heard a few raindrops, then a heavy downpour. We all sat there just fascinated. He called us out and there was the sun shining but the shrubbery was dripping. We all of us were a little bit astonished, it was a little astounding, but maybe the Indians could do it. When we were on our ― 180 ―
way home one of my brothers said, "Listen, I sat next to the old man and I felt a bump under the buffalo robe and I found
a faucet." [Laughter] He said, "I found a faucet. I almost touched his hand on it. I pulled it away when I found his hand
was there." He'd turned the faucet on, and that little devil had stuck his hand under the robe and found where his hand was.
He was suspicious.
Then he had the Japanese and Chinese artists living there. They built their beautiful little Japanese paper houses up through the woods. What beautiful country! It looks like a mess now, but it was beautiful then — a natural and wild landscape — and the Japanese had carefully created a meandering little stream, Japanese style, beautifully arranged with gardens and little rockeries near the poet's. You know their expertness in creating beauty. They'd made this beautiful place where they had their barbecues. At that time the poet's barbecues were always run by his Japanese friends. We'd have raw fish and soy sauce — really delicious. Then, always the particular barbecue for which the poet was famous — he had beautifully peeled willow switches on which were arranged rounds of onions and meat — which you held over the fire until cooked to your taste. Then we'd go up to a little art colony scattered throughout the woods in their beautiful paper houses. These houses were well made, beautifully constructed, but all the doors and windows except the frames were made of paper. We'd go in, take our shoes off and sit down and we'd watch the artists work, or they'd display work to show us. Some were Chinese, most of them were Japanese. At that time his ― 181 ―
ambition was to overthrow Kipling's "East and West, never the twain shall meet". Well, he was going to correct that. He succeeded
in arranging several marriages between Americans and Japanese.
My first beau, I was sixteen, was a Japanese poet living there. However, my father, being an Englishman, looked with grave displeasure on the whole thing. My young poet used to come down to our home with reams of beautiful eucalyptus bark on which were inscribed his poem in exquisite Japanese characters. Those dreadful brothers of mine used to light the fires with them. And it (our friendship) never got beyond the stage of chanting and incense. He'd bring his incense pot, light it, and chant his poems. Of course I didn't know Japanese but I sat quite serenely and listened to them. Finally my father told Miller that he didn't approve and it must stop. Then there was one final parting call from Kugi. He brought his incense pot, and his lyrics must have been heartbreaking from the expressions and the dramatic rendering of them. That was the last time I saw him. Baum Did he speak English, too? Martinez Oh yes. Many Japanese speak English. Baum But he never wrote in English? Martinez No. Miller arranged the marriage between Gertrude Boyle, the sculptress, and a Japanese Shinto priest. Later she left the priest and married a young Japanese artist. She was a very talented woman, too, and a very interesting one. He had arranged, I understand, several other marriages before that. ― 182 ―
There's the wonderful tale about Joaquin Miller in Europe that Ina Coolbrith told me. There was a tremendous wave of love of the wild West in Europe, England especially. They admired Mark Twain, Bret Harte was feted in London, Stoddard, too, was loved — he brought the South Seas there long before Stevenson did. And the famous Buffalo Bill Cody and his circus had just swept Europe by storm; Cody entertained all the crowned heads and grand dukes of Europe, taking them on hunting trips in Yellowstone when it was a magnificent wilderness. Lord Houghton had the hobby of collecting wild westerners. Ina Coolbrith told Lord Houghton about the truly picturesque Joaquin Miller — how he had studied law by correspondence and been a judge in Modoc County; he had been a Pony Express rider, was a famous scout, and lastly, a poet. He had, moreover, lived with the Indians and was an expert on Indian lore and customs, and so Houghton demanded to see him. Ina sent for Joaquin. He arrived in London, if you please, in his picturesque outfit — a tall Mexican hat the hidalgo wears and a suit of white deerskin which the Sioux Indian women work on until it looks like velvet, a Sioux vest beaded in gorgeous colors and designs, with gobs of raw Klondike gold for buttons, and soft black leather boots up to the knees. He was six feet two and he had blue eyes and golden curls. That night they were to see the Queen who was appearing at a special performance in one of the theaters in London. Ina and Joaquin were to meet in the Green Room. On his arrival, Ina Coolbrith looked him over and said, "You know," (she'd been doused in the Rossetti tradition ― 183 ―
and everything was Italian style) "Joaquin, I think you should have your hair trimmed just a little, Italian style". He wouldn't
hear of it. He had blonde curls over his shoulders. So he became angry and left. Ina was terribly upset - what to do?, what
to do? She had already briefed him on where to meet them at the Green Room, and when she arrived there, there was no Joaquin
Miller. Houghton was much disappointed. However, during the first scene of the performance, into the Houghton box stepped
a white figure. She looked up - the curls were gone! She was terribly upset. Right across from Houghton's box was Queen Victoria's
box. When the lights went up Miller came to the front of the box, took his great hat off, bowed to the Queen and down fell
this mass of beautiful curls over his shoulders. (Laughter) That winter to every woman in London it was the fashion to have
curls over the shoulders. He was the sensation of the London season. Queen Victoria gave him a special audience thanks to
her son, Edward VII, who made much of Joaquin.
