IV

Early Days in Paris and Venice—Etchings, Lithographs, and Water-Colors—“Propositions” and “Ten o’clock."

Early Days in Paris and Venice—Etchings, Lithographs, and Water-Colors—“Propositions” and “Ten o’clock."

Afterleaving the coast survey, Whistler went to England, and thence to Paris in 1855, and entered the studio of Charles Gabriel Gleyre, where he remained two years.

Beyond the fact that Whistler was for a time in his studio, Gleyre has not much claim on fame. There could not have been anything in common between the master and his pupil, for he was academic to the last degree. “Not even by a tour in the East did he allow himself to be led away from the classic manner; and as the head of a great leading studio he recognized it as the task of his life to hand the traditions of the school of Ingres,” whom Whistler used to call a “Bourgeois Greek,” “on to the present.” He “was a man of sound culture, who during a sojourn in Italy, which lasted five years, had examined Etruscan vases and Greek statues with unintermittent zeal, studied the Italian classics, and copied all Raphael. Having come back to Paris, he never drew a line without having first assured himself how Raphael would have proceeded.”

However, there must have been a certain combative streak in his character which did appeal to Whistler, for in 1849 he quarreled with the Salon over the success of Courbet, and thereafter sent his pictures to Swiss exhibitions.

Whistler’s first commission grew out of an acquaintance made at West Point. At one of the commencement festivities he met a charming young girl, a Miss Sally Williams, and her father, Captain Williams.

While a student in Paris, the pretty daughter and the bluff old captain called on him, and the captain said:

“Mr. Whistler, we are over here to see Paris, and I want you to show us the pictures.”

Nothing loath, Whistler took them to the Louvre, and after they had walked a mile or two the captain stopped before some pictures that pleased him and asked:

“Do you suppose you could copy these pictures?”

“Possibly.”

“Then, I wish you would copy this, and that, and that,” pointing out three paintings. “When they are finished, deliver them to my agent, and he will pay you your price.”

Whistler made the copies, and received the first money he ever earned with his brush.

One of these canvases, a copy of an Ingres, turned up in New York a year or two ago. It bore Whistler’s signature, but was so atrocious—imagine a combination of Ingres and Whistler—that eventhe dealer doubted its authenticity; but when a photograph was shown Whistler, he recognized the picture and told the story.

Of these early days many stories are told, but they are all more or less apocryphal. It is as natural for stories to cluster about Whistler as for barnacles to cling to a ship. He told so many good ones that, as with Lincoln, innumerable good, bad, and indifferent which he did not tell are attributed to him, and thousands are told about him which have slight foundations in fact.

It is well nigh impossible to sift the true from the false,—a thing Whistler himself did not attempt,—though it is possible to sift the wheat from the chaff, the inane, insipid, and pointless from the bright and crisp.

Any man can vouch for a story, but who can vouch for a good story? The story-teller? Heaven forbid! By all the rules of evidence the testimony of so interested a witness is inadmissible. The better the story, the more doubtful its authenticity,—its formal, its literal authenticity. The better the teller, the more daring his liberties with prosaic details. A good story-teller is a lapidary who receives his material in the rough and polishes it into a jewel by removing three-fourths of its substance; or, under pressure of necessity, he deftly manufactures paste. To be without stories is the story-teller’s crime; a wit without witticisms is no wit at all, hence the strain upon veracity.

Happily, the world conspires to help both wit and story-teller by supplying during their lives, and in great abundance after their deaths, stories and witticisms without end. Give a man the reputation of being a humorist, and all he has to do is to sit discreetly silent and watch his reputation grow. If he really deserves his reputation, he may add to his fame by fresh activities; but if he is something of a sham, as most wits are, he would better leave his sayings to the imaginations of others.

Whistler’s sense of humor was so keen, his wit so sharp, his facility in epigram and clever sayings so extraordinary, that what are genuinely his are better than anything others have said about him; therefore, it is a pity some one has not jotted down first hand some of the good things that constantly fell from his lips. Perhaps some one has, and his life and sayings will yet appear with all the marks of authority and authenticity.

But his sharp and exceedingly terse sayings often suffer greatly in the telling, frequently to the loss of all point and character. The following instance is in point:

A group of society women were once discussing the graces and accomplishments of Frederic Leighton.

“So handsome.”

“Plays divinely.”

“Perfectly charming.”

“Sings.”

“And is so great a sculptor.”

Whereupon Whistler, who was of the party, timidly advanced the query:

“Paints a little, too, does he not?”

That is one version of an old and well-worn Whistler anecdote, and other versions, which are at all characteristic, do not vary in more than two or three words.

See what the story becomes in the mouth of the incompetent.[7]

“One evening a dozen of us were sitting in Broughton’s reception-room, waiting for our carriages to be announced, and Whistler was sitting by himself on a lounge on the other side of the room. We were discussing the versatile talents of Frederic Leighton, one of the leading painters of England, and afterwards president of the Royal Academy. One spoke of his astonishing linguistic accomplishments: he could express himself in every European tongue and in several Oriental ones. Another mentioned his distinguished merit as an architect: he was building an addition to his studio which was like a vision of Aladdin or Haroun Al Rashid. Another called attention to his ability in sculpture: a group of an athlete and a serpent was then exhibiting in the Academy, which challenged the works of antique art. Another mentioned his talent as an orator: no man in London could make a better after-dinner speech. Another praised his personal beauty and grace and his athletic prowess. At length there fell a silence, because all of us had contributed his or her mite of eulogy,—all of us, that is, with the exception of Whistler, reclining on his elbow at the other side of the room.“By a common impulse we all glanced over at him: whatwould he say? He partly raised himself from his lolling attitude and reached for his crush hat on the sofa. ‘Yes,’ he added, slowly and judicially, as if benevolently confirming all the praise we had poured forth; and then, as if by an after-thought, calling our attention to a singular fact not generally known, ‘Yes, and he can paint, too!’”

“One evening a dozen of us were sitting in Broughton’s reception-room, waiting for our carriages to be announced, and Whistler was sitting by himself on a lounge on the other side of the room. We were discussing the versatile talents of Frederic Leighton, one of the leading painters of England, and afterwards president of the Royal Academy. One spoke of his astonishing linguistic accomplishments: he could express himself in every European tongue and in several Oriental ones. Another mentioned his distinguished merit as an architect: he was building an addition to his studio which was like a vision of Aladdin or Haroun Al Rashid. Another called attention to his ability in sculpture: a group of an athlete and a serpent was then exhibiting in the Academy, which challenged the works of antique art. Another mentioned his talent as an orator: no man in London could make a better after-dinner speech. Another praised his personal beauty and grace and his athletic prowess. At length there fell a silence, because all of us had contributed his or her mite of eulogy,—all of us, that is, with the exception of Whistler, reclining on his elbow at the other side of the room.

