CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

_THE IMPERISHABLE MONUMENT_

The sculptor came out of the war and the aircraft investigations heavily in debt. Fortunately he received some large commissions for carving public memorials, but the sponsors of these projects wanted to have his exclusive attention. There was the customary trouble of the setting for one finished piece, and the creation of another, the Wars of America group, was a matter that seemed impossible to finish. As a result Stone Mountain, which seems to have become his most important interest, was a long time hearing from him.

Jesse Tucker, back from the wars, paid a visit to the old workings and made an earnest report. “The stairs and scaffolding need immediate repairs if they are to stay where we put them,” Captain Tucker said. “In fact, I should earnestly ask you to come down here if you don’t want to lose everything you accomplished before the war.”

There wasn’t much more money available. People digging down in their pockets to support a world war didn’t have much change for a memorial to the Confederacy. That had waited until now; it could wait further. But lack of cash did not delay Gutzon after he had heard from Tucker. There never had been any cash anyway.

When Borglum arrived at Stone Mountain in the summer of 1921 he was filled with new enthusiasms, new ideas that had come to him during the war years and during his struggles with headstrong committeemen who couldn’t decide what they wanted. The sculptor looked at the granite mountain and took a deep breath. After all, this was home. This was one place in America where he could never have harsh words with anybody. Here were people who thought as he did--people willing to sacrifice anything they had, to glorify the spirit of those who had gone.

Something more than a tremendous picture of the Confederate Army was to be left here, Gutzon decided. He needed a studio in this area; so he would build one at the foot of the mountain--a huge one made of permanent materials. And when the project was finished this building could be converted into a vast art school of a sort much needed in the South. The students, he declared, would be able to learn about sculpture by looking at it, by being a part of a great work as they did in medieval Italy.

He designed a great hall to be cut into the rock below the marching statues. This was to be a memorial to the women of the South and a depository for their records. In addition to that he was planning an open-air amphitheater at the base of the mountain. He gave this some tests. Marie Tiffany of the Metropolitan Opera Company came down to sing for a select few and demonstrated the perfect acoustics of the place. This will be a shrine to gladden the soul, said Gutzon. And it looked as if it might be.

For a year the sculptor was forced to commute between Stamford and Atlanta. But with Tucker looking after the work on the cliff it began to progress. Sam Venable and Forrest Adair took up the assignment of raising more money.

Borglum decided to scaffold the entire area necessary for blocking and carving the central group, nearly an acre of perpendicular granite wall. This arrangement would have a higher initial cost but would make it easier and quicker to work the rock. An entirely new approach to the project was built from below, 700 feet of steps up to a solid platform. The platform was hung on the mountainside 550 feet above the base, and on it were the blacksmith shops, drill-sharpening apparatus, hoists, power plants, supply rooms and machine shops. Air compressors were installed with air lines and feeders 1,700 feet from the base. A cable hoist was erected and the mountain electrified.

The cost of bringing electricity to the mountain was estimated by the Georgia Power Company at $15,000, but it never came to that. Preston Arkright, president of the company, was interested in Gutzon’s plan to carve a mountain. He reduced the bill eighty per cent and presently canceled it altogether.

Once the way was provided for the men to get to their working stations, Gutzon faced the problem of getting something arranged for them to work on. He had next to place his design on the great wall of rock in exactly the right place and proper proportion to the scale of the mountain. The size of the figures was so great and the surface of the wall such that the ordinary scale model which sculptors use was not satisfactory. It was absolutely impossible to get any sense of correct proportion from a steel cage let down over the face of the mountain on cables.

Large drawings were hung over the cliff without success. Then Gutzon began experimenting with a lamp projector which could throw photographs of his models on the mountain face. Up to that time the largest projection machine had a range of only 300 feet. The manufacturers of such machines, whom Gutzon consulted, declared that a lamp powerful enough to project a picture 800 feet would produce such intense heat that the lens would be broken and the slide melted.