In this effete Victorian period, the wild West was so refreshing to them. The "mauve decade" was very properly named. He met all the great men of the period. He met the empire builder Disraeli, and Disraeli's staunch opponent Gladstone. He met great poets, writers and painters of England. He was given the velvet carpet treatment there and was the hit of the season. Queen Victoria gave him a large autographed portrait of herself. It was in the place of honor in the center of his wall surrounded by autographed photographs of all the great men of England with personal and many glowing tributes ― 184 ―
to him. Before his wife and daughter arrived when he was ill, all these photos disappeared without a clue as to their whereabouts.
He went from England to Italy and became a friend of the King of Italy. He was the figure in Europe in that period. The King of Italy told him about the trouble they were having with malaria in Rome from the Pontine Marshes outside of Rome. Miller said, "Well, I'll tell you how to take care of that - I will send you 2,000 eucalyptus seedlings that will dry your marshes up." He sent about 10,000 seedlings - they were planted and, as Miller promised, grew apace and dried up the marshes and helped bring down Rome's malaria considerably. Ina CoolbrithBaumDid you know Ina Coolbrith very well? Martinez Oh, I loved her. She was really a wonderful and charming person. I went to one of Ina Coolbrith's lectures with my father. She began her talk with an introduction of my father. She said, "The love of my youth was Bret Harte, but the love of my old age is Herman Whitaker," then she went on to tell what he had done for her fundraising project on behalf of our California poet laureate, who was in difficult straits at the time. Over $20,000 was raised, which Gertrude Atherton put into a bond. My father was upset because there were better ways and measures for the money. So he talked with Atherton and explained his project - to build a small duplex apartment in which she could live and still derive an income from the other apartment - with an extra comfortable room for a student. The income ― 185 ―
from the apartment and the room equalled what income would come from the bond. This way she had a comfortable home, as well.
So Gertrude Atherton agreed, and put the project in his hands to manage. During that building Father always consulted Ina,
so he became a very close friend of hers.
Baum I know they'd put out a book, and the proceeds went to Ina Coolbrith, which your father had organized. Martinez Yes. He was the one who oversaw the actual building of the apartment for her. Gertrude Atherton had taken the money and put it into a bond, which was useless; there wasn't even enough to live on, so he persuaded her to let him build Ina a duplex apartment. They didn't cost then what they do today. The Partington FamilyBaumThe Partingtons seemed to be prominent in Piedmont social life. Walker Richard Partington was an artist, but not a great one, rather a portrait painter. Martinez That's an interesting family. Partington's father was a cartoonist on the Chronicle or the Bulletin. He was not in the picture when I knew them. Richard started to go on with his father's work, and in the meantime he'd learned to paint. After he left here he settled on portraits and became quite a well known portrait painter in Philadelphia. Partington Ridge was named after him. He took a homestead there with Lofter and sold it before he left Piedmont. He was not a good cartoonist, so he got out of it and became a painter instead. The oldest of his sisters was a newspaperwoman. ― 186 ―
He lived in Piedmont with his wife.