“By a common impulse we all glanced over at him: whatwould he say? He partly raised himself from his lolling attitude and reached for his crush hat on the sofa. ‘Yes,’ he added, slowly and judicially, as if benevolently confirming all the praise we had poured forth; and then, as if by an after-thought, calling our attention to a singular fact not generally known, ‘Yes, and he can paint, too!’”

After all the verbosity, padding, and penny-a-lining, the point is missed by attributing to Whistler the positive averment that Leighton could paint.

Small wonder that the writer in the next paragraph confesses:

“My own crude first attempts to understand Whistler’s paintings were dismal failures; and of course I imagined that the failure was in the painting, and not in myself. I could see no beauty in them: the drawing was indeterminate; the colors were not pretty; the pictures all seemed unfinished.”

“My own crude first attempts to understand Whistler’s paintings were dismal failures; and of course I imagined that the failure was in the painting, and not in myself. I could see no beauty in them: the drawing was indeterminate; the colors were not pretty; the pictures all seemed unfinished.”

It is less difficult than one would suppose to recall things said by Whistler, for he would repeat a good thing and was always polishing.

For instance, in his controversy with the critics he originally said that “Ruskin’s high-sounding, empty things ... flow of language that would, could he hear it, give Titian the same shock of surprise that was Balaam’s when the first great critic proffered his opinion.”

A very literal correspondent wrote to the papers that the “ass was right,” and quoted the Bible in proof.

Nothing daunted, Whistler acknowledged the hit, saying, “But, I fancy, you will admit that this is theonly ass on record who ever did see the Angel of the Lord, and that we are past the age of miracles.”

Years after, in referring to the matter, he improved his reply to, “But I fancy you will admit that this is the only ass on record that ever was right, and the age of miracles is past.”

His love of epigram was so great that nothing which was terse or pointed escaped his ears or fled his memory.

One day, while lunching with a friend who knew something about the habits and eccentricities of good wine, Whistler was telling about the peculiarities of Henry James, how James would drag a slender incident through several pages until it was exhausted, whereupon his friend casually remarked:

“The best of wine is spoiled by too small a spiggot.”

Immediately alert, Whistler said:

“What’s that? what’s that you said? Did you get that out of Shakespeare?”

“Not at all; it is simply a physical fact that if you let good wine dribble through a small spiggot you lose its fragrance and character.”

“God bless me, but I believe you are right; and it’s a good saying,—it’s James to a—drop.”

No doubt there are many still living who knew Whistler in those early Paris days, but if so, few have so far made known their reminiscences. Onefellow-student describes one of the places they used to dine inexpensively as follows:[8]

“In Paris, in the fifties, there existed in the Rue de la Michandiere what appeared to be an ordinary Paris creamery. In the front shop were sold milk, butter, and eggs. Over the door was the usual painted tin coffee-pot, indicating thatcaffé au lait, and eggs, butter, and rolls could be obtained in the back room.“The place was kept by Madame Busque, who had been a governess in a private family in the south of France, and having saved a little money, had come to Paris and opened a creamery. The very day she opened her shop, Mr. Chase, Paris correspondent of the New YorkTimes, passing by, was attracted by the clean look of the place, and stepped in for his early breakfast of coffee and rolls. The little back room contained two round tables, and beyond was the kitchen with the usual charcoal broiler and little furnaces. Chase was so pleased that he came again, and getting acquainted with Madame, who was well educated and very ladylike and anxious to please, arranged for a dinner at 6.30 for a party of four. Everything was good and so well served that soon she had a regular custom of American residents,—literary men, artists, and students of all kinds, art, scientific, literary, and medical,—and soon the place became famous. American dishes were introduced,—mince and pumpkin pies and buckwheat cakes. It was not easy to reproduce these things in Paris. The pumpkin pie was a trouble. Madame was told how to make it by a man who only knew how it looked and tasted, and who neglected to mention the crust; and as Madame had no knowledge of pies in general, she served the first pumpkin pie as a soup in a tureen. Just at that time came in a bright young woman, introduced by one of thehabitués, who offered to come next forenoon and show Madame Busque how to make a genuine Yankee pumpkin pie, which she did; and the pies produced in that little creamery were famous and were sent out to Americans all over Paris. Fine carriages, including that of the American minister, to the amazement of the neighborhood, would call for these pies to take home.“Among thehabituéswas young Whistler, then an art student. He was bright, original, and amusing, but gave at that time no promise of any particular ability as an artist. His drawing was careless. I remember one of his pictures,—a woman seated at the piano, a little child playing on the floor. The piano was so out of drawing that it looked as if it were falling over. As students are always fond of guying each other, one said to Whistler, ‘Hurry and put a fifth leg under that piano or it will fall and smash the baby.’“One day, in the Luxembourg, Whistler had his easel in a crowd with others. They were all at work making copies from a famous picture that had just been added to the gallery. Whistler would paint a bit, and then rush back to contemplate what he had done. In one of these mad backward rushes he struck a step-ladder on the top of which was a painter. Over went step-ladder, painter, and all, and the painter, trying to save himself, seized the top of his own canvas and another, pulling them over, easels and all. One knocked down another, and there was a great crash. Whistler was in the midst, and his loud voice was heard, as he sat on the floor, his head protruding through a big canvas that had fallen on him, using expressions of a vigorous type. He was seized by the guardian, because, as Whistler was making the most noise, he assumed that the whole fuss was due to him. This was quite correct; but all the painters coming to his rescue, telling the guardian that it was all an accident, he let Whistler off.“He organized a company of French negro minstrels, writing the songs and stories, and gave a performance whichwas very amusing. Among thehabituésat Madame Busque’s was a student from the School of Mines, Vinton, afterwards Professor of Mining at Columbia College, and during the war a brigadier-general. He himself told me the following story in 1866. One night in South Carolina an officer wandered into his camp. He sent word to the general by the sergeant of the guard that he was an officer who had lost his way, that he asked permission to pass the rest of the night in his camp, adding that he had known General Vinton when a student in Paris. General Vinton sent for the officer, whom he failed to recognize. After some thought he asked the question, ‘Who was the funniest man we knew in Paris?’ ‘Whistler,’ instantly answered the officer. ‘All right,’ says Vinton; ‘take that empty cot; you are no spy.’”

“In Paris, in the fifties, there existed in the Rue de la Michandiere what appeared to be an ordinary Paris creamery. In the front shop were sold milk, butter, and eggs. Over the door was the usual painted tin coffee-pot, indicating thatcaffé au lait, and eggs, butter, and rolls could be obtained in the back room.

