X

“Nocturnes, Marines, and Chevalet Pieces: a catalogue. Small collection kindlylenttheir owners.”

And sometimes this assertion of a superior equity went so far as to interfere with the right of possession, which was quite beyond the comprehension of the multitude.

The story is told that a certain Lady B—— purchased one of his pictures, but was never able to get it.

One day she drove to the studio in her victoria. Mr. Whistler went out to the sidewalk to greet her.

“Mr. Whistler,” she said, “two years ago I bought one of your pictures, a beautiful thing, and I have never been able to hang it on my walls. It has been loaned to one exhibition after another. Now, to-day I have my carriage with me, and I would like to take it home with me. I am told it is in your possession.”“Dear lady,” returned Whistler, “you ask the impossible. I will send it to you at the earliest practicable moment. You know,—those last slight touches,—which achieve perfection,—make all things beautiful.” And so forth and so forth, to the same effect, and the lady drove off without her picture.After she had departed, Whistler commenced to poke around the studio, and, to the great astonishment of a friend who had been an involuntary listener to the above conversation, he brought forth a canvas.“Here it is,” he said. “She was right about one thing, itisbeautiful.” And itwasbeautiful.“But the impudence of these people,” he continued, “who think that because they pay a few paltry hundred pounds theyownmy pictures. Why, it merely secures them the privilege of having them in their houses now and then! The pictures aremine!”

“Dear lady,” returned Whistler, “you ask the impossible. I will send it to you at the earliest practicable moment. You know,—those last slight touches,—which achieve perfection,—make all things beautiful.” And so forth and so forth, to the same effect, and the lady drove off without her picture.

After she had departed, Whistler commenced to poke around the studio, and, to the great astonishment of a friend who had been an involuntary listener to the above conversation, he brought forth a canvas.

“Here it is,” he said. “She was right about one thing, itisbeautiful.” And itwasbeautiful.

“But the impudence of these people,” he continued, “who think that because they pay a few paltry hundred pounds theyownmy pictures. Why, it merely secures them the privilege of having them in their houses now and then! The pictures aremine!”

However, this side of Whistler is on record in the case of “The Baronetvs.The Butterfly,” as he called the suit of Sir William Eden to obtain possession of the portrait of Lady Eden.

As the circumstances of this famous case illustrate Whistler’s attitude towards his work, and at the same time his attitude towards those who tried to deal commercially with him, they are worth recalling:

In June, 1893, Sir William Eden, a wealthy English baronet, wrote a letter to Goupil & Co., in London, asking what Mr. Whistler’s price would be for a small picture of Lady Eden, and he was informed that the price would be about five hundred guineas. He replied, stating that he thought the price too high, and said that he would call and seeMr. Whistler in Paris. Instead of so doing, he applied to a common friend, who wrote Whistler saying that the portrait “is for a friend of mine, on the one hand, and, on the other hand, you will have to paint a very lovely and very elegant woman, whose portrait you will be delighted to undertake,” and “under the circumstances I think you might make very liberal concessions.”

The matter of price was always a matter of indifference to Whistler,—if alsoof indifference to the other party,—and when Sir William wrote concerning the price, Whistler replied very cordially in January, 1894, as follows:

“Dear Sir William Eden: Your letter has only just been handed to me, but this may still, perhaps, reach you in the afternoon. It is quite understood as to the little painting, and I think there can be no difficulty about the sum. The only really interesting point is that I should be able to produce the charming picture which, with the aid of Lady Eden, ought to be expected. Once undertaken, however slight, for me one work is as important as another, and even more so, as Calino said. As for the amount, Moore, I fancy, spoke of one hundred to one hundred and fifty pounds.”

The letter is quite characteristic of the artist. His interest was in the possibility of producing a charming picture. The amount he mentioned was less than he ordinarily asked for a water-color sketch, and one-fifth that named by Goupil & Co.

It must be noted that the amount is not fixed by Whistler, but is left at from one hundred to onehundred and fifty pounds, depending of course upon the painter’s own feeling regarding his work, and not depending in any sense upon the whim of the baronet.

