Chapter X (3)

“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 which was very amusing.
Among the _habitués_ at 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 why what 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.”

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.”

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 the chance. 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]

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]

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 a _tertium 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 to remember 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.”

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 the _rôle_ of Imogen.

“Criticism _is_ powerless 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.”

_V_

_Chelsea--The Royal Academy--“Portrait of His
Mother”--“Carlyle”--Grosvenor Gallery--The “Peacock
Room”--Concerning Exhibitions._

After--possibly because--his “White Girl” was rejected at the Salon, he went to London and made his home at Chelsea, where he had as neighbors Carlyle, Rossetti, George Eliot, and others of note in art and literature.

Carlyle’s description of Chelsea as it was in 1834, when he and his wife moved there, is interesting,--for the place changed little before Whistler came. Writing to his wife concerning the house he had found, Carlyle said:

“The street runs down upon the river, which I suppose you might see
by stretching out your head from the front window, at a distance of
fifty yards on the left. We are called ‘Cheyne Row’ proper
(pronounced _Chainie_ Row), and are a ‘genteel neighborhood;’ two
old ladies on one side, unknown character on the other, but with
‘pianos.’ The street is flag pathed, sunk storied, iron railed, all
old-fashioned and tightly done up; looks out on a rank of sturdy
old _pollarded_ (that is, beheaded) lime-trees, standing there like
giants in _tawtie_ wigs (for the new boughs are still young);
beyond this a high brick wall; backwards a garden, the size of our
back one at Comely Bank, with trees, etc., in bad culture; beyond
this green hayfields and tree avenues, once a bishop’s
pleasure-grounds, an unpicturesque yet rather cheerful outlook. The
house itself is eminent, antique, wainscoted to the very ceiling,
and has been all new painted and repaired; broadish stair with
massive balustrade (in the old style), corniced and as thick as
one’s thigh; floors thick as a rock, wood of them here and there
worm-eaten, yet capable of cleanness, and still with thrice the
strength of a modern floor. And then as to rooms, Goody! Three
stories beside the sunk story, in every one of them three
apartments, in depth something like forty feet in all--a front
dining-room (marble chimney-piece, etc.), then a back dining-room
or breakfast-room, a little narrower by reason of the kitchen
stairs; then out of this, and narrower still (to allow a back
window, you consider), a china-room or pantry, or I know not what,
all shelved and fit to hold crockery for the whole street. Such is
the ground area, which, of course, continues to the top, and
furnishes every bedroom with a dressing-room or second bedroom; on
the whole a most massive, roomy, sufficient old house, with places,
for example, to hang, say, three dozen hats or cloaks on, and as
many crevices and queer old presses and shelved closets (all tight
and new painted in their way) as would gratify the most covetous
Goody,--rent, thirty-five pounds! I confess I am strongly tempted.
Chelsea is a singular heterogeneous kind of spot, very dirty and
confused in some places, quite beautiful in others, abounding with
antiquities and the traces of great men,--Sir Thomas More, Steele,
Smollett, etc. Our row, which for the last three doors or so is a
street, and none of the noblest, runs out upon a ‘Parade’ (perhaps
they call it), running along the shore of the river, a broad
highway with huge shady trees, boats lying moored, and a smell of
shipping and tar. Battersea Bridge (of wood) a few yards off; the
broad river, with white-trowsered, white-shirted Cockneys dashing
by like arrows in thin, long canoes of boats; beyond, the green,
beautiful knolls of Surrey, with their villages,--on the whole a
most artificial, green-painted, yet lively, fresh, almost
opera-looking business, such as you can fancy. Finally, Chelsea
abounds more than any place in omnibi, and they take you to
Coventry Street for sixpence. Revolve all this in thy fancy and
judgment, my child, and see what thou canst _make_ of it.”[19]

Between Whistler and Rossetti there sprang up a friendship that was singular, considering how diametrically opposite they were to one another in nearly everything. They had, however, this in common,--each was in search of a degree of the beautiful quite beyond the grasp of the ordinary mortal; but of the two, Whistler’s is incomparably the finer art, for it is the purer and more abstract, while Rossetti’s painting exhibited the literary bent very conspicuously,--it was inextricably involved with his poetry.