Baum I have Dick Partington listed as curator of the art gallery. Martinez He was. He was in charge of the building of Frank C. Havens' gallery and putting everything in. Then he went to Philadelphia to paint a portrait and married a charming Philadelphia matron and never came back. The oldest of his family, Blanche, became a Christian Science practitioner. Walker I noticed in her letters to Perry she discusses Christian Science. Martinez Yes. Baum Now, Blanche and Dick were brother and sister. And H. G. Partington was the father. Martinez Yes, the cartoonist. He was very much liked and a very good one, but Dick failed at it. Then the other girls: Phyllis Partington became a singer — she was the one that Jack London promised to marry. She was a beautiful black-eyed creature. I don't remember her stage name. First of all, she was a chorus girl in the Tivoli when they used to have light operas there. Then she became ambitious, went to Boston and strict training and wound up one of the stars in the Boston light opera company. She came out here on a visit to her family, and she'd been there for several years and looked very impressive and very handsome. Jack got interested in her that summer and was going to marry her. Baum Along with the other girls. Martinez Along with the other girls. Baum Now, Gertrude Partington Albright. ― 187 ―
Martinez
She was a painter. Baum She was very active in this group, wasn't she? I keep running into her name. Martinez Well, all of them came in and out, except for Partington himself. They were not particularly active in the group in Carmel or up here. Baum What age group were they? Were they in your age group? Martinez No, Marty's age group. Baum So the father was much older then. Martinez He died many years before. All the Partingtons, and Marty and Sterling and London (London was younger), were all around their forties. Other Bay Area FiguresBaumThere are still a few people in Piedmont we haven't mentioned. One was Arthur Putnam. Martinez Yes, I knew him, too. Arthur Putnam was our famous sculptor - of magnificent animals. He was one of those vital people with tremendous energy. He looked like a wild puma himself. He loved animals and his work showed a kinship with them. There are quite a number in San Francisco. I think he came from the South. We saw a lot of him, yes. Then when he was 35 or 36, at the height of his career, he was found to have a tumor on the brain. The operation for removal of the tumor was a disaster for him - it had destroyed his genius and left him half paralyzed. He told me, "You know, Elsie, that brain of mine, the part connected with art is completely gone. I can't draw, even like a child." He had been a magnificent draftsman. "Everything's gone." Mrs. Spreckles took care ― 188 ―
of him. He had married a Frenchwoman in San Francisco whose life was dedicated to him, so Mrs. Spreckles sent them to Paris,
where he lived for some years in the art students' quarters where he was much admired and loved.
He married a fellow student, a pale, blonde delicate person. Apparently they were very happy together until after the operation and then they separated, his life ruined. He had two children, a beautiful daughter and a son. They went up to Oregon to live with relatives; I've tried a number of times to find what became of them. The girl was vivid like her father, and the boy was gentle like his mother, a quiet person and an artist. I hadn't seen too much of them before the operation, perhaps half a dozen times, and I was impressed by her gentleness and fragile beauty and his personality. He loved his work so much. He didn't go out much. He wasn't a bohemian. He'd come to Marty's studio and we saw him then, but he never took part in any of the bohemian parties the artists used to have. But after the operation, of course, the center of his life was gone — a great talent was just reaching fulfillment. He lived ten or twelve years after the operation, but the artist was dead. We were all so thankful when he went to France because he loved France. Baum Haig Pattigan? Martinez I didn't know him well except generally as a sculptor. I'm afraid I didn't admire his sculpture. He was never connected with any of the bohemian groups. He was a rather conventional person. Baum Roi Partridge? Martinez I remember him quite distinctly. We admired his wife and we gave him credit for a certain amount of ability, but somehow or other our ― 189 ―
sympathy was always with her. He was a disagreeable personality as far as his wife was concerned; we never knew what was back
of it. But we admired her very much — she was Imogen Cunningham, the photographer. He was very antagonistic to her and we
rather resented that. That's about all I remember about him; he wasn't part of our group at all. We knew her quite well for
a little while and had known her before she married him. She wasn't part of the group but she came in and out. It didn't seem
to be a happy marriage; it fell apart shortly afterwards and we saw nothing of him after that.
Baum Herbert and Kinnie Bashford? Martinez Oh, what a pair of characters! He wrote one very bad play which gave him quite a local reputation; he was a rather conventional little man and ran the literary page on the Bulletin, I remember. He was a neighbor and once in a while I used to be with Ruth Roberts and I'd see them at her home. He never even came to the studio. I'd see him and his wife at Ruth Roberts' - who had my father's house next door to them. Baum Ralph Stackpole? Martinez Oh, I liked Ralph. He almost married my sister. He would say we were almost relatives. Baum I thought your sister was not interested in art or literature. Martinez No, she wasn't interested in art but she flirted with Ralph a bit and then got interested in another artist. That ended their short romance. That was here in Piedmont, after I was married, that's when I met Ralph. I used to have my sister here, with her great brown eyes, very feminine. But it didn't work out. Ralph's an awfully ― 190 ―
fine person, really. A charming personality, but not a vivid one. The vivid one was the famous sculptor Putnam.