The portrait went on towards completion. Instead of painting a head, as was originally suggested, Whistler painted a full-length figure seated upon a little sofa, the entire composition being quite as elaborate an interior as if the canvas had been five times the size. The picture was about fourteen to sixteen inches long by five or six inches high, and was such an exquisite bit of the painter’s art that a representative of a public gallery, who did not know that it was a commission, offered for it twelve hundred dollars, and higher offers were made.

Sir William Eden did not again refer to the price, although he had many opportunities; but on February 14, St. Valentine’s day, the baronet visited the studio and expressed himself as delighted with the picture. On taking leave, he informed Mr. Whistler that he was about to start for India on a hunting-tour, and, taking an envelope from his pocket, he handed it to the artist. “Here is a valentine for you. Look at it after I have gone. Don’t bother about it just now.”

When the artist opened his “valentine,” he found a check for one hundred guineas,—the minimum amount mentioned in his letter. The baronet had taken it upon himself to fix the price of the picture on the eve of his departure. The “valentine” read as follows:

“4Rue de Presbourg, Paris, February 14, 1894.“Dear Mr. Whistler: Herewith your valentine,—cheque value one hundred guineas. The picture will always be of inestimable value to me, and will be handed down as an heirloom as long as heirlooms last.“I shall always look with pleasure to the painting of it,—and, with thanks, remain“Yours sincerely,“William Eden.”

“4Rue de Presbourg, Paris, February 14, 1894.

“Dear Mr. Whistler: Herewith your valentine,—cheque value one hundred guineas. The picture will always be of inestimable value to me, and will be handed down as an heirloom as long as heirlooms last.

“I shall always look with pleasure to the painting of it,—and, with thanks, remain

“Yours sincerely,“William Eden.”

To which Whistler immediately replied:

“110Rue du Bac, Paris, February 14.“My Dear Sir William: I have your valentine. You really are magnificent, and have scored all round.“I can only hope that the little picture will prove even slightly worthy of all of us, and I rely on Lady Eden’s amiable promise to let me add the few last touches we know of. She has been so courageous and kind all along in doing her part.“With best wishes again for your journey,“Very faithfully,“J. McNeill Whistler.”

“110Rue du Bac, Paris, February 14.

“My Dear Sir William: I have your valentine. You really are magnificent, and have scored all round.

“I can only hope that the little picture will prove even slightly worthy of all of us, and I rely on Lady Eden’s amiable promise to let me add the few last touches we know of. She has been so courageous and kind all along in doing her part.

“With best wishes again for your journey,

“Very faithfully,“J. McNeill Whistler.”

From the legal point of view Whistler made the mistake of not immediately returning the check for one hundred guineas, and the additional mistake of exhibiting the picture in the Salon of the Champ de Mars in the spring of 1894, as No. 1187, under the title of “Brown and Gold. Portrait of Lady E——.”

But ultimately the one hundred guineas were returned, and the baronet brought suit to secure the possession of the picture.

Whistler would have permitted himself to be drawn-and-quartered before Sir William Eden should have any work of his. He felt, and most justly, that a work which had been begun by him, first, to oblige others, and secondly, as a labor of love, had been placed upon a commercial footing of the lowest level. He felt that there had been no real desire to have one of his pictures on account of its artistic merit, but that there had been an attempt to secure something of commercial value for one-third its market price.

The episode of the “valentine,” truly ingeniously devised, completely changed the relations between the parties. He painted out the little portrait, substituted another head, and stood ready to return the hundred guineas and to pay whatever damages the court might award the plaintiff; but under no circumstances should the baronet have the picture.

For the first time in the annals of litigation the question was presented for final determination,—whether an artist could be compelled to deliver work which he claimed was not yet finished to his satisfaction, even though he had received the price. Be it said to the credit of the French tribunal of last resort, that it held broadly that the artist is master and proprietor of his work until such time as it shall please him to deliver it. But that, failing delivery, he must return the price with interest thereon, together with such damages as the sitter may have sustained.

The hand of the painter cannot be forced by the importunity of either patient or impatient patron, and no man but the painter himself can say when a painting is sufficiently finished to be delivered.

Except in those few cases where Whistler took such intense dislikes to sitters or purchasers that he would not permit them to have his work under any circumstances, there is no instance where the great painter, in unduly delaying the delivery of a picture, had any intention of depriving the owner of what was rightfully his,—namely, the possession of the picture.

