Chapter XLVII: The End. the Years Nineteen Hundred and Two and Nineteen

HUNDRED AND THREE.

Whistler came back to No. 74 Cheyne Walk, to the noise of building, to the bedroom at the top of the house--to the conditions against which the doctor's warning was emphatic. When E. saw him about the middle of September on her return--J. was still away--he had been again ill and was confined to his room. On her next visit, within a few days, he was in bed, but he had moved downstairs to a small room adjoining the studio, intended, no doubt, for a model's dressing-room. In one way it was an improvement, for there were no stairs and his studio was close at hand whenever he had strength for work, but the only window looked upon the street, and the clatter of children and traffic was added to the builders' knocking.

Except in this house, we never saw him after his return from The Hague. At times, in the winter and spring, he was able to go out in a carriage, but the three flights of stairs to our flat rose between him and us, an insurmountable barrier. Therefore there were seldom the old long intimate talks, for he was not often alone in the studio. Miss Birnie Philip was usually with him, sometimes sitting apart with her knitting, and only rarely drawn into the conversation. Mrs. Whibley was frequently there, and before "the Ladies" there were reservations, for with many things they were not to be "troubled." This involved a restraint in himself and a sensation of oppression in his visitors. Then there was a coming and going of models, visits from his doctors, his solicitor, his barber, and many other people who helped to distract him. His friends were devoted, encouraged by him and knowing he welcomed anyone from the world without; Mr. Luke Ionides, oldest of all, Mrs. Whistler, Mr. Walton, who lived next door, Professor Sauter, Sir John Lavery, Mr. and Mrs. Addams, his apprentices, Arthur Studd, his near neighbour, drifted in and out almost daily. He was bored when alone and unable to work, though he had of recent years developed an extraordinary passion for reading. But, as a matter of fact, he was hardly ever lonely, for he was surrounded as he liked in his studio, and yet he felt his condition and grew restless, so that his wish to rejoin Mr. Heinemann in "housekeeping" seemed natural.

Whistler had intervals when his energy returned, and he worked and hoped. We knew on seeing him when he was not so well, for his costume of invalid remained original. He clung to a fur-lined overcoat worn into shabbiness. In his younger years he had objected to a dressing-gown as an unmanly concession; apparently he had not outgrown the objection, and on his bad days this shabby worn-out overcoat was its substitute. Nor did the studio seem the most comfortable place for a man so ill as he was. It was bare, with little furniture, as his studios always were, and he had not used it enough to give it the air of a workshop. The whole house showed that illness was reigning there. The hall had a more unfinished, more unsettled look than the entrance at the Rue du Bac, and it was sometimes strewn with the trays and odds and ends of the sickroom. Papers and books lay on the floor of the drawing-room, in contrast to the blue-and-white in the cases. A litter of things at times covered the sideboard in the dining-room. Everywhere you felt the cheerlessness of a house which is not lived in. When we saw Whistler in his big, shabby overcoat shuffling about the huge studio, he struck us as so old, so feeble and fragile that we could imagine no sadder or more tragic figure. It was the more tragic because he had always been such a dandy, a word he would have been the first to use in reference to himself. We recall his horror once when he heard a story that represented him as untidy and slovenly. "I!" he said, "I, when if I had only an old rag to cover me I would wear it with such neatness and propriety and the utmost distinction!" But no one would have suspected the dandy in this forlorn little old man, wrapped in a worn overcoat, hardly able to walk. On his bad days there was not much walking about, and he lay stretched on an easy chair, talking little, barely listening, and dozing. His nights were often sleepless--he had lost the habit of sleep, he told us, and as the day went on he became so drowsy that it seemed as if nothing could rouse him from what was more like death than sleep. Sometimes, sitting by the table where tea was served, he would drop his forehead on the edge of the table, fall asleep, and remain motionless for an hour and more. A pretty little cat, brown and gold and white, that lived in the studio, was often curled up on his lap, sleeping too. His devotion to her was something to remember, and we have seen him get up, when probably he would not have stirred for any human being, just to empty the stale milk from her saucer and fill it up with fresh. A message was sent to E., one day, to announce the birth of her first kittens, that also made the studio their home and became a source of mild distraction to the invalid.

