A Daughter of the Middle Border | Page 3

and bask in the
light of the fire 304
Entirely subject to my daughter, who regarded me as a wonderful giant,
I paid tribute to her in song and story 322
That night as my daughters "dressed up" as princesses, danced in the
light of our restored hearth, I forgot all the disheartenment which the
burning of the house had brought upon me 368
The art career which Zulime Taft abandoned after our marriage, is now
being taken up by her daughter Constance 400
To Mary Isabel who as a girl of eighteen still loves to impersonate the
majesty of princesses 402
-----------------------------------------------------------------------

A DAUGHTER OF THE MIDDLE BORDER
BOOK I
CHAPTER ONE

My First Winter in Chicago
"Well, Mother," I said as I took my seat at the breakfast table the
second day after our Thanksgiving dinner, "I must return to Chicago. I
have some lectures to deliver and besides I must get back to my
writing."
She made no objection to my announcement but her eyes lost
something of their happy light. "When will you come again?" she asked
after a pause.
"Almost any minute," I replied assuringly. "You must remember that
I'm only a few hours away now. I can visit you often. I shall certainly
come up for Christmas. If you need me at any time send me word in the
afternoon and I'll be with you at breakfast."
That night at six o'clock I was in my city home, a lodging quite as
humble in character as my fortunes.
In a large chamber on the north side of a house on Elm Street and only
three doors from Lake Michigan, I had assembled my meager library
and a few pitiful mementoes of my life in Boston. My desk stood near a
narrow side window and as I mused I could look out upon the shoreless
expanse of blue-green water fading mistily into the north-east sky, and,
at night, when the wind was in the East the crushing thunder of the
breakers along the concrete wall formed a noble accompaniment to my
writing, filling me with vaguely ambitious literary plans. Exalted by the
sound of this mighty orchestra I felt entirely content with the present
and serenely confident of the future.
"This is where I belong," I said. "Here in the great Midland metropolis
with this room for my pivot, I shall continue my study of the plains and
the mountains."
I had burned no bridges between me and the Island of Manhattan,
however! Realizing all too well that I must still look to the East for
most of my income, I carefully retained my connections with Harper's,
the Century and other periodicals. Chicago, rich and powerful as it had

become, could not establish--or had not established--a paying magazine,
and its publishing firms were mostly experimental and not very
successful; although the Columbian Exposition which was just closing,
had left upon the city's clubs and societies (and especially on its young
men) an esthetic stimulation which bade fair to carry on to other and
more enduring enterprises.
Nevertheless in the belief that it was to become the second great
literary center of America I was resolved to throw myself into the task
of hurrying it forward on the road to new and more resplendent
achievement.
My first formal introduction to the literary and artistic circle in which I
was destined to work and war for many years, took place through the
medium of an address on Impressionism in Art which I delivered in the
library of Franklin Head, a banker whose home had become one of the
best-known intellectual meeting places on the North Side. This lecture,
considered very radical at the time, was the direct outcome of several
years of study and battle in Boston in support of the open-air school of
painting, a school which was astonishing the West with its defiant play
of reds and yellows, and the flame of its purple shadows. As a
missionary in the interest of the New Art, I rejoiced in this opportunity
to advance its inspiring heresies.
While uttering my shocking doctrines (entrenched behind a broad,
book-laden desk), my eyes were attracted to the face of a slender
black-bearded young man whose shining eyes and occasional smiling
nod indicated a joyous agreement with the main points of my harangue.
I had never seen him before, but I at once recognized in him a fellow
conspirator against "The Old Hat" forces of conservatism in painting.
At the close of my lecture he drew near and putting out his hand, said,
"My name is Taft--Lorado Taft. I am a sculptor, but now and again I
talk on painting. Impressionism is all very new here in the West, but
like yourself I am an advocate of it, I am doing my