Beyond the right of possession, Whistler did not concede much to the owner. Frequently he challenged the owner’s right to exhibit without his sanction, and he was quite inclined to deny to the owner the moral right to sell at speculative prices. He had a poor opinion of those who would buy from the artist to sell later at a profit; he classed them as dealers.

Sitters did not always see things in the same light, and became tired, then impatient, sometimes ugly. Then Whistler would no longer like them, and the sittings would come to an end. If the portrait was unfinished, it was cast aside to remain forever unfinished; if finished, the money would be returned and the portrait kept,—under no circumstances to fall into the hands of a person whom he disliked.

The studio contained many an unfinished portrait, some of them works of great beauty, but of complete indifference to Whistler. He lost all interest in them when he lost interest in the sitters; and it mattered not to him that he had spent and lost days, and weeks, and months of precious time, nor did it matter to him that his sitters had exhausted themselves with numerous and long seances.

Childless, his paintings were his children, and to part with one was like the parting of mother and child.

In these days, when the selling of pictures has become an essential part of the art of painting, it is difficult for people to comprehend the attitude of a man who really did not like to sell.

“What are pictures painted for, if not to sell?” asks the spirit of the age.

It does not seem quite so obvious that poems are written to sell and that music is composed to sell. Even the “practical man” feels that poems and music ought to be made for something more than to sell, and if they are not, they will be the worst for the narrow end in view; but paintings and sculpture, they are commercial products to be dealt in accordingly.

When Whistler did part with a picture he had no faculty for getting a high price. His prices were very uncertain. To one person he might ask a round sum, to another small,—just as the mood seized him, the price having no particular relation to the painting.

He never could see why paintings should be sold,like cloth, by the square yard; why a large picture should necessarily bring more than a small. To him perfection was perfection, whether large or small.

What justifiable reason is there for the commercial schedule of so much for a head, so much for a half-length, so much for a full-length portrait?

The one may, but does by no means necessarily, take a little more time; but, then, a painter does not value his work by the day.

A perfect thing is a perfect thing, whether large or small, Whistler would frequently say. In the matter of prices he was obliged to yield somewhat to custom, and ask more for large pictures than for small, but he did so reluctantly and intermittently, with the natural result that dealers, who screen pictures as the plasterer does his gravel, could do nothing with him.

Of late years, with a demand far beyond any possible supply, his prices advanced; but where a Degas, for instance, would sell for five, ten, or fifteen thousand dollars, a Whistler of incomparably greater beauty would sell for a third or a fifth the amount,—proof of what the co-operation of the dealer can do.

Some years ago he showed a visitor several heads of Italian children, each about ten or twelve, by sixteen or eighteen inches in size. With them was a three-quarter length of one of the children. They were all superb bits of portraiture, and akin to the “Little Rose, Lyme Regis,” in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.

The visitor was eager to get one or more of the pictures. After considerable pressure, he said:

“I think they ought to be worth six hundred guineas each; don’t you?”“And the large one?” said the visitor.“Oh, the same. That is no more important than the small.”“Very well. May I have all four?”“Dear me! You don’t want them all?”“If you will let me have them.”“But—” and then the struggle began, “I must look them over; they are not quite finished.”“But, surely, these two are finished.”“Yes, I might let those go by-and-bye, but not now.”“Will you send them to me?”“Yes, certainly, after I have gone over them again.”“I will leave a check.”“God bless me, no! You must not do that. It will be time enough to send a check after you receive the little pictures.”

“I think they ought to be worth six hundred guineas each; don’t you?”

“And the large one?” said the visitor.

“Oh, the same. That is no more important than the small.”

“Very well. May I have all four?”

“Dear me! You don’t want them all?”

“If you will let me have them.”

“But—” and then the struggle began, “I must look them over; they are not quite finished.”

“But, surely, these two are finished.”

“Yes, I might let those go by-and-bye, but not now.”

“Will you send them to me?”

“Yes, certainly, after I have gone over them again.”

“I will leave a check.”

“God bless me, no! You must not do that. It will be time enough to send a check after you receive the little pictures.”

Needless to say, the pictures were never received. They had just been finished, and he could not bring himself to part with them. It was not a matter of money at all,—likely as not he sold them later for less,—but it was always next to impossible to get him to part with recent work. If he happened to have on hand a picture five or ten years old, possibly that could be bought and taken away, but anything in which he was interested at the time he would not let go.