“The place was kept by Madame Busque, who had been a governess in a private family in the south of France, and having saved a little money, had come to Paris and opened a creamery. The very day she opened her shop, Mr. Chase, Paris correspondent of the New YorkTimes, passing by, was attracted by the clean look of the place, and stepped in for his early breakfast of coffee and rolls. The little back room contained two round tables, and beyond was the kitchen with the usual charcoal broiler and little furnaces. Chase was so pleased that he came again, and getting acquainted with Madame, who was well educated and very ladylike and anxious to please, arranged for a dinner at 6.30 for a party of four. Everything was good and so well served that soon she had a regular custom of American residents,—literary men, artists, and students of all kinds, art, scientific, literary, and medical,—and soon the place became famous. American dishes were introduced,—mince and pumpkin pies and buckwheat cakes. It was not easy to reproduce these things in Paris. The pumpkin pie was a trouble. Madame was told how to make it by a man who only knew how it looked and tasted, and who neglected to mention the crust; and as Madame had no knowledge of pies in general, she served the first pumpkin pie as a soup in a tureen. Just at that time came in a bright young woman, introduced by one of thehabitués, who offered to come next forenoon and show Madame Busque how to make a genuine Yankee pumpkin pie, which she did; and the pies produced in that little creamery were famous and were sent out to Americans all over Paris. Fine carriages, including that of the American minister, to the amazement of the neighborhood, would call for these pies to take home.

“Among thehabituéswas young Whistler, then an art student. He was bright, original, and amusing, but gave at that time no promise of any particular ability as an artist. His drawing was careless. I remember one of his pictures,—a woman seated at the piano, a little child playing on the floor. The piano was so out of drawing that it looked as if it were falling over. As students are always fond of guying each other, one said to Whistler, ‘Hurry and put a fifth leg under that piano or it will fall and smash the baby.’

“One day, in the Luxembourg, Whistler had his easel in a crowd with others. They were all at work making copies from a famous picture that had just been added to the gallery. Whistler would paint a bit, and then rush back to contemplate what he had done. In one of these mad backward rushes he struck a step-ladder on the top of which was a painter. Over went step-ladder, painter, and all, and the painter, trying to save himself, seized the top of his own canvas and another, pulling them over, easels and all. One knocked down another, and there was a great crash. Whistler was in the midst, and his loud voice was heard, as he sat on the floor, his head protruding through a big canvas that had fallen on him, using expressions of a vigorous type. He was seized by the guardian, because, as Whistler was making the most noise, he assumed that the whole fuss was due to him. This was quite correct; but all the painters coming to his rescue, telling the guardian that it was all an accident, he let Whistler off.

“He organized a company of French negro minstrels, writing the songs and stories, and gave a performance whichwas very amusing. Among thehabituésat Madame Busque’s was a student from the School of Mines, Vinton, afterwards Professor of Mining at Columbia College, and during the war a brigadier-general. He himself told me the following story in 1866. One night in South Carolina an officer wandered into his camp. He sent word to the general by the sergeant of the guard that he was an officer who had lost his way, that he asked permission to pass the rest of the night in his camp, adding that he had known General Vinton when a student in Paris. General Vinton sent for the officer, whom he failed to recognize. After some thought he asked the question, ‘Who was the funniest man we knew in Paris?’ ‘Whistler,’ instantly answered the officer. ‘All right,’ says Vinton; ‘take that empty cot; you are no spy.’”

Among the students he knew in those days were Degas, Ribot, and Fantin-Latour, whose work every one knows.

Manet was working up to his best; in 1861 he painted the “Child with a Sword,” now in the Metropolitan Museum in New York, and altogether the atmosphere was charged with the strong sulphur of revolution.

In England the pre-Raphaelites—old and new—were turning the hands of time backward, in France the Impressionists were pressing them forward, in both countries the ferment of change was working.

When only twenty-four years of age, in 1858, Whistler’s first etchings appeared, published by Delâtre, with a dedication to Seymour Haden, his brother-in-law. In those days the relations between the two men were very cordial; unhappily, not so later, as may be seen in “Gentle Art.”

One of Haden’s best plates, “Battersea Beach,” bears in its first state this inscription, “Old Chelsea, Seymour Haden, 1863, out of Whistler’s window,” and another plate of the same year is entitled, “Whistler’s House, old Chelsea.”[9]

Prior to the publication of the “French Set,” Whistler had etched three plates, which were catalogued as[10]

“Early Portrait of Whistler. A young man bare-headed. An impression on which Whistler wrote ‘Early Portrait of Self’ is in the Avery collection in the Lenox Library, New York.

“Annie Haden. On the only impression known, now in Avery collection, Lenox Library, Whistler wrote, ‘Very early; most probably unique.’

“The Dutchman Holding His Glass. This is signed ‘J. W.,’ and but two or three impressions are in existence.”

There must have been many other early attempts before the “French Set” was formally undertaken, and possibly other plates and prints will come to light in the rigorous search that is sure to be made for everything that he ever did. A plate made while in the service of the coast survey is in existence,—a headland embellished with vagrant heads and figures. Some of the prints are to be seen in collections.

The “French Set” consisted of twelve plates and an etched title, making thirteen plates in all.

But few copies of the set were printed, and the original price was two guineas per copy.

It is, of course, quite impracticable to give a complete list of Whistler’s etchings, for three hundred and seventy-two have been duly listed and described, and it is altogether likely that this number will be increased to over four hundred.

Whistler himself was very careless about keeping either a set of proofs or anything like a memorandum of what he had done. In fact, he did not know what or how many etchings and lithographs he had made or how many pictures he had painted.

Everything he did was so entirely the pleasure of the moment, and each new work, whether large or small, so completely absorbed him, that he quite forgot the labor of yesterday.

All his life long he would begin things and throw them aside, and he would finish things and throw them aside also. To him the only hour of vital import was the present. To the very last his work shows the enthusiasm, the even more than youthful impulsiveness, with which he would begin each new undertaking.

He could never work at an etching, a lithograph, or a painting one moment after it became drudgery; he could never finish a thing simply because he had begun it, or because some one thought it ought to be finished; hence endless misunderstandings with sitters and patrons, who could not understand whywhat they had bargained for should not be finished and delivered.

No matter how hard at work on any subject, he was instantly diverted by another which appealed to him more; and he would leave a sitter who was to pay him a thousand guineas to sketch an Italian urchin.

Unmethodical to the last degree in all his affairs, always absorbed in what he had in hand, it is not surprising that he kept little track of the things he had done.

The first catalogue of his etchings was published in London in 1874. It contained about eighty etchings. In 1886 Mr. Frederick Wedmore catalogued two hundred and fourteen, and in 1899 increased the number to two hundred and sixty-eight.