Finally Gutzon went to E. S. Porter of the Precision Machine Company of New York who promised to build a projector according to his requirements. After months of experiment the lamp was ready for trying out on the photographic slides of Lee and his generals taken from Gutzon’s sketches. The test was made in Stamford; the lamp placed on a terrace near the house and the biggest sheets he could find stretched across the meadow several hundred feet away. The Connecticut Power Company ran the electricity through a special wire.

While the sculptor was fussing with the slide to get the proper focus, his little girl began jumping up and down and pointing her little finger. She exclaimed: “Oh, Daddy, look! Horses riding through the field.” And sure enough! There were horses carrying Generals Lee and Jackson riding like ghosts upon the slightly misty atmosphere, far ahead of the sheets hung there to catch them.

The lamp was taken down to Stone Mountain where another difficulty was encountered. The carving was at an elevation of 350 feet. That meant that the light beam carrying the design traveled upward at an angle of a little more than fifty degrees, which meant great distortion. The sculptor discovered that by tipping the slide at a corresponding angle, this distortion could be overcome.

Consequently he first photographed the model on the level. Then he photographed the photograph tipped forward at an angle equal to overcoming the distortion in reverse. Thus a distorted slide was made to meet precisely the conditions on the mountain where the design was to be placed. As a result the picture appeared at that high elevation as it would directly in front of the lens. The picture was then traced on the mountainside in white to guide the blocking-out process of the carvers.

The lamp, weighing about a ton, was bolted to a concrete foundation to avoid the slightest movement. It would be swung to any angle, up and down, right and left. A slide three inches high produced a picture 200 feet high. The enlargement was so great that a pin scratch on the slide measured nine inches in width on the mountain. The head of Lee’s horse was thirty feet from tip of ear to end of lip; the stirrup was nine feet long. A man standing on Lee’s shoulder needed a nine-foot stepladder to carve the ear.

In these dimensions absolute precision was of the utmost importance. A telephone for communication between the operator and workers on the mountain was installed so that with micrometer adjustments, the same picture could be superimposed night after night on the incomplete tracings. In addition to locating the design on the mountain the lamp made possible infinite changes in the original plan. Even a complete change in the composition of a dozen horses or a hundred soldiers could be projected on the mountain and the effect of the change shown at once.

The picture as it appeared on the mountain shown at night was as clear as the scene in a movie. In fact, one night when the photograph was being shown a passer-by stopped in great excitement, thinking that the figures had already been carved, so lifelike was the illusion. The projection machine, Gutzon estimated, saved him at least two or three years’ labor in placing his sketch upon the mountain.

A third problem, equally important and seemingly insolvable, was what could be done to remove the stone with the rapidity and facility that a sculptor enjoys when he works on a marble bust in his studio? This thought occurred to Gutzon before he even measured the acreage he intended to use for his carving. How could he whip these enormous dimensions and reduce a mountain to a handful? He related this experience in an article later produced in the Dupont trade magazine. He said:

When I first put drill to that eight-hundred-foot-high block, directing the hands of men I could hardly see at a distance of fifteen hundred feet, I was still impressed by the thought that without some effective substitute for the thousands of enslaved craftsmen of the Egyptian days, our undertaking would never come to an end. I spent weeks experimenting with the ways and means of blocking out masses of unnecessary stone and trying by plug and feather and wedge drills to split them off. All these efforts proved childish and inadequate. After months of failures and careful calculation of costs I began to see that the work would be next to interminable with the labor we could afford and by the known means at our disposal.

I had thought of explosives but, knowing little about them, had vetoed their use. The general idea is that high explosives can be used only to destroy. As I thought this subject over, much as I am writing it, another thought came to me: Why not _control_ explosive force? Firearms control it. Why not develop some means by which we could blow off just what material we wanted to be rid of, in precisely the quantities we wished to remove, and at the same time preserve the stone left in place, intact and without injury? That problem I pondered over for months without discussing it with anybody.