In 1894 he exhibited three small marines, which he had painted off-shore while the boatman steadied

his boat. They were fresh and crisp,—so good that a great painter of marines said of them in the exhibition, “They over-topped everything about them.”

Two were sold, and he showed the third to an American who came to the studio. The caller said at once he would be only too glad to take it at the price named; the matter was apparently closed, and the buyer sailed for home, leaving a friend to get the picture.A day or two after, Whistler stood looking long and earnestly at the little marine, saying half to himself:“It is good, isn’t it?”Then he took the canvas out of the frame, and said:“I think it needs touching up a little.”Another pause, then:“Do you know, I believe I won’t let this go just yet. I want to go over it once more. You know, I can send your friend something else next winter,—something that he may like better. And if he doesn’t like it, why, he can return it.”“But, Mr. Whistler, he wants this little marine. There is not much to do upon it, is there?”“No—o; but, then, you see——”“Well, why not give it the last touches now, and let him have it. If you do not send him this, I am afraid he will never have one of your pictures.”“Oh, yes, he will; next winter——”“But next winter others will come in when we are not here, and buy from you whatever you have.”“Well, we will see.”

A day or two after, Whistler stood looking long and earnestly at the little marine, saying half to himself:

“It is good, isn’t it?”

Then he took the canvas out of the frame, and said:

“I think it needs touching up a little.”

Another pause, then:

“Do you know, I believe I won’t let this go just yet. I want to go over it once more. You know, I can send your friend something else next winter,—something that he may like better. And if he doesn’t like it, why, he can return it.”

“But, Mr. Whistler, he wants this little marine. There is not much to do upon it, is there?”

“No—o; but, then, you see——”

“Well, why not give it the last touches now, and let him have it. If you do not send him this, I am afraid he will never have one of your pictures.”

“Oh, yes, he will; next winter——”

“But next winter others will come in when we are not here, and buy from you whatever you have.”

“Well, we will see.”

And only persistent urgings, day after day, even after a draft on London had been forced upon him, induced him to ship the painting.

At no time was there any question of price ormoney involved; he simply did not wish to part with the last of his three marines.

It was not until about 1890, and after, that Whistler’s paintings began to sell at anything like their real worth. To his credit be it said, his work was never “popular.”

By his independence, his seeming defiance of all conventional and academic notions in his art, his eccentricities, and his lack of commercial instincts he managed, at a very early period in his career, to alienate,—

Dealers,

Painters, and

Public,

the three factors upon which commercial success depends.

“A millionaire—one who was getting up an art-gallery—went to Whistler’s studio and glanced casually at the pictures.

“‘How much for the lot?’ he asked, with the confidence of one who owns gold mines.

“‘Your millions,’ said Whistler.

“‘What!’

“‘My posthumous prices.’ And the painter added, ‘Good-morning.’”

The School of Carmen—In Search of Health—Chelsea once more—The End.

Toplease Madame Carmen Rossi, who as a child had been one of his best models, Whistler consented in 1897 to criticise the work of such students as might attend her school. As a result Carmen’s atelier was for the time being the most distinguished in Paris, and it was not uncommon to see carriages with coachmen and footmen in livery before the door on the days that Whistler was expected.

As he passed about among the pupils he seldom praised and was never enthusiastic. He would sometimes stand many minutes before a canvas that merited his attention and would suggest changes and improvements; and now and then he took a brush and made the alterations himself, remarking, if the student were a young woman, “Now you have a Whistler all to your charming self.”

The story is told that once he stopped before a very brilliant canvas, and exclaimed, “Hideous! hideous!” The student said, somewhat proudly, that she had taken private lessons from Bouguereau, and he blandly inquired, “Bouguereau, Bouguereau,—who is Bouguereau?”