One day he showed Whistler a sketch which Whistler liked, and he urged Rossetti to go on with it; but Rossetti became so infatuated with his conception that instead of finishing the picture he wrote a sonnet on the subject and read it to Whistler, who said:

“Rossetti take out the picture and frame the sonnet.”

Life in Chelsea in those days had its drawbacks.

Whistler’s utter lack of commercial instinct, his dislike for the dealers, the habit he had of falling out with any one who discussed money matters with him, and that reluctance to part with pictures which was a conspicuous trait through life, often involved him in trouble financially.

* * * * *

In 1879 E. W. Godwin designed and built for him a house in Tite Street. It was of white brick, and known as the “White House,” and is described as having been very artistic in so far as it was settled and furnished, but for some time only two rooms were in order. “Everywhere you encountered great packing-cases full of pretty things, and saw preparations for papering and carpeting, but somehow or other nothing ever got any forwarder. What was done was perfect in its way. The white wainscoting, the rich draperies, the rare Oriental china, the pictures and their frames, the old silver, all had a charm and a history of their own.”[20]

His powers of persuasion were such that it is said he once tamed a bailiff--temporarily in possession--to a degree of docility little short of amazing,--a favorite word of his.

“When the man first appeared he tried to wear his hat in the
drawing-room and smoke about the house. Whistler soon settled that.
He went out into the hall and fetched a stick, and daintily knocked
the man’s hat off. The man was so surprised that he forgot to be
angry, and within a day or two he had been trained to wait at
table. One morning, when Mr. Whistler was shaving, a message was
brought up that the man (he was always known in the house as ‘the
man,’ as if he were the only one of his species) wanted to speak to
him.

“‘Very well, send him up,’ said Mr. Whistler. He went on shaving,
and when the man came in said, abruptly, ‘Now, then, what do you
want?’

“‘I want my money, sir.’

“‘What money?’

“‘My possession money, sir.’

“‘What, haven’t they given it to you?’

“‘No, sir; it’s you that have to give it to me.’

“‘Oh, the deuce I have!’ And Mr. Whistler laughingly gave him to
understand that, if he wanted money, his only chance was to apply
elsewhere.

“‘Well, I think it’s very hard, sir,’ the man began to snivel; ‘I
have my own family to keep, and my own rent to pay----’

“‘I’ll tell you what I advise you to do,’ Mr. Whistler returned, as
he gently pushed him out of the room: ‘you should do as I do, and
have “a man” in your own house.’

“Soon after this the man came and said that if he was not paid he
would have to put bills up outside the house announcing a sale.
And, sure enough, a few days after great posters were stuck up all
over the front of the house, announcing so many tables, and so many
chairs, and so much old Nankin china for sale on a given day. Mr.
Whistler enjoyed the joke hugely, and hastened to send out
invitations to all his friends to a luncheon-party, adding, as a
postscript, ‘You will know the house by the bills of sale stuck up
outside.’ And the bailiff proved an admirable butler, and the party
one of the merriest ever known.”[21]

The “White House” was finally sold, and it is said that when he moved out he wrote on the wall, “Except the Lord build the house, their labor is in vain that build it,--E. W. Godwin, R.S.A., built this one.”

Speaking of architects, the story is told that he was once dining, and dining well, at the house of a friend in London. Towards the end of the dinner he was obliged to leave the table and run up-stairs to write a note. In a few moments a great noise was heard in the hall, and Whistler was found to have fallen down the stairs. “Who is your architect?” he asked. His host told him. “I might have known it; the ---- teetotaler!”

By the irony of fate the “White House” was afterwards occupied and much altered by the detested critic of the _Times_,--detested possibly because he occupied and dared to alter the house,--and Whistler asked:

“Shall the birthplace of art become the tomb of its parasite?”

It was this critic who pronounced a water-color drawing of Ruskin by Herkomer the best oil portrait the painter had ever done,--a mistake Whistler never let the unlucky writer forget.

* * * * *

In those days he exhibited quite frequently at the Royal Academy.