In 1902 a supplement[11]to Wedmore’s catalogue brought the number of known prints up to three hundred and seventy-two.

The “Thames Set,” sixteen in number, did not appear publicly as a “set” until 1871, though made many years before; and the very rare early impressions made by Whistler himself are considered far superior to the prints of 1871 and after.

In 1880 the Fine Arts Society issued the “First Venice Set” of a dozen plates, and in 1886 Messrs. Dowdeswell issued a set of twenty-six, known as the “Twenty-six Etchings.”

One who knew him in his early Venice days gives the following reminiscences:[12]

“We were often invited to dine with Whistler, whose apartment was on the next flight above. He came to our rooms one day, and said, ‘A——, I would like you and B—— to dine with me to-day. You have such a supply of newspapers, please bring several with you, as I have neither papers nor table-cloth, and they will answer the purpose quite well.’ I did as he requested, and surprised and amused was our host when I called his attention to a column and a half of ‘Whistler stories’ in one of the Boston papers, which was serving as our table-cloth.“One day I called on Whistler when he was engaged in decorating the interior of a house. He lay on his back on the floor, and the handle of the brush was a fish-pole which reached to the ceiling.“Once a year, in the summer time, it is the custom of Venetians to go to the Lido, a surf-bathing resort, to see the sun rise. They leave in the evening, in gondolas, accompanied with the inevitable mandolin and guitar, and sometimes with an upright piano. The excursionists make a night of it, and Whistler was one of the number. Next day he wished to make a study from our window, the approach to the Grand Canal. Leaving him for a time by himself, upon my return there was a striking study of the view on the easel, and Whistler before the easel asleep. The brushes had fallen from his grasp, and, well charged with fresh paint, were resting in his lap. As he wore white duck trousers, the effect can well be imagined.“I have often heard him use the word ‘pretty,’ when looking at a study that had no particular redeeming feature to recommend it. Not wishing to wound the feelings of the artist, he would remark, with that peculiar drawl of his, ‘That is pretty, yes, very pretty.’“One day he called upon two students. On the wall was the study of a child, most beautifully done by one of them. Whistler stood before it for a long time in deep admiration, and then, turning to the art student, said, ‘That is away beyond yourself.’ Truly it was, for I called again a few days afterwards, and the body attached to the beautiful head was not worthy the brush of a five-years-old child. And I wondered how such incongruous things could be.“Whistler was very loyal to his ‘white lock;’ said it was an inheritance in the family for several generations. He wore a slouch hat; and I have watched him on several occasions, before the mirror, where he remained for a long time, arranging it on his curly hair for the best effect before starting for the Florian café.“And this reminds me that he was in need sometimes of the wherewithal to procure his coffee. So he called on me for aid. It was amusing to me, for I had scarcely soldi to pay for my own, and so I often went without. However, I could well afford to pay for Whistler’s coffee, inasmuch as he was a fine linguist, and I called on him to assist me in the battle I had with the padrona on two occasions. The mercenary woman was completely nonplussed, for Whistler waxed eloquent in the Italian tongue. There was no mistake, he was in dead earnest, for his gesticulations and excited tones of voice assured it, and my case was won.“Tintoretto was his ideal artist among the old masters, and he often spoke most highly of his productions, especially ‘The Crucifixion.’“In the line of pastels he was original, doing them on ordinary wrapping-paper. They were simply beautiful. I saw them in a London gallery a few months later, and they were an inspiration; so much so that he has had since many imitators but no equals.“On one occasion I had a demonstration. We set out together on a sketching tour of the town. We came suddenly upon a subject that was very rich in tone—a cooper-shop.I lost no time getting to work. I threw my sketching-block flat upon the pavement, and emptied the contents of my box of water-colors upon it to get the tone quickly. The paper being well saturated with water, made it an easy matter to bring forth light from out the deep tone with strips of blotting-paper. I was not aware of doing anything unusual until I heard a ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ which has been called Whistler’s Satanic laugh.“‘What amuses you, Mr. Whistler? Why do you laugh? Are you making fun of my sketch?’“‘Oh, no,’ said he, with assurance. ‘I am admiring the ingenious way in which you work.’“This to me was high praise, for it came from one who rarely indulged in praise.”

“We were often invited to dine with Whistler, whose apartment was on the next flight above. He came to our rooms one day, and said, ‘A——, I would like you and B—— to dine with me to-day. You have such a supply of newspapers, please bring several with you, as I have neither papers nor table-cloth, and they will answer the purpose quite well.’ I did as he requested, and surprised and amused was our host when I called his attention to a column and a half of ‘Whistler stories’ in one of the Boston papers, which was serving as our table-cloth.

“One day I called on Whistler when he was engaged in decorating the interior of a house. He lay on his back on the floor, and the handle of the brush was a fish-pole which reached to the ceiling.

“Once a year, in the summer time, it is the custom of Venetians to go to the Lido, a surf-bathing resort, to see the sun rise. They leave in the evening, in gondolas, accompanied with the inevitable mandolin and guitar, and sometimes with an upright piano. The excursionists make a night of it, and Whistler was one of the number. Next day he wished to make a study from our window, the approach to the Grand Canal. Leaving him for a time by himself, upon my return there was a striking study of the view on the easel, and Whistler before the easel asleep. The brushes had fallen from his grasp, and, well charged with fresh paint, were resting in his lap. As he wore white duck trousers, the effect can well be imagined.

“I have often heard him use the word ‘pretty,’ when looking at a study that had no particular redeeming feature to recommend it. Not wishing to wound the feelings of the artist, he would remark, with that peculiar drawl of his, ‘That is pretty, yes, very pretty.’

“One day he called upon two students. On the wall was the study of a child, most beautifully done by one of them. Whistler stood before it for a long time in deep admiration, and then, turning to the art student, said, ‘That is away beyond yourself.’ Truly it was, for I called again a few days afterwards, and the body attached to the beautiful head was not worthy the brush of a five-years-old child. And I wondered how such incongruous things could be.

“Whistler was very loyal to his ‘white lock;’ said it was an inheritance in the family for several generations. He wore a slouch hat; and I have watched him on several occasions, before the mirror, where he remained for a long time, arranging it on his curly hair for the best effect before starting for the Florian café.

“And this reminds me that he was in need sometimes of the wherewithal to procure his coffee. So he called on me for aid. It was amusing to me, for I had scarcely soldi to pay for my own, and so I often went without. However, I could well afford to pay for Whistler’s coffee, inasmuch as he was a fine linguist, and I called on him to assist me in the battle I had with the padrona on two occasions. The mercenary woman was completely nonplussed, for Whistler waxed eloquent in the Italian tongue. There was no mistake, he was in dead earnest, for his gesticulations and excited tones of voice assured it, and my case was won.

