Nella Fontaine Binckley: "Odds and Ends from an Artist's Life," Chapter VII, Part 1

[Nella Fontaine Binckley, "Odds and Ends from an Artist's Life," Chapter VII, part 1. 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 [1883, Harvey Michel had died by now -- M.J.B.] Mother decided to go to California. Harvey had gone to Cuba with a surveying party, as he was learning to be a civil engineer. I was extremely anxious to go to New York to study art and was saving every cent I could for that, so I was staying in New York[?] They went to Bellevue for a farewell visit and I went with them. It was good to see them all again. Aunt Charlotte and the beloved Wingfields. And the blessed Peaks, as beautiful as I remembered them. I recall Aunt Charlotte saying once that during the Civil War there had been a great comet and that it stood right between the Peaks like a flaming sword.

One day, old Uncle Harrison, Grandfather's body servant, appeared at the house. He had heard that Mother was going to California and had come all the way from Wheatley [Wheatly] to sat goodbye to Miss Lou. He was now ninety-six and said he knew he would never see her again. He was a striking looking old man. His skin was a pale yellow and his features straight and regular. He was the grandson of an African king, of a different tribe from the ones from which the slave traders usually took their victims. 

He had a mass of straight hair, now snowy white. I made a small sketch of him in oils as he sat on the porch. He stayed all day, of course, and then one from his family took him home. None of his various descendants had ever been able to get him to admit that he was free. Before the Civil War slaves were occasionally freed as a reward for some outstanding service. But the freed slave usually lost caste among the others. He no longer had a "family" to be proud of and boast about. The other darkies looked down on him. Darkies loved aristocrats, and regarded with contempt what they called "po' white trash." They were inordinately proud of their "families" -- their wealth, their social position -- the latter considered far more important than money. When any of Uncle Harrison's  kin reminded him he was really free, he'd retort scornfully that it'd take more'n a passel of Yankees to make a free nigger out'n him!

Apropos of that word, we children had been brought up to never use the word nigger. That was vulgar; that was for poor whites. We should say darkies. In their presence we should always say colored people. [T]he word negro was used only in very formal speech.

The day after Uncle Harrison's visit, some of the darkies about the place brought in a possum they had caught the night before and showed it to us. They'd put it on the rail of the porch and it sat there with its smooth tail wrapped tightly around the rail. I made a sketch of it. I never saw an opossum before. It made no effort to run away, knowing (poor little beast) that it was hopeless. I am afraid the darkies had him for supper that night.

Among Mother's goodbye trips was one to Cousin Ned Dillon in Rockbridge County. There has been a lot in the newspapers not long before about an English earl (or maybe it was a Scottish earl, I don't remember now) who had died, and those in succession had died before him, he being very old. His solicitors had found the next of kin in the United States, as a branch of the family had settled there years before. But the American heir had no desire to become a belted earl. His name had not been given. Mother happened to mention this in conversation with Cousin Ned. He remarked "The fact is, Lou, I'm the earl of so and so (I've forgotten the name). But I don't want to leave Virginia and go over there to live. Hang the earldom."

Aunt Charlotte had bought a small house in Salem, a little town not far from Bedford, for Grandmother [Charlotte' stepmother -- M.J.B.] to live in and wanted her to settle down. Aunt Charlotte had lived in one place -- in face one house -- all her life. It was hard for her to understand Grandmother's easy mobility, her facile flitting from one city to another with complete nonchalance. Aunt Sue's sister-in-law, Mrs. Deyerly and her husband lived there, and the Griffins, the family of Aunt Charlotte's mother. We all knew the town well. So Grandmother and Aunt Sue had gone there to live. Of course Mother and the rest of us had gone there to visit.  

[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).
Mother = Mary Louisa Mitchell/Michel Binckley (1838-1930).
Harvey Mitchell/Michel (1799-1866).
Harvey Mitchell Binckley (1864-1928).

Uncle Harrison = former slave, freed by Harvey Mitchell/Michel before the American Civil War. In the 1870 Federal Census, there is a Harrison Mitchell (aka Coles) residing in Bedford/Liberty, born circa 1790, listed as "black."

Aunt Charlotte = Charlotte Elizabeth Griffin Mitchell/Michel (1829-1921).
Ned Dillon = Colonel Edward Dillon (1835-1897), a son of Mary Morris Johnston Dillon Cunningham (1810-1884) and grandson of Charles Johnston (1769-1833) and Elizabeth "Eliza" Prentiss "Betsey" Steptoe Johnston (1783-1820). 

Aunt Sue = Sue Henry Mitchell/Michel Taliaferro (1845-1940); William Meade Taliaferro (1840-1913), had married Sue on October 16, 1867. He was apparently lost to "nostalgia," shell shock, post traumatic stress, war wounds, alcohol and other comorbidities, eventually committing suicide at the Camp Lee Soldier's Home in Richmond. 

Mrs. Deyerly [Dyerly] = not sure who this is.]