On his good days he liked to play dominoes after tea and he cheated with his accustomed tricks. He often kept J. for a game and sometimes for dinner with himself and Miss Birnie Philip in the studio, the climb to the dining-room out of the question. There were times when he would say he never could get back to work again, but others when he managed to work with not only the old vigour, but the old mastery. He had an Irish model, Miss Dorothy Seton, whose red hair was remarkably beautiful and whose face Whistler thought as remarkable, for it reminded him of Hogarth's _Shrimp Girl_. One afternoon J. found him painting her, her red hair hanging over her shoulders and an apple in her hand, the picture to which the title _Daughter of Eve_ was eventually given. He was walking up and down the studio in delight, looking almost strong, and he seized J. by the arm in the old fashion and walked him up and down too. "Well, Joseph, how long do you think it took me to paint that, now?" and not for weeks had he shown such animation as when he added, "It was done in a couple of hours this very morning." So far as we know, it was the last important picture he painted, and it was, as J. then saw it, the finest thing of his latest period. He must have painted on it again, for at the Paris Memorial Exhibition the bloom of its beauty had faded. Now and then he worked on a portrait of Miss Birnie Philip, and he was anxious to continue the portrait, started a year or so before, of Mrs. Heinemann, which needed only a few more sittings, but, to the world's loss, these could not be arranged. He saw to cleaning the _Rosa Corder_, which Mr. Canfield, who was back in London and buying pictures, drawings, and prints in the studio, bought this winter for two thousand pounds from Mr. Graham Robertson. The story of this purchase was the only amusing thing we ever heard Mr. Canfield say: "Offered the young fellow a thousand pounds--wouldn't hear of it. Offered him two--jumped at it. Why, the darned fool, if he had held on he could have had five!" Whistler telegraphed for us to come and look at _Rosa Corder_ for the last time in England, "to make your _adieux_ to her before her departure for America." When E.--J. again away--arrived at the studio, he was better than since his return from The Hague. He had slept eight hours and a half the night before, and he rejoiced in not being sleepy. He wiped the canvas here and there tenderly with a silk handkerchief and kept turning round to ask triumphantly, "Isn't she beautiful?"

Mr. Canfield was sitting again for his portrait, and was always welcome, not merely as a sitter, but as a friend. He seemed to have hypnotised Whistler, whom we heard say that Canfield was the only man who had never made a mistake in the studio. We could not help regretting this because of Canfield's notorious reputation in New York, and the unpleasant things said of Whistler's tolerance of the man. Whistler had been warned, but had sacrificed a friendship of years in his indignation at "a breath of scandal" against anyone whom he had introduced to "the Ladies." In the early part of 1903 we received numerous letters and telegrams from correspondents of American papers in London re-echoing the question in the New York dailies, "Is Whistler painting gambler Canfield?" The fact that Canfield was much desired at home made the New York papers of the yellowest sort, like the British respectable ones, eager for details, and all sorts and conditions of male and female reporters haunted our stairs. They were a terrible nuisance, and we remember in particular the youth who came with the usual question, "Is Whistler painting the gambler?" and who, on J.'s reply that he had better go and ask the painter, said "But they tell me Whistler would either horsewhip me or kick me out of the house. What do you think?" J.'s answer was that he had better go and see. Whistler's condition rendered any remark which might excite him dangerous, and everybody hesitated to suggest that Canfield was a very public character to include in one's private circle. Canfield's visits did not cease, and the fact that reconciled us to his presence was that it resulted in one of Whistler's masterpieces. The portrait, _His Reverence_, ranked then with _The Master Smith of Lyme Regis_. But this was our estimate when we saw the picture in Whistler's studio. Later it was simply ruined, for he worked on it too.

Whistler often saw dealers who came for his prints. On two memorable afternoons Mr. David Kennedy brought the large MacGeorge Collection of Whistler's etchings, which he had purchased in Glasgow, for Whistler to look over, and, in some cases, we believe, to sign them. He went through as many as he could, commenting on their state and their preservation. There were some he had not seen for years, and Mr. Ionides, who was present on one of the afternoons, seemed to know more about them than Whistler. He soon tired, and was not to be revived by the bottle of American cocktails which Mr. Kennedy, to his complete approval, also brought. Several times we found him going through the accumulation of "charming things" from the studio in the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs. Many he did not think so charming were, we understand, destroyed by him. So Miss Birnie Philip maintains, and Mr. Lavery told us that he was calling at Cheyne Walk one afternoon when Whistler said he had been burning things. We are unable to state if a reliable list was made of what was destroyed and what was kept. Some days Whistler read us parts of his earlier correspondence--the "wonderful letters" to the Fine Art Society during the Venetian period. And once, tired though he was, he insisted on reading to E. just once more his letter to a dealer, who had threatened him with a writ and whom he warned of the appearance he would make, "with one hand presenting a Sir Joshua to the nation, with the other serving a writ on Whistler. Well indeed is it that the right hand knows not always what the left hand doeth."