“Tintoretto was his ideal artist among the old masters, and he often spoke most highly of his productions, especially ‘The Crucifixion.’

“In the line of pastels he was original, doing them on ordinary wrapping-paper. They were simply beautiful. I saw them in a London gallery a few months later, and they were an inspiration; so much so that he has had since many imitators but no equals.

“On one occasion I had a demonstration. We set out together on a sketching tour of the town. We came suddenly upon a subject that was very rich in tone—a cooper-shop.I lost no time getting to work. I threw my sketching-block flat upon the pavement, and emptied the contents of my box of water-colors upon it to get the tone quickly. The paper being well saturated with water, made it an easy matter to bring forth light from out the deep tone with strips of blotting-paper. I was not aware of doing anything unusual until I heard a ‘Ha, ha, ha!’ which has been called Whistler’s Satanic laugh.

“‘What amuses you, Mr. Whistler? Why do you laugh? Are you making fun of my sketch?’

“‘Oh, no,’ said he, with assurance. ‘I am admiring the ingenious way in which you work.’

“This to me was high praise, for it came from one who rarely indulged in praise.”

Another, speaking of the same period, says:[13]

“I first knew Mr. James McNeill Whistler many years ago in Venice, when he was quite unknown to fame. He had lodging at the top of an old palace in the uttermost parts of the town, and many days he would breakfast, lunch, and dine off nothing more nutritious than a plateful of polenta or macaroni. He was just as witty, and gave himself just the same outrageous but inoffensive airs as afterwards in the days of his prosperity. He used to go about and do marvellous etchings for which he could find no market, or else only starvation prices. When he was absolutely obliged to, he would sell them for what he could get; but he never lost the fullest confidence in his own powers; and, whenever he could, he preferred to keep them in the expectation—nay, certainty—of being able to sell them some day at a high figure.“He used to go roaming about Venice in search of subjects for his etchings, and those who know all about it say that the charm of his work lies quite as much in the choice of subjects as in their execution. He used to make a great deal of mystery about his etching expeditions, and was rarely prevailed upon to let any one accompany him. If he did, it was always under the strictest pledge of secrecy. What was the use, he would ask, of his ferreting out some wonderful old bridge or archway, and thinking of making it immortal, if some second-rate painter-man were to come after him and make it commonplace with his caricatures? On the other hand, if some friend of his discovered an ideal spot, and asked what he thought of it, he would not scruple for an instant to say, ‘Come, now, this is all nonsense, your trying to do this. It is much too good a subject to be wasted on you. You’d better let me see what I can do with it.’ And he would be so charming about it, and take his own superiority so completely for granted, that no one ever dreamed of refusing him.”

“I first knew Mr. James McNeill Whistler many years ago in Venice, when he was quite unknown to fame. He had lodging at the top of an old palace in the uttermost parts of the town, and many days he would breakfast, lunch, and dine off nothing more nutritious than a plateful of polenta or macaroni. He was just as witty, and gave himself just the same outrageous but inoffensive airs as afterwards in the days of his prosperity. He used to go about and do marvellous etchings for which he could find no market, or else only starvation prices. When he was absolutely obliged to, he would sell them for what he could get; but he never lost the fullest confidence in his own powers; and, whenever he could, he preferred to keep them in the expectation—nay, certainty—of being able to sell them some day at a high figure.

“He used to go roaming about Venice in search of subjects for his etchings, and those who know all about it say that the charm of his work lies quite as much in the choice of subjects as in their execution. He used to make a great deal of mystery about his etching expeditions, and was rarely prevailed upon to let any one accompany him. If he did, it was always under the strictest pledge of secrecy. What was the use, he would ask, of his ferreting out some wonderful old bridge or archway, and thinking of making it immortal, if some second-rate painter-man were to come after him and make it commonplace with his caricatures? On the other hand, if some friend of his discovered an ideal spot, and asked what he thought of it, he would not scruple for an instant to say, ‘Come, now, this is all nonsense, your trying to do this. It is much too good a subject to be wasted on you. You’d better let me see what I can do with it.’ And he would be so charming about it, and take his own superiority so completely for granted, that no one ever dreamed of refusing him.”

The story is told that a woman, some elderly countess, moved into an apartment immediately below him. By her noise, fussiness, and goings to and fro she annoyed him very much, and Whistler wished her out.

The weather was hot, and one day the countess put a jar of goldfish on the balcony immediately beneath his window. During her absence Whistler tied a bent pin to a thread and caught the fish, broiled them to a turn, and dropped them back. Soon the countess returned, and on finding her goldfish dead, there was a great commotion, and the next day she packed up and left, saying that Venice was altogether too hot,—the sun had cooked her goldfish in their jar.

Of Whistler’s etchings Seymour Haden once said that if he had to part with his Rembrandts or his Whistlers he would let the former go.

This collection of Haden’s came to this country a few years ago.

An enthusiastic collector says:

“I should say of Mr. Whistler that he was an artistic genius, whose etched work has not been surpassed by any one, and equalled only by Rembrandt. Comparing the etching of the two, it should be said of Rembrandt that he chose greater subjects,—as, for instance, ‘Christ Healing the Sick’ and ‘The Crucifixion;’ in landscape ‘The Three Trees;’ and in portraiture ‘Jan Lutma,’ ‘Ephraim Bonus,’ and ‘The Burgomaster Six.’ It certainly cannot be said of Whistler that he ever etched any plates such as the two first mentioned. Though Rembrandt’s etchings number, say, two hundred and seventy plates, when a buyer has bought fifty, he has, no matter how much money he may possess, all the Rembrandts he wants. In other words, two hundred and twenty plates are of little value.“Whistler has catalogued three hundred and seventy-two plates; but it would not do to think of stopping the buying of his prints with fifty, or twice that number, or any other figures, indeed, short of them all. The difference between Rembrandt and Whistler might be expressed in this way: Rembrandt etched many things whose technique was not the best, whose subjects were abominable, and whose work generally was far from pleasing. Whistler, on the contrary, has never etched a plate that would not be a delight to any connoisseur.“I have fifty-five Rembrandts, and, with the exception of half a dozen more, I have all that I want, or all that I would buy, no matter how much money I had. Of Whistlers I have fifty-one, and I carry constantly in my pocket a list of as many more that I would be glad to buy if I had thechance. I can add that if I succeed in getting the others I shall then want as many more.“While Whistler has not equalled Rembrandt in some of the great things, yet his average is very much higher. The latter etched scores of plates that do his memory no honor; the former, on the contrary, has never etched one that will not be remembered with pleasure. To etch a fine portrait is the surest proof of the master; the human face is the grandest subject that any artist ever had. I have always thought that Rembrandt’s ‘Jan Lutma’ was the grand old man of all etched portraiture, though it is hard to see in what possible respect it surpasses ‘The Engraver,’ ‘Becquet,’ ‘Drouet,’ and other portraits by Whistler.“Rembrandt’s ‘Three Trees,’ in landscape, is a greater plate than Whistler’s ‘Zaandam,’ though the latter is well-nigh perfection. I know no Rembrandt interior that approaches Whistler’s ‘Kitchen,’ and I know no exteriors, unless possibly a few by Meryon, that approach his ‘Palaces,’ ‘The Doorway,’ ‘Two Doorways,’ the ‘Embroidered Curtain,’ and a score or two of others that are well known to all lovers of black and white.“This story was started on Whistler ten or twelve years ago, and has been on its travels ever since: Some one asked him which of his etchings he thought the best. His answer was, ‘All of them.’ And he told the truth. Of plates that he thought much of, when I saw him thirteen years ago, the little ‘Marie Loches,’ which is another name for the Mayor’s residence, was hung over his desk, and I distinctly remember that the fine ‘Pierrot,’ in the Amsterdam set, was also a prime favorite of his. Later I have heard it said that the portrait of ‘Annie’ he regarded as his finest figure piece.”