A pupil has printed some reminiscences of those days:[47]

“Usually Mr. Whistler came once a week to criticise us, and on those days the class, numbering anywhere from fifteen to forty, had been instructed to adopt a certain respectful mode of bearing on the arrival of the master; so, when the concierge threw wide the door and formally announced, ‘Monsieur Whistler,’ every student had risen to return his ceremonious salutation. Vividly I recall the scene: a man of not much more than medium stature, but so slight as to give the impression, when standing apart from others, of being much taller; dressed entirely in black, even to the suéde gloves; every garment immaculate in fit and condition; a little red rosette of the Legion of Honor of France forming the only spot of color about him until a faint flush rose to his cheek as he greeted the class with kindly smile.“Then, asmassier(or monitor, in charge of the class), he passed me his long, black, fur-lined coat and tall, straight-brimmed hat,—those well-known targets for the caricaturist,—and began his criticism by inspecting every drawing and weighing its merits—if any there were, as only too rarely happened—before uttering a word. This silent inspection finished, Mr. Whistler usually asked for a palette,—preferably mine, because it was patterned after his own, and made him ‘feel at home,’ as he expressed it,—and then, without removing his gloves, painted a few strokes here and there on some of the pupils’ work. Even in the matter of a palette he evinced marked sentiment. A carelessly kept one was, above all, his particular abhorrence, and generally elicited some such remark as the following: ‘My friends, have you noticed the way in which a musician cares for his violin—how beautiful it is? how well kept? how tenderly handled? Your palette is your instrument, its colors the notes, and upon it you play your symphonies.’“As an instructor he was courteous to each pupil, but naturally most interested in those who followed his precepts closest. Sometimes he jested at the expense of a luckless pupil. I remember an amusing instance. Smoking was prohibited on the days for criticism, since our master believed it clouded the atelier and in some degree obscured a view of the model. One day, upon entering, Mr. Whistler noticed an Englishman, much addicted to his huge cigars, who continued puffing away contentedly during the ‘criticism.’ Mr. Whistler turned quickly, asking me why his wishes were not enforced; but before I could frame a reply he had addressed our British friend, saying, ‘Er—my dear sir, I know you do not smoke to show disrespect to my request that the students should refrain from smoking on the days I come to them, nor would you desire to infringe upon the rules of the atelier—but—er—it seems to me—er—that when you are painting—er—you might possibly become so absorbed in your work as to—er—well—let your cigar go out.’ I often remarked a whimsical affectation of Mr. Whistler in his manner of speech with different pupils in his class,—we were a diverse lot from many lands, Americans and English predominating. If criticising an American, for instance, Mr. Whistler’s choice of language, and in some cases his accent, would become markedly English in form; while in addressing an Englishman he would adopt the Yankee drawl, sometimes adding a touch of local slang. I subsequently learned that these were his customary tactics, even in society, but in class criticism he always addressed us in French.”

“Then, asmassier(or monitor, in charge of the class), he passed me his long, black, fur-lined coat and tall, straight-brimmed hat,—those well-known targets for the caricaturist,—and began his criticism by inspecting every drawing and weighing its merits—if any there were, as only too rarely happened—before uttering a word. This silent inspection finished, Mr. Whistler usually asked for a palette,—preferably mine, because it was patterned after his own, and made him ‘feel at home,’ as he expressed it,—and then, without removing his gloves, painted a few strokes here and there on some of the pupils’ work. Even in the matter of a palette he evinced marked sentiment. A carelessly kept one was, above all, his particular abhorrence, and generally elicited some such remark as the following: ‘My friends, have you noticed the way in which a musician cares for his violin—how beautiful it is? how well kept? how tenderly handled? Your palette is your instrument, its colors the notes, and upon it you play your symphonies.’

“As an instructor he was courteous to each pupil, but naturally most interested in those who followed his precepts closest. Sometimes he jested at the expense of a luckless pupil. I remember an amusing instance. Smoking was prohibited on the days for criticism, since our master believed it clouded the atelier and in some degree obscured a view of the model. One day, upon entering, Mr. Whistler noticed an Englishman, much addicted to his huge cigars, who continued puffing away contentedly during the ‘criticism.’ Mr. Whistler turned quickly, asking me why his wishes were not enforced; but before I could frame a reply he had addressed our British friend, saying, ‘Er—my dear sir, I know you do not smoke to show disrespect to my request that the students should refrain from smoking on the days I come to them, nor would you desire to infringe upon the rules of the atelier—but—er—it seems to me—er—that when you are painting—er—you might possibly become so absorbed in your work as to—er—well—let your cigar go out.’ I often remarked a whimsical affectation of Mr. Whistler in his manner of speech with different pupils in his class,—we were a diverse lot from many lands, Americans and English predominating. If criticising an American, for instance, Mr. Whistler’s choice of language, and in some cases his accent, would become markedly English in form; while in addressing an Englishman he would adopt the Yankee drawl, sometimes adding a touch of local slang. I subsequently learned that these were his customary tactics, even in society, but in class criticism he always addressed us in French.”