In November he sent the _Little Cardinal_, which had been at the _Salon_ the previous summer, to the Portrait Painters' Exhibition. Several critics spoke of it as a work already seen, giving the impression, he thought, that it dated back many years. He wrote to the _Standard_ to contradict this impression, Wedmore again having blundered. We called to see him on the afternoon the letter was written, and he was in great glee. He said:

"The letter is one of my best. I described Wedmore as Podsnap--an inspiration, isn't it? With the discovery of Podsnap in art criticism I almost feel the thump of Newton's apple on my head, and this I have said. Heinemann promises to take it himself to the editor of the _Standard_, and really the whole thing has such a flavour of intrigue that I do believe it has made me well again!"

He planned to publish the criticism, his letter, the answers, and his final comments in a brown-covered pamphlet, a scheme begun but, owing to his feeble health, never carried out. To an exhibition of old silver at the Fine Art Society's he lent many of his finest pieces and insisted upon their being shown together in a case apart, and arranged according to his instructions. His silver, like everything belonging to him, was a proof of his exquisite taste and faultless judgment. It was chosen, not for historic interest, nor for rarity, but for elegance of form and simplicity of ornament. The other collections in the exhibition were set out on red velvet; his, with which he sent some of his blue-and-white china, was placed on his simple white table linen marked with the Butterfly. After we had been to the exhibition, he asked us for every detail:

"How did the white, the beautiful napkins look? Didn't the slight hint of blue in the Japanese stand and the few perfect plates tell? Didn't the other cases seem vulgar in comparison? and didn't the simplicity of my silver, evidently for use and cared for, make the rest look like museum specimens?"

He examined the catalogue, found fault with it because the McNeill, of which he was so proud, was misspelt, and he could not understand why there were comparatively fewer entries and shorter descriptions of his case than of others where history supplied an elaborate text.

Notwithstanding his state, he forgot none of the old courtesies. When, in November, Sir James Guthrie was elected to the Presidency of the Royal Scottish Academy, he telegraphed his congratulations, and was repaid by his pleasure when Guthrie, still a member of the Council of the International, telegraphed back, "Warmest thanks, my President." On New Year's Day (1903) we received the card of good wishes it was his custom to send to his friends--a visiting-card with greetings written by himself and signed with the Butterfly. Though he could not go to the meetings of the International, the business done at each had to be immediately reported, and when the annual dinner was given he considered every detail, even to the point of revising the _menu_ and sending special directions for the salad. He had great pleasure in the degree of LL.D. conferred upon him by Glasgow University, at the suggestion of Sir James Guthrie and Professor Walter Raleigh. Dr. D. S. MacColl, at their request, we believe, and after consulting J., approached him first to make sure that the honour would be accepted. There was a gleam of the old "wickedness" when Dr. MacColl called. Whistler appointed a Sunday, asking him to lunch, but when he arrived at the appointed hour he was sent upstairs to the unused drawing-room and supplied with _Reynolds'_, a Radical sheet adored by Whistler because of its wholesale abuse of the "Islander." And Whistler said: "When at last he was summoned to the studio, I told him it was the paper that of course he always wanted to read at the Club, but was ashamed to be seen with! And all through lunch I had nothing to say of art--I talked of nothing except West Point."

However, when MacColl had a chance to explain why he came, Whistler expressed his pleasure in receiving the degree. We recall his pains with his letter of acknowledgment after the official announcement came in March, his concern for the correct word and the well-turned phrase, his anxiety that there should be no mistake in the Principal's title and honorary initials. It illustrates his care for detail if we add that, before writing the address, he sent a note, submitting it, next door, to Mr. and Mrs. Walton, who were Scotch, he said, and would know. Another pleasure came from the deference shown him by the Art Department of the Universal Exposition of 1904 at St. Louis. Early in 1903 Professor Halsey C. Ives, Chief of the Art Department, was in London, and went with J. to call on Whistler and to ask him to serve as Chairman of the Committee, of which Sargent, Abbey, and J. were members, for the selection of work by American artists in England. The invitation was a formal recognition of Whistler's position, and he accepted, though he did not live to occupy the post.

