Thursday, March 8, 2018

Nella Fontaine Binckley: "Odds and Ends from an Artist's Life," Chapter VI, Part 2

Lynchburg, Virginia. Courtesy of the Lynchburg Museum System. 
[Nella Fontaine Binckley, "Odds and Ends from an Artist's Life," Chapter VI, part 2. From a transcription annotated by Patricia D'Arcy Binckley of typewritten original, February 25, 2005. Original "written some time after 1941 by Nellie F. Binckley, 1860-1950 or 51." Notes in brackets are mine, unless followed by the initials "P.D.B." Occasionally, additional paragraph breaks inserted for easier reading. 

Many thanks to William Myers, Mary Davy, Sally Young and Sue Davis for their ongoing research collaboration; specifically to William for providing a scan of the original document, and in turn many thanks to Peter Binckley and Patricia D'Arcy "Trish" Binckley (1951-2007), at the source.]


That summer I danced my first cotillion with a young fellow who belonged to an old and distinguished Philadelphia family. His name was Bert Smith and he was there with his mother and her sister, Miss Zell. He was always immaculately dressed and more soigne [soigné] than the Southern men, who considered that sort of thing rather sissy. They called him a dude. He was a very intelligent youngster, but affected some little mannerisms for the fun of it. One of the slang expressions of the day was to use the word tumble to signify understanding. For instance they'd ask, "Do you tumble?" Bert always said "Tumblez-vous?" He parted his hair in the middle. Sometimes a lock would fall over his forehead. He'd look up at it with great concern and anxiously inquire, "Which side does it belong on?" as if the fate of nations hung in the balance. When informed, he'd put it back in place with relief. The easygoing young Southern men, paying much less attention to dress than the elegant Philadelphian, used to regard him with wonder. In later years I heard he had become a distinguished University professor.


I never cared for red, though I admit it is a beautiful color. I've had but three red dresses in my life, and two of those were given to me. But I did have a red evening dress that summer. One of my friends there, Howard Morton, a brilliant young lawyer from Richmond, hated red. He didn't dare dance, but we were together a good deal during the day. He told me he'd never come near me when I had on that dress. Naturally that did not deter me from putting it on whenever I felt like it. Then he would stand at the ballroom door glowering in. I had never heard then of the psychology of color. But another man, who never took any special notice of me at any other time, always made a beeline for me if I had on that red dress.

The proprietor of the Springs liked my work so much that he commissioned me to paint a picture of the hotel. So when we left I had not only paid my own expenses for the summer but had money left over. I felt like a real professional.

Grandmother took a house just across a side street from a tobacco factory [in Lynchburg, Virginia]. And it was a delight to hear the darkies sing all day. [They] sung [sang] only their own music -- what are called spirituals today. Not one of them knew a note of music, everything by ear. Much of it they made up as they went along. A single voice would ring out, "Goin' up to glory," and the whole magnificent chorus, soprano, alto, tenor and voice would answer "Early in de mornin'," then a single voice again "Goin' up to glory," and the chorus, "Oh, we're goin' up to glory early in the mornin,' and we'll cross de river of death." 

One could not ask to hear finer music -- a glorious flood of harmonized voices, every tone true. It is no wonder that I writhe when I hear people murder these appealing spirituals today, for I have heard them sung as they should be sung. On the radio I have heard the beautiful simplicity of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" so smothered with frills and furbelows (mostly out of tune) that one can barely recognize it. One can turn off one's radio, but not a neighbor's. One can only suffer.

I got up a class myself, in drawing and painting, oils and water color. Cousin Sam Wingfield was mayor of Lynchburg at that time and extremely popular. Everybody loved him. He was well over six feet, and stout. He used to say that it was his ambition to weigh a ton.    

[Ellen/Nellie/Nella Fontaine Binckley (September 1, 1860-April 27, 1951). Family names and dates were whimsically tweaked by their owners during their lifetime, adding mystery and sometimes causing confusion. For Binckley's "Artist's Life," I'm opting for the full artist's signature name, Nella Fontaine Binckley.

Grandmother = Jane Johnston Mitchell/Michel (1811-1892).
Aunt Sue = Sue Henry Mitchell/Michel Taliferro (1845-1940).

Cousin Sam Wingfield = Samuel Griffin Wingfield (1846-1901).]

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