His methods of teaching were original. He laid little stress on drawing. He hated and despised academic treatment. He wanted the pupil to paint. A few careful charcoal strokes on the canvas as a guide, the rest to be drawn in with brush and color. And he preached simplicity,—as few tones as possible, as low as possible. But it is painful to record that the endeavors of a certain proportion of the class to attempt the achievements of the master in this respect resulted in a unique crop of posters. The constant theme of his discourse was “mixtures.” He advised a pupil to get first on his palette a correct and sufficient mixture of each tone required for his picture. Often he would give a long criticism without so much as glancing at the canvas,—a criticism on the mixtures he found on the pupil’s palette; and he himself would work indefinitely at the colors, and all the while talking, till it appeared to him to be satisfactory. “And then,” says an enthusiastic young artist, “when he did take up some of the color and transfer it to the canvas, why, it would just sing.”

“One day on entering the class-room he discovered that a red background had been arranged behind the model. He was horrified, and directed the students to put up something duller in tone.“Then he scraped out the red paint on a pupil’s canvas and proceeded to mix and lay on a new background. Somehow the red would show through, and he found it difficult to satisfy himself with the effect he produced. He mixed and studied and scraped, working laboriously, surrounded by a group of admiring students. Finally, he remarked:“‘I suppose you know what I’m trying to do?’“‘Oh, yes, sir,’ they chorused.“‘Well, it’s more than I know myself,’ he grimly replied.”

“One day on entering the class-room he discovered that a red background had been arranged behind the model. He was horrified, and directed the students to put up something duller in tone.

“Then he scraped out the red paint on a pupil’s canvas and proceeded to mix and lay on a new background. Somehow the red would show through, and he found it difficult to satisfy himself with the effect he produced. He mixed and studied and scraped, working laboriously, surrounded by a group of admiring students. Finally, he remarked:

“‘I suppose you know what I’m trying to do?’

“‘Oh, yes, sir,’ they chorused.

“‘Well, it’s more than I know myself,’ he grimly replied.”

It is to be hoped that his epigrammatic utterances which hung on the walls of the Carmen Rossischool have been preserved, for they would be valuable additions to the “Propositions” and “Ten o’Clock” already published.

With none of the instincts of the teacher, he in time lost interest in the school. After a year or two his visits became infrequent, and upon leaving Paris his connection ceased.

The studio in Notre Dame des Champs and the home on the Rue du Bac were closed a few years after the death of Mrs. Whistler, and he made his home once more in Chelsea, at 74 Cheyne Walk, with frequent excursions to the Continent.

In the winter of 1901 he was at Ajaccio, and he wrote to a friend: “You will be surprised at this present address. But it’s all right,—‘Napoleon and I, you know.’”

In another letter to the same friend, speaking of a public official with whom he had some legal transactions, he remarks: “Say that I know how devotedly kind he has been in his care of me, but the care of the state overwhelms him. You cannot serve the republic ... and Whistler.”

For many years his heart had troubled him, and towards the last the warnings came more frequently and persistently. The year before his death he was quite ill at The Hague, and one of the London papers printed the following of a semi-obituary flavor:

“Mr. Whistler is so young in spirit that his friendsmust have read with surprise the Dutch physician’s pronouncement that the present illness is due to ‘advanced age.’ In England sixty-seven is not exactly regarded as ‘advanced age;’ but even for the gay ‘butterfly’ time does not stand still, and some who are unacquainted with the details of Mr. Whistler’s career, though they may know his work well, will be surprised to hear that he was exhibiting at the Academy forty-three years ago. His contributions to the exhibition of 1859 were ‘Two Etchings from Nature,’ and at intervals during the following fourteen or fifteen years Mr. Whistler was represented at the Academy by a number of works, both paintings and etchings. In 1863 his contributions numbered seven in all, and in 1865 four. Among his Academy pictures of 1865 was the famous ‘Little White Girl,’[48]the painting that attracted so much attention at the Paris Exhibition of 1900. This picture—rejected at the Salon of 1863—was inspired, though the fact seems to have been forgotten of late, by the following lines of Swinburne:

“‘Come snow, come wind or thunderHigh up in air,I watch my face and wonderAt my bright hair, etc., etc.’”