Just at that time a Belgian engineer, who was passing through Georgia, visited me at Stone Mountain. I told him what our difficulties were, quite apart from the safety problem of carrying men to such a height apparently unprotected, to work on the side of the mountain. The removal of stone was costing too much and was too slow. The old methods were detaining the development of the design.

“Why don’t you use dynamite?” he calmly asked.

“I’ve been thinking of it,” I said, “and I am on the point of making experiments. But it’s close work.”

He then told me that he had recently enlarged a tunnel through a ledge of granite only a few inches, and that by arranging his drilling and adjusting the charges of dynamite, he was literally able to cut off six or eight inches of the main ledge as cleanly as if it had been channeled.

Of course anybody who knows anything about granite knows that it splits easily in some directions and in others is stubborn and cranky. I spoke of this and he said he had found means of overcoming that trouble.

“Where I cross the grain of the granite,” he said, “I put my drill holes closer together. While I drilled my holes to the same depth I did not place my dynamite at the bottom of each one, but scattered the charge, zigzagged it up and down the wall. Then I measured my charge carefully, kept it so light that the six-inch shell often only cracked the stone loose and sometimes a hand bar would be required to release it.”

If ever I had that gentleman’s name and address I have lost it, but that night in the lamp room I projected the photographs of my models of Lee, Jackson and Davis on Stone Mountain, which was a little over eleven hundred feet from our location. The slide was small enough so that I could hold it in the hollow of my hand, but the picture projected without distortion over nearly an acre. We studied it together. It was this traveling engineer who gave me the assurance and impetus that resulted in the practical use of dynamite in the carving of gigantic figures, in dimensions to harmonize with the colossal thought and life of our day.

I spoke of this experience to a great friend of the mountain memorial idea--the late Coleman Dupont--and, following his suggestion, I communicated with the Dupont powder people at Wilmington, requesting that one of their experts be sent to Stone Mountain to instruct me and my assistants in the use of explosives. They responded very graciously and sent a man who, I believe, was on special duty in Florida. So it was that the amazing, almost fantastic idea of carving with dynamite came into being.

A charming letter from the Belgian engineer has recently come to light, written after the visit referred to above. His name was Jean Vanophem, and he appears to have been summoned back to Belgium. He did not have time to visit Stone Mountain again.

Mr. Tucker remembers that the Dupont man was recalled after a few days at Tucker’s own request, because he insisted on using too large a charge--one or two sticks of half-pound strength--whereas Mr. Tucker had found out that a half ounce was a successful charge. Mr. Tucker, after much experimenting, trained one of his crew in the use of dynamite so that the man, Cliff Davis, became such an expert in this artistic form of blasting that he was known as “Dynamite Davis.” Cliff could place a row of charges, draw a line on the rock under them and make bets that the result of the explosion would not be more than three inches from the line.

* * * * *

It soon became apparent that the women of the Atlanta chapter of the United Daughters of the Confederacy alone could never raise funds for the tremendous undertaking, estimates for which ranged from two to three and a half million dollars.

The first voluntary contribution had been $5,000 from J. S. Cobb, a North Carolinian as was his friend W. W. Fuller, both of whom were connected with the American Tobacco Company. Forrest Adair, one of the first and most loyal supporters of the memorial, succeeded in raising a few thousand dollars for the most pressing necessities--lumber, compressor, electric motor, etc. Venable and Gutzon both advanced large sums for materials, the sculptor going even more deeply into debt. His Stamford property was heavily mortgaged. It was characteristic of him not to ask pay for services until creditors were making such insistent demands that he was obliged to take action of some kind. This led to misunderstandings. Unfriendly persons called him mercenary. He resented the charge and was called irascible. And, bitterly denying it, he proved that he was.