And Bufano - we've known him for years. We were very fond of him. We knew him from the earliest days here. He was a combination of the shrewdest publicity hunting we'd ever known — there was only one person I know that's superior, and that's Henry Cowell, the musician. He's a master of publicity, and Bufano is too. Everybody thinks he's odd, well, he is odd. But he's clever, and he's a good sculptor. Baum I heard that for a long time he didn't tell anyone he had a wife and child. Martinez I knew he had a wife. He lived in San Francisco and his wife lived in Marin somewhere. I believe she was Italian, too. Anyway, she lived with her family. We never saw her. That's all we knew about that part of his life. He was a secretive little fellow. He told us many interesting stories about his sojourn in China. He went there to explore a cave that was full of beautiful small Buddhist sculptures. He decided he'd better have a couple so he hid them in his jacket and went home. Then he thought, "Well, I'd better go get two or three more." So he waited a week and then he went back. He thought, "Well, that's funny, this door has been changed a little bit." So he put his head round the door and there was an old cannon, one of the earliest-known cannons, and they had it all full of stuff to shoot him when he arrived and opened the door. [Laughter] He went to the Hankow pottery works. It's the most famous in the whole Orient, exquisite potteries for royalty. For centuries the trade ― 191 ―
secret has gone down from father to son and never been put on paper. The Japanese bombed the whole works out of existence.
I remember he came up the day word came it was bombed out. Benny cried and said sadly, "They taught me a few little things,
but they said, `You come live with us and we'll teach you our secrets,"' but he couldn't stay. He said the greatest secrets
of the Oriental potteries were lost in that bombardment of Hankow. He was terribly heartbroken about that. And they taught
him quite a bit as it was.
Sometimes he's gay and talkative and other times he's completely silent. If you get him in a silent mood he won't open his mouth. Baum Was he the kind of person who would like you for a while and then change? Martinez I don't think he would, no. Some insisted he was a Communist, I don't. He's been among so many kinds of people. Nothing has any effect on him. He accepts everyone as a person and does not question their beliefs. I was very lucky — when I was ten years of age Sun Yat-sen was sent to this country to be educated. When he finished college, he was in San Francisco on his way home to China and the San Francisco Socialist Party had asked him to give a talk on China. My father showed me this little figure up on the platform and said, "Now, remember that name, because he's going to be a famous figure some day in China." He was a little fellow and he gave his talk in English. Baum Another person everyone knew was Albert Bender. Martinez Well, he was the man who supported art in San Francisco. Any artist ― 192 ―
who needed money went to Bender. He was very dear. He bought several of Marty's pictures and I knew of other painters he'd
helped.
Walker Did he come to Carmel for a while? Martinez He used to go back and forth once in a while. His cousin was a very fine painter, Anne Bremer. Baum Was he an art connoisseur? Martinez I think his cousin was the one who had the knowledge. Anne Bremer was a very brilliant woman. They lived together in a big home they had; I went to several dinners there. He was interested in helping artists and getting galleries going. It was a cultural effort with him. He'd put money into cultural activities willingly and generously. Marty was very fond of Bender. Baum Did he come up here to the studio, or did you meet them in San Francisco? Martinez In San Francisco. He didn't go out very much. He used to entertain at his home. Orrin Peck was a painter, and a quite good one. He was adopted by Phoebe Hearst to be the brother of William Randolph Hearst. Marty and he were very good friends and we saw him quite often on his rare visits to San Francisco. He had painted colossal portraits of the father and mother of William Randolph Hearst and they were exhibited at the Bohemian Club. It was a big affair, so we went over because Marty was very fond of Orrin Peck. He told us two very interesting things: He said that Willy was not the son of Mrs. Hearst, not her son at all; and the other thing he said was when he used to go around ― 193 ―
the world he'd come back and Willy loved dirty stories, so he'd collect them for Hearst. Willy used to snap his knuckles (he'd
never say a word while Orrin talked, just those strange eyes fastened on him) - Orrin could tell if it was a good story because
he'd snap his knuckles.