The item called forth the following characteristic correction, dated from The Hague:

“Sir: I feel it no indiscretion to speak of my ‘convalescence’ since you have given it official existence.

“May I therefore acknowledge the tender little glow of health induced by reading, as I sat here in the morning sun, the flattering attention paid me by your gentleman of ready wreath and quick biography.“I cannot, as I look at my improving self with daily satisfaction, really believe it all; still it has helped to do me good. And it is with almost sorrow that I must beg you, perhaps, to put back into its pigeon-hole, for later on, this present summary, and replace it with something preparatory—which, doubtless, you have also ready.“This will give you time, moreover, for some correction,—if really it be worth while. But certainly the ‘Little White Girl,’ which was not rejected at the Salon of ’63, was, I am forced to say, not ‘inspired by the following lines of Swinburne,’ for the one simple reason that those lines were only written, in my studio, after the picture was painted. And the writing of them was a rare and graceful tribute from the poet to the painter—a noble recognition of one work by the production of a nobler one.“Again, of ‘the many tales concerning the hanging, at the Academy, of the well-known portrait of the artist’s mother, now at the Luxembourg,’ one is true—let us trust your gentleman may have time to find it out—that I may correct it. I surely may always hereafter rely on theMorning Postto see that no vulgar Woking joke reach me.“It is my marvellous privilege, then, to come back, as who should say, while the air is still warm with appreciation, affection, and regret, and to learn in how little I had offended.“The continuing to wear my own hair and eyebrows, after distinguished confrères and eminent persons had long ceased their habit, has, I gather, clearly given pain. This, I see, is much remarked on. It is even found inconsiderate and unseemly in me, as hinting at affectation.“I might beg you, sir, to find a pretty place for this, that I would make my ‘apology,’ containing also promise, inyears to come, to lose these outer signs of vexing presumption.“Protesting, with full enjoyment of its unmerited eulogy, against your premature tablet, I ask you again to contradict it, and appeal to your own sense of kind sympathy when I tell you I learn that I have, lurking in London, still ‘a friend’—though for the life of me I cannot remember his name.“And I have, sir, the honor to be“J. McNeill Whistler.”

“I cannot, as I look at my improving self with daily satisfaction, really believe it all; still it has helped to do me good. And it is with almost sorrow that I must beg you, perhaps, to put back into its pigeon-hole, for later on, this present summary, and replace it with something preparatory—which, doubtless, you have also ready.

“This will give you time, moreover, for some correction,—if really it be worth while. But certainly the ‘Little White Girl,’ which was not rejected at the Salon of ’63, was, I am forced to say, not ‘inspired by the following lines of Swinburne,’ for the one simple reason that those lines were only written, in my studio, after the picture was painted. And the writing of them was a rare and graceful tribute from the poet to the painter—a noble recognition of one work by the production of a nobler one.

“Again, of ‘the many tales concerning the hanging, at the Academy, of the well-known portrait of the artist’s mother, now at the Luxembourg,’ one is true—let us trust your gentleman may have time to find it out—that I may correct it. I surely may always hereafter rely on theMorning Postto see that no vulgar Woking joke reach me.

“It is my marvellous privilege, then, to come back, as who should say, while the air is still warm with appreciation, affection, and regret, and to learn in how little I had offended.

“The continuing to wear my own hair and eyebrows, after distinguished confrères and eminent persons had long ceased their habit, has, I gather, clearly given pain. This, I see, is much remarked on. It is even found inconsiderate and unseemly in me, as hinting at affectation.

“I might beg you, sir, to find a pretty place for this, that I would make my ‘apology,’ containing also promise, inyears to come, to lose these outer signs of vexing presumption.

“Protesting, with full enjoyment of its unmerited eulogy, against your premature tablet, I ask you again to contradict it, and appeal to your own sense of kind sympathy when I tell you I learn that I have, lurking in London, still ‘a friend’—though for the life of me I cannot remember his name.

“And I have, sir, the honor to be

“J. McNeill Whistler.”