Among the earliest pictures exhibited was “At the Piano.” It attracted the attention of the Scotch painter John Phillip, who wished to buy it. Whistler left the price to him, and Phillip sent a check for thirty guineas, which was entirely satisfactory, so far as any one knows.

Thirty thousand dollars has already been paid for one of his very early pictures, and for any one of a

half-dozen of his important canvases a bid of fifty thousand dollars may be had any day.

It is a question of only a few years when Whistler’s paintings will sell as high as Rembrandt’s. The great galleries of Europe have not yet entered the field, and many of the great private collections have no example of his work. A few Americans, but not many out of the large number of those who buy pictures regardless of cost, are already inquiring. When all these factors come into competition, as they will soon or late, prices will be realized that will make the dearest of English or French painters seem cheap.

* * * * *

In 1872 the portrait of his mother, an “Arrangement in Gray and Black,” was sent in to the Academy, and accepted only after a sharp controversy, wherein Sir William Boxall, R.A., gave the committee their choice between hanging the picture and accepting his own resignation as one of their number. “For,” said he, “it shall never be told of me that I served on a committee which refused such a work as that.” The picture was eventually placed with the “black-and-white” exhibit, drawings, engravings, etc., and apparently only the critics saw it. What they said Whistler has himself recorded.

Somebody has asked, Suppose Whistler had been taken up and made an A.R.A., and in due course an R.A.--what then?

The thing is well-nigh inconceivable; and even if an A.R.A., his innate dislike for sham and pretension in art and his sense of humor would have prevented him from becoming a full-fledged academician in a body wherein, as in all similar bodies, mutual appreciation, or at least mutual restraint from honest depreciation, is essential to existence.

Whistler would probably have accepted the first degree, the A.R.A., of the fraternity,--for all his life he was personally, but not in his art, singularly susceptible to the praise of his fellow-men; but he would have remained in the Academy about as long as he remained president of the British Society of Painters,--just long enough to overturn things generally, and then get out.

Once, when taken to task for referring to a painter who was only an A.R.A. as an R.A., he retorted that it was a difference without a distinction.

To the orthodox academicians his work was a mystery. Once, when dining in a restaurant in the West End, the waiter, having difficulty in supplying Whistler’s wants, said, “Well, sir, I can’t quite make out what you mean.”

“Gad, sir,” he cried, in tones of amazement, “are you an R.A.?”

It is not within the range of possibilities that the Royal Academy, or any other institution, would have had any perceptible influence on Whistler’s art,--on _that_ side he was indifferent to the influences which affect most men, to considerations of gain and popular appreciation.

In the account of a certain public sale the statement was printed that when one of his pictures was put up it was loudly hissed. He sat down and wrote the editor acknowledging the compliment, “the distinguished though unconscious compliment so publicly paid. It is rare that recognition so complete is made during the lifetime of the painter.”

Another time he said, “There are those, they tell me, who have the approval of the public, and live.”

Long after he ceased to exhibit at the Academy a lady met him at one of the exhibitions, and expressed her surprise.

“Well, you know,” he answered, “one must do something to lend interest to the show,--so here I am.”

* * * * *

Years after, the Academy, while Leighton was president, invited him to send some of his pictures, and here is the account of what happened:[22]

“He was in Brussels. There came a telegram from him to me which was
a cry of exultation:

“‘MY DEAR S.: The Lord hath delivered them into my hands. I am
sending you by post their last dying confession.’

“And so next morning the post duly brought a letter from Whistler
inclosing the official proposal from the Royal Academy, signed by
Mr. Eaton, secretary to that distinguished body, inviting Whistler
to contribute to a loan exhibition then presently to be held.
Whistler wrote:

“‘Of course, I refuse. You know me too well to doubt that. Do they
think they can use me after so long trampling on me? Do they think
I don’t see what they want? Do they think I need them? At last
they perceive that they need me, but in the day of their extremity
they shall ask in vain.’