I saw William Randolph Hearst at the exhibition, a strange character. At that time he came over and sat down beside me — he liked blondes. He stayed with me until Marty hove in sight and he looked him over and then he departed. But we were there about fifteen or twenty minutes discussing the painters. Baum Someone described Hearst as having a very high voice. Martinez It was. I was so surprised because he was tall, rather large, with a thin high voice. He didn't say much, though, not much more than yes or no. "Yes." "No." And once he made a comment about looking like his father. He liked the portrait of his father the best. I don't believe he ever knew his real mother. Of course, he must have known he wasn't the son of Phoebe. Orrin Peck told us that before she died, Phoebe begged him to keep the estate, Pleasanton, she loved it so, for a while in her memory. The breath wasn't out of her body before he had twenty appraisers there and it was sold and gone inside of three weeks. There was no love lost there. In the book it says that she dominated him. Well, maybe that's why. But he was a strange character. Baum Of course Phoebe is very popular at the University of California. Martinez Yes. Well, she's done a great deal for them. Baum As a person, people said . . . ― 194 ―
Martinez
Oh, Rollo Peters told me a wonderful story. He knew Mrs. Hearst quite well. He was asked to a luncheon she was giving at Del Monte for about forty guests. At that time, a cause celebre was about a young Jewish fellow named Frank who had a pencil factory in Georgia. He took white women to work and the Southerners lynched him. The Hearst papers in California papers stood up for Frank and the Georgia papers were for killing him. It came out quite a bit about William Randolph Hearst's Georgia paper being responsible for that murder. Mrs. Hearst said, "Oh, I would appreciate so much if someone would really tell me the truth about that whole thing because it upsets me so to think that Willy was accused like that, and probably unfairly!" So Rollo Peters said, "Do you want the truth, Mrs. Hearst?" He knew her well. She said, "Yes, I want the truth." He said, "Your son was responsible for the murder of that man." She reeled with the shock, then stood up stiffly to her regal height and she said to her guests, "Follow me, please," and they all obeyed and disappeared and Peters was sitting alone at the banquet. That's how Phoebe felt about the truth. He said he sat there in solitary splendor at this big banquet table and laughed and left. Baum You had mentioned Jimmy Hopper in connection with Nora May French — that she loathed him. Martinez There was a malicious streak in Hopper. The only man who really loved him and cared for him was my father. But he was malicious, especially about women; he hated women. In some ways I couldn't ― 195 ―
blame him, he had a very difficult wife, very demanding and very domineering. But if he got tired of a friendship, poof! He
could say the most bitter and the meanest things about people. Jimmy Hopper was one of the people I just had no use for either,
though my father said he had something really worthwhile to him. I never saw it. Unfortunately, I made one very grave mistake
with him. He was talking about a brilliant idea that he had, and without thinking I said, "Well, you're in the same boat with
Voltaire. He expressed the same thing." And I repeated the astute, witty statement of Voltaire. He gave me one look and he
could have killed me. I knew then that I'd made an enemy.
Baum He was angry that someone else had had the same idea before him? Martinez Not only before him, but his was a stumbling sort of an expression, and I made the mistake of giving the extraordinarily brilliant thing that Voltaire had said on the same subject. He thought he had something new. I knew then and there I'd made a grave mistake with Mr. Hopper; he and I were never friendly at all. He and my father remained great friends to the last. He could be so acrid and so maliciously critical. But everyone felt sorry for him because he had such an unhappy marriage. Baum You haven't told us about Frederick Meyer. Martinez Well, Meyer was a darling. He had a shop of fine iron work in San Francisco at the time of the earthquake. He was a German. I believe he had classes on ornamental ironwork or something over at his shop. Oh, by the way, that knocker over there was on his shop door and ― 196 ―
went through the fire; he designed it. He had a little class over there, and when his shop was burned out he decided to come
to Berkeley and start a little art school. It was in the attic of an old building, and he had only three classes to begin
with. Later his art school expanded into a large school.
Baum What was his claim to be an art teacher? Had he studied art? Martinez Oh, he'd studied art, too, and he was a designer. He put up with Marty, and that was heroic. Baum You said that Marty was very faithful to his classes. Martinez Oh, yes. He never missed a class and he was never five minutes late. He would stay up all night, but he'd get up and get ready and he'd be at that class on the dot. Walker Was Ralph DuCasse one of his students? Martinez No. Ralph did meet him in Carmel six months after Marty died. All those years after I married Marty I kept notes of the interesting people and the interesting conversations because Marty's house was an international house then. And when I went to Europe he burned them. He never said a word, I never said a word. I never let on I knew and he never mentioned them. But the thing that's the real loss are all those photos given to Joaquin Miller on his trip to London. I had taken down all those dedications to him on the photos. And now all those photos have disappeared, some say the nephew sold them. I think Miller was the most picturesque of Marty's friends, London was the most lovable, and Sterling the most difficult. Walker Why do you say Sterling was the most difficult? ― 197 ―
Martinez
Well, I didn't understand him until after I became a Catholic. He had these moments of great compassion and tenderness. Yet when he got angry he would go out of his way to be disagreeable even in a malicious sort of way. Walker I've been reading Carrie's letters from the period when they first went to Carmel, and it's pretty obvious that he was constantly unfaithful to her and she did not realize it. Martinez Oh, yes. I'll say this for Carrie, with all her Rabelaisian humor, she was rather naive about his affairs. Walker She wasn't naive in her letters. She made it pretty clear she understood what was going on, but did not really believe it. Martinez Oh? Well, that was the Vera Connolly affair. You ought to run down the letters Carrie and George wrote to the Bierces. They wrote to them for thirty or forty years. |