It was decided to invite some of the bankers and businessmen of Atlanta, as well as other prominent Southerners interested in the Confederate cause, to serve on the executive board of the Stone Mountain Confederate Memorial Association. Neither the name nor the constitution of the original organization was changed in any way, and the United Daughters of the Confederacy continued to comprise the main body of the membership, annual dues for which were fixed at five dollars. It was distinctly understood that the men were to help only in financing the design and plan created by Gutzon Borglum and adopted by the Atlanta chapter. It was not a question of a civic committee engaging a sculptor to carry out a design made by someone else.

Mrs. C. Helen Plane was made president-emeritus. W. W. Fuller was made nonresident honorary president and vice-chairman of the executive committee. Four members of the U.D.C. were made vice-presidents, and four others served on the board in different capacities.

Hollins N. Randolph of Atlanta was made president of the association. R. Rivers, familiarly known as “Petie” (not to be confused with a later governor of Georgia named Rivers), was head of the executive committee. Rogers Winter was made publicity director. These three with their lawyer, Reuben Arnold, were the most active in controlling the policy of the memorial association. David Webb became executive secretary and furnished many constructive ideas for raising the necessary cash. So did the sculptor. The remaining members of the executive committee were Sam H. Venable, Robert Harvey, Eugene Black, W. A. Sutton, Thomas W. Connally and Mrs. Sam Inman, a woman of wealth and social prominence.

In March of 1923 the real financing of the memorial began. A working organization was perfected, and Atlanta was asked to set a precedent for the United States as a whole. The city responded and tentatively pledged $100,000, payable in five years. Fulton County pledged a like amount. Individual subscriptions totaled approximately $40,000.

Dave Webb suggested the idea of memorial tablets to be placed in the U.D.C. Hall, at the base of the mountain, to carry the names of relatives who had served in the Confederate Army. Each contributor of $1,000 or more to this fund for carving the memorial was to have the privilege of designating a name for one of the tablets. A family or group contributing a thousand dollars could designate the name of one man for a tablet. Each bronze tablet was to show the name, rank, company and regiment of the soldier or officer so immortalized. This was known as the Founders’ Roll and became very popular and lucrative. In setting forth the purpose of the tablets an announcement was published with the following eloquent preamble by Rogers Winter:

As old as human nature is the yearning to memorialize the buried dead, to perpetuate the tradition of illustrious heroes, but never has mankind in all the centuries succeeded in erecting an imperishable monument. Stonehenge is a jumble of granite slabs. The Colossus of Rhodes collapsed two hundred years before Christ and lay in ruins for a thousand years. The Parthenon of Greece, whose marble figures were the most perfect sculpture ever produced, has been virtually dismantled by vandals and art collectors. The pyramids of Egypt are slowly crumbling. Those marvelous temples which adorned the Nile when Egyptian civilization was in its glory are but mounds of debris. The Roman Colosseum is a skeleton of pagan grandeur.

But now, in the Providence of God, it becomes our privilege to create here in the heart of the South, in memory of Southern heroes, the one supreme imperishable monument of human history.

The sculptor made all the designs for this hall, working on them for weeks and delivering the blueprints of them to the committee in July 1923. It was to be cut in solid rock to a depth of sixty-seven feet; in width it was to be 265 feet. It was divided into three rooms: Georgia Hall in the center, with Venable Hall on the right and U.D.C. Hall on the left. There was to be room for 2,890 memorial tablets.

The first work of carving anything at all on Stone Mountain was started on June 18, 1923. The first figure to be carved was, of course, that of Robert E. Lee. The sculptor had made a heroic-size model of the head, seven feet high, in his Stamford studio, and a plaster model of this was brought to the mountain. Much blocking out and roughing off of the surface had to be done before the actual surface of the final figure was reached. The whole area had been gone over carefully and marked out with the aid of the projection lamp.

The sculptor appointed Mr. Tucker superintendent, giving him complete charge of the work. He was assisted by Hugo Villa, an Italian sculptor from Milan, who had crossed the Atlantic years before with a commission to erect a monument in Mexico. A revolution had put an end to the project. Villa had worked his way up to New York and went to Gutzon’s studio, where he soon became a permanent fixture as sculptor’s assistant. The best in the world, Gutzon called him.