Nella Fontaine Binckley: "Odds and Ends from an Artist's Life," Chapter VI, Part 3

[Nella Fontaine Binckley, "Odds and Ends from an Artist's Life," Chapter VI, part 3. 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.]

Some of the musical people of Lynchburg got up a sort of musical club, and we gave several of the Gilbert and Sullivan operas. It was no end of fun. For the actual performance we imported professionals from New York for the leading parts, and hired what costumes we needed. But we did the rest. 

I was only in the chorus. I did have an infinitesimal role as Lady Saphir in Patience [italics added] [1881]. Our Bunthorne, Patience and Grosvenor were professionals. However, we did have some local talent. Dave Gregory had a splendid bass voice, and Otway Owen's voice was very good. They were two of the three dragoons. I have forgotten the third. Their uniforms were hired from New York. During the performance, with a large audience filling the Opera House, a considerable rip appeared in one of Dave's trouser legs, to his agonized apprehension and the smothered giggles of the rest of us.

Patience [italics added], as everyone knows, was a satire on the aesthetic movement started by Oscar Wilde, and which was then sweeping England. One aesthete had his home done over in the Queen Anne style, and would not allow a daily newspapers in the house, declaring it an anachronism. Oscar Wilde made a trip to the United States, but didn't seem to have made much of a hit. His manner was rather lofty and condescending. Of course he was entertained by the smart set. He remarked to one hostess, "Your country is so very new. No ruins, no curiosities." She replied, "Our ruins we shall have in time. As for our curiosities," -- she looked at him -- "we import them."

Our aesthetic gowns were long and slinky, high girdled, our hair loose and flowing. I made my dress of white cheesecloth and painted a tall sunflower -- life size -- along up the front. The curtain rises on the first act showing the twenty lovesick maidens. Those were the days of Delsarte, another aesthete, and his maxim was "Never stand when you can sit, and never sit when you can lie down."

So all twenty of us were lying on the floor. Some held musical instruments. They gave me a tambourine. And for some reason, perhaps because my hair was longer than most, put me in the middle of the front row. Next day a lady calling on us asked me which one I was. I replied, "The one with the tambourine." She exclaimed, "Was that you? Why, you looked perfectly beautiful! I never would [have] known you!" In the other acts I carried in my hand a single long peacock feather.

When we were dressing before the performance, being amateurs, none of us had any rouge. In those days rouge was considered the hallmark of ladies who were no better that [than?] they should be. It must be admitted however that some ladies of unquestioned respectability owned rouge. But they applied it very delicately and it was all very sub rosa. We realized that the footlights made rouge necessary, and of course on the stage it was all right. 

One of the girls announced that she had found by rubbing a damp coth over an artificial rose, she could get the dye to come off. So the red rose and the damp cloth were passed around, and soon we all had blooming cheeks which we toned down with plenty of face powder. After the performance, when we got into our street clothes, we made the alarming discovery that the red rose dye was indelible! We couldn't wash it off. Water only made it brighter. We went home with it on. And Mother wouldn't let me out of the house for several days till it finally wore off. For the other operas -- [T]he Mikado [1885] and [H.M.S.] Pinafore [Italics added] [1878] -- we used it very gingerly, and remained in retirement afterwards for as long as necessary. 

Our operas were pronounced very successful, and our group was invited to sing in chorus at a music festival in Petersburg some time after. The Hahrs invited me to stay with them. I remember seeing there the old Bolling place with big grounds and lots of trees. President Wilson's second wife was a Bolling of Petersburg. The Bollings and several other Virginian families claimed to be descended fro Pacahontas. But I never could see how they managed it, as Pocahontas had only one child[,] who died in infancy.

After we came back to Lynchburg, we got up to Mrs. Jarley's Waxworks which everyone found very amusing. They made me the Maid With the Golden Locks. My hair was loose and covered me completely. My left hand protruded, holding a bottle. Every now and then my right hand, making jerky movements as if worked by machinery, would come out, reach over to the bottle tipped over by the left hand and rub imaginary hair tonic on the top of my head. Another time we had Bluebeard. When Sister Anne opened the forbidden door and looked in she saw a horrific sight. The wives' heads hung on a wall by their hair in a ghastly row. We cut holes in a burlap screen, our heads were in the holes and our hair was pulled up and fastened to big hooks above. It was horribly convincing, they told me.

We had shadow pictures, too. That was lots of fun. We had a large sheet stretched tight on a framework. Curtains on each side of the sheet blocked off the stage. A single very bright lamp stood on the floor inside, opposite the middle off the sheet. The audience was in darkness. The performers went through a pantomime, their shadows showing sharply on the sheet. For the exits the performer walked toward the lamp and his shadow shot upward and disappeared, giving a startling effect.    

[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).
Mother = Mary Louisa Mitchell/Michel Binckley (1838-1930).

Dave Gregory = probably David P. Gregory, Sr. (1854-1911) of Lynchburg.
Otway Owen = probably William Otway Owen (1820-1892) of Lynchburg.
Oscar Wilde (1854-1900).
President Wilson's second wife = Edith Bolling Galt Wilson (1872-1961).]

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).]