“I should say of Mr. Whistler that he was an artistic genius, whose etched work has not been surpassed by any one, and equalled only by Rembrandt. Comparing the etching of the two, it should be said of Rembrandt that he chose greater subjects,—as, for instance, ‘Christ Healing the Sick’ and ‘The Crucifixion;’ in landscape ‘The Three Trees;’ and in portraiture ‘Jan Lutma,’ ‘Ephraim Bonus,’ and ‘The Burgomaster Six.’ It certainly cannot be said of Whistler that he ever etched any plates such as the two first mentioned. Though Rembrandt’s etchings number, say, two hundred and seventy plates, when a buyer has bought fifty, he has, no matter how much money he may possess, all the Rembrandts he wants. In other words, two hundred and twenty plates are of little value.

“Whistler has catalogued three hundred and seventy-two plates; but it would not do to think of stopping the buying of his prints with fifty, or twice that number, or any other figures, indeed, short of them all. The difference between Rembrandt and Whistler might be expressed in this way: Rembrandt etched many things whose technique was not the best, whose subjects were abominable, and whose work generally was far from pleasing. Whistler, on the contrary, has never etched a plate that would not be a delight to any connoisseur.

“I have fifty-five Rembrandts, and, with the exception of half a dozen more, I have all that I want, or all that I would buy, no matter how much money I had. Of Whistlers I have fifty-one, and I carry constantly in my pocket a list of as many more that I would be glad to buy if I had thechance. I can add that if I succeed in getting the others I shall then want as many more.

“While Whistler has not equalled Rembrandt in some of the great things, yet his average is very much higher. The latter etched scores of plates that do his memory no honor; the former, on the contrary, has never etched one that will not be remembered with pleasure. To etch a fine portrait is the surest proof of the master; the human face is the grandest subject that any artist ever had. I have always thought that Rembrandt’s ‘Jan Lutma’ was the grand old man of all etched portraiture, though it is hard to see in what possible respect it surpasses ‘The Engraver,’ ‘Becquet,’ ‘Drouet,’ and other portraits by Whistler.

“Rembrandt’s ‘Three Trees,’ in landscape, is a greater plate than Whistler’s ‘Zaandam,’ though the latter is well-nigh perfection. I know no Rembrandt interior that approaches Whistler’s ‘Kitchen,’ and I know no exteriors, unless possibly a few by Meryon, that approach his ‘Palaces,’ ‘The Doorway,’ ‘Two Doorways,’ the ‘Embroidered Curtain,’ and a score or two of others that are well known to all lovers of black and white.

“This story was started on Whistler ten or twelve years ago, and has been on its travels ever since: Some one asked him which of his etchings he thought the best. His answer was, ‘All of them.’ And he told the truth. Of plates that he thought much of, when I saw him thirteen years ago, the little ‘Marie Loches,’ which is another name for the Mayor’s residence, was hung over his desk, and I distinctly remember that the fine ‘Pierrot,’ in the Amsterdam set, was also a prime favorite of his. Later I have heard it said that the portrait of ‘Annie’ he regarded as his finest figure piece.”

In February, 1883, he exhibited in London, in the rooms of the Fine Arts Society, fifty-one etchings and dry-points.

It was, according to the placards,—and in reality,—an “Arrangement in Yellow and White,” for the room was white, with yellow mouldings; the frames of the prints white, the chairs white, the ottomans yellow; the draperies were yellow, with white butterflies; there were yellow flowers in yellow Japanese vases on the mantels; and even the attendants were clothed in white and yellow. As a French artist remarked, “It was a dream of yellow.”

This, however, is how it struck some of the angry critics, who were impaled in the catalogue:

“While Mr. Whistler’s staring study in yellow and white was open to the public we did not notice it,—for notice would have been advertisement, and we did not choose to advertise him.“Of the arrangement in yellow and white, we note that it was simply an insult to the visitors,—almost intolerable to any one possessing an eye for color, which Mr. Whistler, fortunately for him, does not,—and absolutely sickening (in the strictest sense of the word) to those at all sensitive in such matters. ‘I feel sick and giddy in this hateful room,’ remarked a lady to us after she had been there but a few minutes. Even the common cottage chairs, painted a coarse yellow, did not solace the visitors; and the ornaments on the mantel-piece, something like old bottle-necks, only excited a faint smile in the sickened company.”[14]

“While Mr. Whistler’s staring study in yellow and white was open to the public we did not notice it,—for notice would have been advertisement, and we did not choose to advertise him.

“Of the arrangement in yellow and white, we note that it was simply an insult to the visitors,—almost intolerable to any one possessing an eye for color, which Mr. Whistler, fortunately for him, does not,—and absolutely sickening (in the strictest sense of the word) to those at all sensitive in such matters. ‘I feel sick and giddy in this hateful room,’ remarked a lady to us after she had been there but a few minutes. Even the common cottage chairs, painted a coarse yellow, did not solace the visitors; and the ornaments on the mantel-piece, something like old bottle-necks, only excited a faint smile in the sickened company.”[14]

The sea-sick lady was probably an invention of the writer.