These months were not without worries. News of books about him, in preparation or recently published, annoyed him, as he had hoped to prevent such enterprises by giving us his authority for the work to which his illness was a serious interruption. We called one afternoon when he was worrying himself into a fever over the latest attempt of which he had heard, and was unable to think or talk of anything except the insolence of people who undertook to write about him and prepare a biography without consulting him and his wishes. As he talked he complained of pains in his back, and his restlessness was distressing to see. Another afternoon, he was, on the contrary, chuckling over Mr. Elbert Hubbard's _Whistler_ in the _Little Journeys_ series. He read us passages:

"Really with this book I can be amused--I have to laugh. I don't know how many people have taken my name in print, and, you know, usually I am furious. But the intimate tone of this is something quite new. What would my dear Mummy--don't you know, as you see her with her folded hands at the Luxembourg--have said to this story of my father's courtship? And our stay in Russia--our arrival in London--why, the account of my mother and me coming to Chelsea and finding lodgings makes you almost see us--wanderers--bundles at the end of long sticks over our shoulders--arriving footsore and weary at the hour of sunset. Amazing!--it would be worth while, you know, to describe, not the book, but the effect on me reading it."

He was looking desperately ill the day he told us that Montesquiou had sold his portrait, and he was not consoled by the fact that Mr. Canfield was the purchaser, so that it would remain, for the present at least, in America. He was the more hurt because Montesquiou was a friend and, "as you know, the descendant of a long distinguished line of French noblemen."

There were unnecessary worries. Mr. Freer sent some of Whistler's pictures to the Winter Exhibition at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts in Philadelphia. The jury awarded him the Academy's Gold Medal of Honour, and, to assure to the pictures the place of greatest distinction where they would look best, hung them before anything was installed, building up a screen for them in the most important room, and beginning the numbers in the catalogue with them. For some reason Mr. Freer did not approve of the hanging and seems to have misunderstood the motives for it. The secretary, Mr. Harrison Morris, could make no change. As the incident was reported to Whistler he fancied a slight in the arrangement which was meant to do him honour. A similar incident occurred in the Spring Exhibition of the Society of American Artists in New York, where, also, Mr. Freer objected to the place chosen for Whistler's work. Whistler, as a result, was disturbed by the idea that American artists were treating him with indifference or contempt, though this was at the time when their acceptance of him as master was complete and their eagerness to proclaim it great. Whistler went so far as to say that he never wished work of his to hang again in the Pennsylvania Academy, and in regard to the New York Exhibition he wrote protesting to the New York papers. The agitation and excitement did him no good, and in his weakness such small worries were magnified into grave troubles. It is the more to be regretted because, on all sides, in America he was honoured. The fault was Mr. Freer's inability to understand artistic matters. Mr. Will H. Low and other artists tried as well as they could to explain things to Whistler, but Mr. Freer succeeded in prejudicing him to the day of his death against the Pennsylvania Academy, which had done more than any other American art institution to show its appreciation. Americans may have been slow in acknowledging him officially, but that was because they knew little of his work. They began to make amends long before his death, and their eagerness to possess his work may be contrasted to the indifference in England or in Germany, where it is said a Whistler was bought for Berlin by Dr. Bode for two thousand pounds, but was returned to the dealers by the Emperor's command. The _Sarasate_ had been purchased for the Carnegie Institute in Pittsburgh in November 1896, the first picture, Mr. Beattie, the Director, tells us, bought for the gallery, and we believe the first Whistler bought for any American gallery. It is prized as one of the most important works in the collection, and, though it cost the Institute five thousand dollars, was insured for thirty thousand when it went to the Rome Exhibition in the spring of 1911. We were sorry when last in Pittsburgh to see that it is cracking. _The Yellow Buskin_ was in the Wilstach Collection, Philadelphia, and _The Master Smith_ and _The Little Rose of Lyme Regis_ in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts before 1903, and hardly an American collector of note was not seeking to include Whistlers in his collection. Now the Chicago Institute has _Southampton Water_ and the Metropolitan in New York has the _Irving_, _Connie Gilchrist_, _Cremorne Gardens_, and several important studies, and has purchased from M. Duret his own large portrait and been presented by Mr. E. G. Kennedy with his small one. M. Duret parted with his because he felt he was growing old. He had had many offers from private collectors, but he wished to know the painting was safe in a museum. Two great masters had painted him, Manet and Whistler, he said to us shortly after the sale, and both portraits are now in public galleries. _The Fur Jacket_ is at Worcester, and in the Brooklyn Institute is the very unfinished and unsatisfactory commencement of _Florence Leyland_. The _Lange Leizen_ is in the Johnson Collection, Philadelphia. The Avery collection of etchings is in the New York Public Library, and Charles L. Freer has donated to the National Gallery at Washington his entire collection, the largest in the world, while we have given our collection of Whistleriana to the Library of Congress; the best possible refutation to the nonsense talked about want of appreciation by many self-styled critics, several of whom have been imported into America and England since Whistler's death.