In the spring of 1903, only a few months before his death, three of his pictures were withdrawn from the annual exhibition of the Society of American Artists in New York. They had not been sent in by him, but loaned by the owner upon the understanding they would be given the prominence which he thought Whistler’s work deserved.

In the absence of the owner in Europe the whole matter was left in charge of a member of the society,—a well-known artist,—who, when he saw where the committee had placed the little pictures, promptly withdrew them, and notified the owner of his action, which was approved.

Whistler learned of the matter, and wrote the following letter:

“Dear Mr. L——: I have just learned with distress that my canvases have been a trouble and a cause of thought to the gentlemen of the hanging committee.“Pray present to them my compliments and my deep regrets.“I fear also that this is not the first time of simple and good-natured intrusion,—‘looking in,’ as who should say,with beaming fellowship and crass camaraderie upon the highly-finished table and well-seated guests,—to be kindly and swiftly shuffled into some further respectable place, that all be well and hospitality endure.“Promise, then, for me, that I have learned and that this ‘shall not occur again.’ And, above all, do not allow a matter of colossal importance to ever interfere with the afternoon habit of peace and good will and the leaf of the mint so pleasantly associated with this society.“I could not be other than much affected by your warm and immediate demonstration, but I should never forgive myself were the consequences of lasting vexation to your distinguished confrères, and, believe me, dear Mr. L——, very sincerely,“J. McNeill Whistler."London, April 7, 1903."

“Dear Mr. L——: I have just learned with distress that my canvases have been a trouble and a cause of thought to the gentlemen of the hanging committee.

“Pray present to them my compliments and my deep regrets.

“I fear also that this is not the first time of simple and good-natured intrusion,—‘looking in,’ as who should say,with beaming fellowship and crass camaraderie upon the highly-finished table and well-seated guests,—to be kindly and swiftly shuffled into some further respectable place, that all be well and hospitality endure.

“Promise, then, for me, that I have learned and that this ‘shall not occur again.’ And, above all, do not allow a matter of colossal importance to ever interfere with the afternoon habit of peace and good will and the leaf of the mint so pleasantly associated with this society.

“I could not be other than much affected by your warm and immediate demonstration, but I should never forgive myself were the consequences of lasting vexation to your distinguished confrères, and, believe me, dear Mr. L——, very sincerely,

“J. McNeill Whistler.

"London, April 7, 1903."

To the end he worked with indefatigable energy, save only those days and hours when he was compelled by exhaustion or by the physicians to rest.

Work was a tonic to him, and, while painting, the rebellious organs of his body were submissive to his genius.

He would forget himself when, brush in hand, he stood before a canvas.

During the spring of 1903 he had been far from well. Into May he worked, but not regularly nor for long at a time. In June he was quite ill, and his friends were apprehensive; but in the early part of July he began to gain, so that he took long drives and planned resuming his work.

On the afternoon of July 16 he was out for a drive and in the best of spirits, with plans for thefuture that even a younger man could not hope to execute.

Art, the ever-youthful mistress of his life, urged him on. Should he confess before her the ravages of years? In dauntless enthusiasm, in boundless ambition, in spirit unsubdued he was still young. He struggled to his feet and for the last time stood before the canvas,—the magic mirror from which he, wizzard-like, had evoked so many beautiful images; he thought of the things he yet would do, of lines that would charm for all time, of colors that would play like the iridescent hues upon the surface of the shimmering sea, of the wraith-like images of people which lurked in the depths of the canvas awaiting the touch of his wand to step forth in all their stately dignity and beauty.

And the soul of the master was filled with delight.

But the visions of beauty were shattered,Like forms of the mist they were scattered—As bubbles are blown by a breath—By the grim, haunting spectre of Death.

The tired body could not respond, and there where he had worked, on the afternoon of Friday, July 17, the great painter died.

On the following Wednesday the funeral services were held in the old church at Chelsea where he often went with his mother, and he was buried beside her in the graveyard at Chiswick.

“We have then but to wait—until with the mark of the gods upon him—there come among us again the chosen—who shall continue what has gone before. Satisfied that, even were he never to appear, the story of the beautiful is already complete—hewn in the marbles of the Parthenon—and broidered, with the birds, upon the fan of Hokusai—at the foot of Fusiyama.”—Whistler’s“Ten o’Clock.”

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