Another, apparently somewhat less susceptible to the “sickening” effects of yellow, simply says:

“Mr. Whistler has on view at the Fine Art Society’s some half-a-hundred etchings; but it was not to see these only that he invited his friends, and many fine people besides, last Saturday. In the laudable effort for a new sensation, he had been engaging in literature; and a grave servant, dressed in yellow and white (to suit the temporary decoration of the walls during the show) pressed into the hands of those who had come in all innocence to see the etchings a pamphlet in which Mr. Whistler’s arrangements had extended to an arrangement of critics.”[15]

“Mr. Whistler has on view at the Fine Art Society’s some half-a-hundred etchings; but it was not to see these only that he invited his friends, and many fine people besides, last Saturday. In the laudable effort for a new sensation, he had been engaging in literature; and a grave servant, dressed in yellow and white (to suit the temporary decoration of the walls during the show) pressed into the hands of those who had come in all innocence to see the etchings a pamphlet in which Mr. Whistler’s arrangements had extended to an arrangement of critics.”[15]

The catalogue which stirred the ire of the critics was an innocent little thing in brown-paper cover containing a list of the prints; but beneath each was a line or two from the critics, and they were all there in outspoken condemnation of the work of the man who is now placed, by even the critics, on a plane with Rembrandt. Some have since confessed their errors in print and begged for the mantle of charity.

On the title-page appeared:

“Out of their own mouths shall ye judge them.”

And here, as an example, is what he printed beneath “No. 51, Lagoon; Noon.” In mercy the names of the critics are omitted.

“Years ago James Whistler was a person of high promise.”“What the art of Mr. Whistler yields is atertium quid.”“All of which gems, I am sincerely thankful to say, I cannot appreciate.”“As we have hinted, the series does not represent any Venice that we much care to remember; for who wants toremember the degradation of what has been noble, the foulness of what has been fair?”“Disastrous failures.”“Failures that are complete and failures that are partial.”“A publicity rarely bestowed upon failures at all.”

“Years ago James Whistler was a person of high promise.”

“What the art of Mr. Whistler yields is atertium quid.”

“All of which gems, I am sincerely thankful to say, I cannot appreciate.”

“As we have hinted, the series does not represent any Venice that we much care to remember; for who wants toremember the degradation of what has been noble, the foulness of what has been fair?”

“Disastrous failures.”

“Failures that are complete and failures that are partial.”

“A publicity rarely bestowed upon failures at all.”

Whereupon Whistler brought the catalogue to a close with these scriptural sentences:

“Therefore is judgment far from us, neither doth justice overtake us; we wait for light, but behold obscurity; for brightness, but we walk in darkness.”“We grope for the wall like the blind, and we grope as if we had no eyes; we stumble at noonday as in the night.”“We roar all, like bears.”

“Therefore is judgment far from us, neither doth justice overtake us; we wait for light, but behold obscurity; for brightness, but we walk in darkness.”

“We grope for the wall like the blind, and we grope as if we had no eyes; we stumble at noonday as in the night.”

“We roar all, like bears.”

Whistler’s manner of arraigning his critics was his own. No one else could compile such delightful bits of literature as were those catalogues he issued from time to time; but the idea of publishing adverse criticism with the work criticised was not new.

To his first edition of “Sartor Resartus” Carlyle—Whistler’s neighbor in Chelsea—printed as an appendix the letter of condemnation which Murray the publisher received from his literary adviser and which led to the rejection of the manuscript.

The scheme is not without advantages,—it amuses the reader and confounds the critic, to which ends books and paintings are created.

How the galled jades winced may be gathered from the following mild comments:

“Mr. Whistler’s catalogue, however, is our present game. He takes for motto, ‘Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?’ But Mr. Whistler mistakes his vocation. He is no butterfly. He might be compared, perhaps, to a bird,—the bird that can sing but won’t. If one judged, however, from some of his etchings, one would say a spider was nearer his mark. But a butterfly! the emblem of all that is bright and beautiful in form and color! Daniel Lambert might as reasonably have taken the part of the Apothecary in ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ or Julia Pastrana have essayed therôleof Imogen.“Criticismispowerless with him in many different ways. It is powerless to correct his taste for wilfully drawing ill. If a school-girl of ten showed such a picture of a human being as this (referring to illustration), for instance, we might criticise usefully enough. We might point out that no human being (we suppose the thing is intended for a human being, but it may be meant for a rag-bag) ever had such features or such shape. But of what use would it be to tell Mr. Whistler as much? He knows it already, only he despises the public so much that he thinks it will do well enough for them.“Again, criticism is powerless to explain what was meant by some such figure as this, in No. 33. The legs we can especially answer for, while the appendages which come where a horse has his feet and pasterns are perfect transcripts—they are things we never could forget. We have not the faintest idea what they really are. We would not insult Mr. Whistler by supposing he tried to draw a horse with the customary equine legs, and so failed as to produce these marvels. Perhaps Dr. Wilson knows of some animal limbed thus strangely.“It is because of such insults as these to common sense and common understanding, and from no ill-will we bear him, that we refuse seriously to criticise such work as Mr. Whistler has recently brought before the public. Whatever in it is good adds to his offence, for it shows the offence to be wilful, if not premeditated.”[16]

“Mr. Whistler’s catalogue, however, is our present game. He takes for motto, ‘Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?’ But Mr. Whistler mistakes his vocation. He is no butterfly. He might be compared, perhaps, to a bird,—the bird that can sing but won’t. If one judged, however, from some of his etchings, one would say a spider was nearer his mark. But a butterfly! the emblem of all that is bright and beautiful in form and color! Daniel Lambert might as reasonably have taken the part of the Apothecary in ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ or Julia Pastrana have essayed therôleof Imogen.

“Criticismispowerless with him in many different ways. It is powerless to correct his taste for wilfully drawing ill. If a school-girl of ten showed such a picture of a human being as this (referring to illustration), for instance, we might criticise usefully enough. We might point out that no human being (we suppose the thing is intended for a human being, but it may be meant for a rag-bag) ever had such features or such shape. But of what use would it be to tell Mr. Whistler as much? He knows it already, only he despises the public so much that he thinks it will do well enough for them.

“Again, criticism is powerless to explain what was meant by some such figure as this, in No. 33. The legs we can especially answer for, while the appendages which come where a horse has his feet and pasterns are perfect transcripts—they are things we never could forget. We have not the faintest idea what they really are. We would not insult Mr. Whistler by supposing he tried to draw a horse with the customary equine legs, and so failed as to produce these marvels. Perhaps Dr. Wilson knows of some animal limbed thus strangely.

“It is because of such insults as these to common sense and common understanding, and from no ill-will we bear him, that we refuse seriously to criticise such work as Mr. Whistler has recently brought before the public. Whatever in it is good adds to his offence, for it shows the offence to be wilful, if not premeditated.”[16]

Poor etchings,—condemned for their virtues, condemned for their faults,—there is no health in them.