Whistler's health varied so during the winter that we were often encouraged to hope. But with the spring hope lessened with every visit. To consult our notes is to realise, more fully than at the time, how surely the end was approaching. The afternoons of sleep increased with the increasing weakness of his heart. He could not shake off the influenza cold which was dragging him down, and he lived in constant fear of infection from others if anybody even sneezed in his presence. "I can't risk any more microbes--I've about enough of my own." At times his cough was so bad that he was afraid to talk, and he would write what he wanted to say; it was his tonsils, he explained. There were visits when, from the moment we came until we left, he worried, first because the windows were open, then because they were shut, and his impatience if the doctor's visit was delayed would have exhausted a stronger man. J. dined with him on May 14, when there was a rekindling of gaiety. He showed the portrait of Mr. Canfield; he played dominoes for hours; at dinner, when a gooseberry tart was served, he apologised for the "Island." But after this there was no more gaiety for us to record. A few days later J. went abroad for several weeks, and Mr. Heinemann sailed for America. When he said good-bye to Whistler he was entrusted with innumerable commissions. He was to find out the truth concerning the treatment of Whistler's pictures in Philadelphia and New York, to discover who his new unauthorised biographers were, what artists and literary people were saying, what dealers were doing, and, when he returned, then they would "keep house together again." This was the moment when Mr. Heinemann took another flat, with the identical arrangements of the first, in Whitehall Court, so that they could go back to the old life. But before he returned the end had come.

Fortunately, while Mr. Heinemann and J. were away, Mr. Freer arrived in London on his annual visit, and he was free to devote himself to Whistler, whom he drove out whenever Whistler had the strength. But this was not for long, and with her visit to him on July 1 E. gave up hope. He was in bed, but hearing that she was there, he sent for her. There was a vague look in his eyes, as if the old fires were burnt out. He seemed in a stupor and spoke only twice with difficulty. Miss Birnie Philip referred to his want of appetite and the turtle soup ordered by the doctor, which they got from the correct place in the City. "Shocking! shocking!" Whistler broke in slowly, and then after a minute or two, "You know, now we are all in the City!" Miss Birnie Philip wanted to give tea to E., who, seeing how ill he was, thought it wiser not to stay, and after some ten minutes said good-bye. "No wonder," Whistler murmured, "you go from a house where they don't give you anything to eat." E.'s next visit was on the 6th. The doctor had been with him, he was up, dressed, and had been out for a drive. But he looked worse, his eyes vaguer, giving the impression of a man in a stupor. He said not a word until she was leaving, and then his one remark was, "You are looking very nice."

Reports of his feebleness were brought to us by many, among others by M. Duret. In July he came to London, and was deeply moved by the condition in which he found Whistler, who, he thought, wanted to say things when alone in the studio with him, but the day of his first visit could not utter a word. And after a second visit, after an hour with Whistler, who again struggled to talk and could not, Duret felt it was the last time he would see Whistler. It was, and in his sorrow he could but recall the days together gone for ever.

On the 14th E. called again, and again Whistler was dressed and in the studio, and there were pictures on the easels. He seemed better, though his face was sunken and in his eyes was that terrible vagueness. Now he talked, and a touch of gallantry was in his greeting, "I wish I felt as well as you look." He asked about Henley, the news of whose death had come a day or two before. He watched the little mother cat as she ran about the studio. There was a return of vigour in his voice when Miss Birnie Philip brought him a cup of chicken broth and he cried, "Take the damned thing away," and his old charm was in the apology that followed, but, he said, if he ate every half-hour or so as the doctor wanted, how could he be expected to have an appetite for dinner? He dozed a little, but woke up quickly with a show of interest in everything, and when, on the arrival of Mr. Lavery, E. got up to go, fearing that more than one visitor would tire him, he asked, "But why do you go so soon?" and these were the last words he ever spoke to her.