“I am quoting from memory, but I give the substance accurately. He
inclosed his answer to the Academy, long since a public document,
with permission to cable it if I liked to America. I telegraphed
Whistler begging him to send no answer till my letter should reach
him. He wired: ‘I do not understand, but I will wait till
to-morrow.’ I wrote to him in the best ink, as Merimee said, at my
command. I tried to point out that the Academy had offered him the
_amende honorable_; that their invitation was an acknowledgment of
their error, and was meant as an atonement; that if he sought to
humiliate his enemies, no humiliation could be so complete as their
public surrender, of which the proof would be the hanging of his
works on their walls, and much else which I thought obvious and
conclusive. And I begged him to remember that I had always thought
him right, and always said the world would come round to him, and
that now, as ever before, whether right or wrong, mine was the
counsel of a friend. The answer came by wire early next morning:
‘Alas, my dear S., that you too should have gone over to the
enemy!’ I believe if I had but besought him to consider that his
acceptance would have been a service to art, and if he could
himself have thought that it would be, he would have accepted. I
never saw Whistler again, never heard from him; a friendship of
twenty years came there and then to an end--on his side.”

In 1897 a circular was mailed to him, addressed, “The Academy, England.” At the post-office they added “Burlington House,” where it was declined. Finally the circular reached him, bearing the endorsement, “Not known at the R. A.” He gave it to the press, saying, “In these days of doubtful frequentation, it is my rare good fortune to be able to send you an unsolicited, official, and final certificate of character.”

The fact was, mail addressed simply “Whistler, England,” would reach him.

* * * * *

The Grosvenor Gallery, opened in 1877 by Sir Coutts Lindsay, offered an opportunity to many a man who either would not or could not exhibit at the Academy.

It was here that some of Whistler’s best things were shown,--the portraits of Irving as Philip II.; Miss Rosa Corder; Miss Gilchrist, the actress; the Carlyle; Miss Alexander; and Lady Archibald Campbell, commonly known as “The Lady with the Yellow Buskin,” and many of his famous nocturnes.

Whistler had a very peculiar laugh,--demoniacal his enemies called it,--and it is said that while his portrait was being painted, Irving caught this laugh and used it with effect in the part of Mephistopheles,--but then, who knows?

The story of the painting and the naming of “The Yellow Buskin” is worth repeating.

Lady Archibald Campbell was an exceedingly handsome woman, and Whistler expressed the desire to paint her portrait. She graciously consented, and the sittings began.

In those days Whistler was looked upon in London as little less than a mountebank in art, and one day, putting it as nicely as she could, she said:

“My husband wished me to say that he--he appreciated the honor of your inviting me to sit for a portrait, but that--that he did not wish to be understood as committing himself in any way, and the picture must not be considered a commission.”

“Dear me, no,” said Whistler, as he painted away; “under no circumstances. Lord Archibald need give himself no uneasiness,--my compensation is in your condescension. We are doing this for the pleasure there is in it.”

The portrait was finished, exhibited as “_La Dame au Brodequin Jaune_,”--and duly ridiculed.

Lady Campbell’s friends expressed surprise that she should have permitted so eccentric an artist to do so ugly a thing. But time went on; the picture made a profound sensation and won its way.

Some time after, Whistler met Lady Campbell in London, and she said to him:

“My dear Mr. Whistler, I hear my portrait has been exhibited everywhere and become famous.”

“Sh--sh--sh!” with finger on lips. “So it has, my dear Lady Archibald; but every discretion has been observed that Lord Campbell could desire,--your name is not mentioned. The portrait is known as ‘The Yellow Buskin.’” It is now in the Wilstach collection, in Philadelphia.

* * * * *

Whistler preferred to exhibit his work under conditions which he controlled. As early as 1874 he gave a special exhibition in London, and in the years 1880, 1881, 1883, 1884, and 1886 he exhibited

either prints or paintings in the rooms of the Fine Arts Society.

He always occupied the place of honor with the International Society at Knightsbridge.

Occasionally he would use the galleries of dealers, but not often, and then only upon his own terms.

* * * * *

While living at Chelsea he had Carlyle as a near neighbor, and of his own notion he painted the portrait that now hangs in Glasgow.

These two extraordinary beings were quite congenial. The dogmatic old philosopher, then past seventy-five, sat day after day to the eccentric painter, who was nearly forty years his junior, as patiently as if he were a professional model, and the sittings were long and tedious.

One day, as he was leaving, quite exhausted, he met at the door a little girl in white, and he asked her name.