And these and many similar things were written, only twenty years ago, of the greatest etchings the world has known since the days of Rembrandt.

When one thinks of the obscurity of Rembrandt to the day of his death, and how little his work was known for long after, of the passing of Meryon without recognition, it must be conceded that Whistler is coming into his own amazingly fast.

Senefelder discovered the process, but Whistler perfected the art of lithography. It was not until 1877, twenty years after he began etching, that he made his first lithographs.

There had been many before him, but none like him.

During the first half of the century the process was in great vogue in France, and men like Ingres, Millet, Corot, and Delacroix tried the facile stone.

One can readily understand how so fascinating a process appealed to Whistler, and the wonder is that he did not attempt it earlier.

The use of transfer-paper, whereby the artist is enabled to make his drawing when and where he pleases upon the paper, instead of being hampered by the heavy stone, has greatly advanced the art, though drawing on the stone possesses certain advantages and attractions over the paper.

Not many years ago Whistler was called as an expert witness in a case which involved the question whether the use of transfer-paper was lithography. The result of the case is of no consequence. While on the stand, he turned to the judge, and said:

“May I be permitted to explain, my lord, to these gentlemen (the jury) why we are all here?”

“Certainly not,” answered the court; “we are all here because we cannot help it.”

The witty ruling of the court deprived those present of remarks which would have been not only to the point but greatly amusing.

It was in this case that an artist who had written many fine things about Whistler and his work appeared as a witness on the other side, and in cross-examining the great painter, counsel called attention to one of the complimentary things that had been written (“Mr. Whistler’s almost nothings are priceless”), and asked, “You don’t dissent to that, do you, Mr. Whistler?”

Whistler smiled, and replied, “It is very simple and very proper that Mr. —— should say that sort of a thing, but I attach no importance to it.”

And it is really true that no man ever enjoyed more having nice things said about his work, and no man ever attributed less importance to either favorable or unfavorable comments. He accepted both as a matter of course and of no consequence; neither he nor his work was affected in the slightest degree.

In 1896 he exhibited some seventy lithographs in the rooms of the Fine Arts Society, and they were a revelation of the possibilities of the process in the hands of a master of line.

The Way catalogue, now out of print, contained one hundred and thirty, purporting to cover those printed down to and including 1896.

To this list must be added at least eight more which are well known, and possibly others.

There are, therefore, in existence nearly four hundred etchings and dry-points by Whistler, and probably not less than one hundred and fifty lithographs,—a large volume of work for one man, even if he produced nothing else.

Stress is here laid upon the mere volume of his work to meet some remarkable views which have been put forth concerning him and to correct the popular impression that his controversies diverted him from his art.

He was but sixty-nine when he died. His first etchings appeared in 1857-58. For the remainder of his life he averaged twelve plates and lithographs a year,—one a month; and of this great number, it is conceded by conservative experts, the percentage of successful plates and stones is much larger than that of any of his great predecessors. In fact, there are no failures. Some of the plates were more sketchy and of slighter importance than others, but every one is the genuine expression of the artist’s mood at the moment of execution, and precious accordingly.

Not many years ago there was in a certain city an exhibition of the slight but pretty work of a famous French illustrator. By his grace, and especially by his happy facility in the drawing of children in checked frocks and gray or brown or blue stockings and stubby shoes, the work attracted attention, and, as always happens with the pretty and the novel, aroused an enthusiasm quite out of proportion to its real merit.

Two men fell into a dispute over the merits of the little drawings, one siding with the throng and maintaining they were great, the other insisting they were simply pretty,—too pretty to be good and really quite hard and mechanical in execution,—in fact, quite inconsequential as art.

“Look,” said he, “at this figure of a child. See how the outline is painfully traced in black and then the colors filled in as mechanically and methodically as if a stencil had been used. What would a Jap say to that?”

“He would say it is fine. It is Japanese in color and motive.”

“About as Japanese as a colored illustration in a modern magazine.” The discussion became heated.

Oddly enough, at that moment a Japanese expert, who was crossing the country on his way to Europe to catalogue some collections, entered the room, and he was appealed to for his opinion of the drawing in question. In broken English he said:

“It is—very—pretty, very pretty; but—I not know how you say it,—but it is what you call—Spencerian,—yes, that is the name of the copy-books—Spencerian writing, while a Japanese drawing is the—autograph—that is the difference—the autograph.”

And that is the difference between some of the work of even the great ones before him and whatever Whistler did,—everything he touched was his autograph; whereas with even Rembrandt there is the feeling now and then, though seldom, of the set purpose, of the determination to secure a certain result, of the intention to do something for others. Whistler never did anything for any one but himself. He never touched needle or brush to please model, sitter, or patron. Whenever the work in hand ceased to amuse and interest him as a creation of his own fancy, he dropped it. He could not work after his interest had evaporated.

There is in existence a water-color[17]bearing Whistler’s signature on the back, and also this endorsement: “From my window. This was his first attempt at water-color.—E. W. Godwin.”

It is a characteristic view of the Thames with Old Battersea Bridge reaching almost from side to side.

In his pastels and water-colors, as in his etchings and lithographs, he never forced a delicate medium beyond its limitations.

Of all artists who ever lived, Whistler made the least mystery of his art.

He not only expressed his intentions fully in his art, but also in unmistakable language.

In the first of his “Propositions,” published many years ago, he laid down certain fundamental principles which controlled his use of etching, water-color, and pastel, the first proposition being:

“That in art it is criminal to go beyond the means used in its exercise.”

And he defined the limits of the etcher’s plate, and by implication the dimensions of the water-color and pastel—art’s most fragile means.

In the famous “Propositions No. 2” he formulated the principles which governed his work as a painter, the first being:

“A picture is finished when all trace of the means used to bring about the end has disappeared.”

And the last:

“The masterpiece should appear as the flower to the painter,—perfect in its bud as in its bloom,—with no reason to explain its presence, no mission to fulfil, a joy to the artist, a delusion to the philanthropist, a puzzle to the botanist, an accident of sentiment and alliteration to the literary man.”[18]

These two sets of “Propositions,” read in connection with his one lecture, the “Ten o’Clock,” which was delivered in London, February 20, 1885,at Cambridge, March 24, and Oxford, April 30, contain his creed in art.

Many a painter has written books explanatory of his art, but none has ever stated so plainly and so tersely the principles which actually governed all he did. Whistler was so epigrammatic in utterance that he was not taken seriously, but accused of paradox. But whoever reads what he has so soberly and earnestly said will better understand his work.

And whatever may be thought of reprinting entire the “Gentle Art,” there can be no question about the great need of scattering broadcast the “Propositions” and the “Ten o’Clock.”

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