When J. returned to town, on Friday the 17th, he immediately started for Chelsea, but met Mr. T. R. Way, who had been lunching with Mr. Freer at the Carlton, and from whom he learnt that Whistler and Mr. Freer were to go for a drive.

There was no drive that afternoon--no drive ever again. The illness had been long, the end was swift. Whistler was dying before Mr. Freer reached the house. On Thursday he had seemed much better, had gone for a drive, and was so well at dinner that Mrs. Whibley told him laughingly he would soon again be dressing to dine. But after lunch on Friday she was called hurriedly to the studio, where Miss Birnie Philip was already. They realised the seriousness of the attack. The doctor was sent for, but the need for him had passed.

The papers during the next few days showed how Whistler's fame had grown. We saw another side which the public could not see--the affection in which he was held by those who knew him intimately. Many came to us at once: M. Duret, who had lost the last of his old comrades--first Manet, then Zola, and now Whistler, with whom the best hours of his life were spent; Mr. Kennedy, whose business relations with Whistler had developed into warm friendship; Sir John Lavery, Professor Sauter, Mr. Harry Wilson, their one thought to express their love and reverence for their President. Other artists followed, others wrote, and our sorrow for the friend was tempered by knowing how deep and widespread was the regret for the master. Mr. Heinemann returned from New York too late to see Whistler again, and both he and J. were spared the sad memory of Whistler with the life faded from his face, the light gone from his eyes.

The funeral took place on Wednesday, July 22. The service was held in old Chelsea Church, to which he had so often walked with his mother from Lindsey Row. There was a comparatively small attendance. The members of his own family who came were his sister-in-law, Mrs. William Whistler, and his nieces, Mrs. Thynne and Mrs. Réveillon. The Society with which, in his last years, he had identified his interests was represented by the Council: Professor Sauter, Mr. Harry Wilson, Mr. Francis Howard, Mr. Ludovici, Mr. Stirling Lee, Mr. Neven du Mont, Mr. E. A. Walton, and J. Here and there were friends, Mr. Alan S. Cole, Mr. Heinemann, Mrs. Edwin A. Abbey, Dr. Chalmers Mitchell, Mr. W. C. Alexander, Mr. Clifford Addams, Mr. Jonathan Sturgis; and here and there Academicians, Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema and Sir Alfred East. But Whistler, who valued official recognition, was given none. No one from the American Embassy paid the last tribute of respect to the most distinguished American citizen who ever lived in London. No one from the French Embassy attended the funeral of the Officer of the Legion of Honour. No one from the German Embassy joined in the last rites of the member of two German Royal Academies and the Knight of the Order of St. Michael of Bavarit. Nor was anyone present from the Italian Embassy, though Whistler was Commander of the Crown of Italy and member of the Academy of St. Luke. The only body officially represented besides the International was the Royal Scottish Academy. The police came to restrain the crowd, but there was no crowd.

The coffin was carried the short distance from the house to the church along the shores of the river he made his own. It was covered with a purple pall, upon which lay a wreath of gold laurel leaves sent by his Society. The pall-bearers were M. Théodore Duret, Sir James Guthrie, Sir John Lavery, Edwin A. Abbey, George Vanderbilt, and Mr. Charles L. Freer. The little funeral procession that walked with the coffin from the house to the church included Miss Birnie Philip, Mrs. Charles Whibley, their sisters, brother, and nephews, Mr. William Webb, and Arthur Studd, but none of his own family, none of the group with whom he had been most intimate in his last years. After the burial service was read, the procession re-formed, and the family, the Council of the International, and a few friends went to the graveyard at Chiswick. It was a grey, stormy summer day, and as the clergyman said the last prayers, and the coffin was lowered, the thick London atmosphere wrapped the green enclosure in the magic and mystery that Whistler was the first to see and to reveal. The grave was made by the side of his wife under a wall covered with clematis. A tomb designed by his stepson, E. Godwin, now covers the little plot of ground where Whistler, the greatest artist and most striking personality of the nineteenth century, lies at rest in a remote corner of the London he loved, not far from the house, and nearer the grave, of Hogarth, who had been to him the greatest English master from the days of his boyhood in St. Petersburg.

THE END OF THE LIFE OF JAMES ABBOTT McNEILL WHISTLER. HIS NAME AND HIS FAME WILL LIVE FOR EVER. JOSEPH PENNELL. ELIZABETH ROBINS PENNELL

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