With these two men in charge and on the spot, the “Master,” as Villa called his chief, felt that he could safely go back and forth to Stamford or wherever else the business of the Southern memorial called him. He was greatly in demand to speak at U.D.C. gatherings and women’s clubs all over the United States, and the Memorial Association expected him to attend such meetings. It also expected him to be on hand to show off the work on the mountain whenever there was a convention of Elks or Rotarians or Sunday-school workers, and there was a continual procession of such events in Atlanta.

In July 1923 the sculptor wrote to Mr. Rivers, reporting a meeting he had attended with Hollins Randolph in Cleveland and their visit to the factory where some of the new machinery for the mountain work was being completed. In the same letter he mentioned that Mr. Tucker had reported to him several times that Mr. Rivers had cautioned him to go slowly with the work on account of lack of funds. Gutzon warned Mr. Rivers that no real carving could be done without the preliminary work Tucker was doing, repeating that the carving was the most important thing and the only thing that would get subscriptions. He deplored the fact that he himself had to be concerned with the money-raising, and cautioned Mr. Rivers against spending more money in the office than was being spent on the mountain, which he had learned was also a fact.

The goal set for the finishing of Lee’s head was January 19, the general’s birthday. The sculptor left Stamford for Atlanta more and more frequently as the work neared the final surface. It was his practice to do the finishing himself. He never finished a model perfectly and handed it over to someone else to copy or enlarge, as is common practice among sculptors. Especially in enlargements, he believed that better, more individual results could be obtained if he himself modeled the figures in their full size. If he had

[Illustration: WOODROW WILSON MEMORIAL AT POZNAN

Mrs. Wilson is at the center.]

[Illustration:

_Photo by Lincoln Borglum_

TORSO AND LEG OF DANCER]

already expended much of his creative interest on finishing a small model, the final figure, he felt, would lack spontaneity and vigor.

In mountain carving this practice was absolutely necessary, owing to the unpredictable character of the stone surface. Blemishes are often found in a block of quarried marble when the sculptor starts to carve into it. It requires little imagination to realize the imperfections that are bound to appear on a cliff exposed to all the elements for thousands of years. As an example, when the Jackson head was being carved a crack suddenly appeared on the bridge of the nose. In previous cases such cracks were not deep, but in this instance the blemish persisted even after the position of the head had been pushed back four times. One more move and the whole design would have had to be changed.

The crack was slight and might have been left, except for the danger of water getting into it and freezing. After fifty years or so it might have become a serious defect. Jackson’s face in the original model was looking at Lee. The sculptor decided to turn it to look in the direction toward which Jackson’s arm seemed to be pointing. Thus that crack was lost in the six-foot hole of the eye socket, and the nose occupied an area of solid stone.

Only the sculptor made the change possible. He stood over the carvers directing the work. A man trained only to copy a model would have been helpless and hopeless in a situation like this.

During the final six weeks of working on Lee’s head, when it appeared that the carving could not be finished otherwise, the men worked all day and all night, in shifts of eight hours each. Gutzon worked with them and was there virtually all the time. Frequently he worked the whole night through.

It was cold on the mountain in the winter, and a canvas was stretched over the work to break the wind. Huge pots of burning coals were placed on the platform and slung along the surface of the rock. The stoneworkers, for the first time in the lives of many of them, were dressed in heavy clothes. They wore what they could keep tied to them and swathed their feet in bulky wrappings of burlap and blankets. But the work was still cold and miserable, and only the calm presence of Borglum gave them any indication that it was ever going to be finished.

Borglum, however, was tired but satisfied. He had never carved a mountain before and in all truth he must have had his moments of misgiving. But Lee’s face, as it began to emerge human and understandable from the stone in those last weeks, must have answered all his queries. Nobody would ever tell him again that he didn’t know how to carve mountains. Here was the proof. He knew.