Read Ebook: Whistler Stories by Seitz Don Carlos Compiler

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Ebook has 557 lines and 25629 words, and 12 pages

"Exquisite musician--played the violin like a professional," said one.

"One of the best-dressed men in London," said another.

"Danced divinely," remarked the third.

"Ever read his essays?" asked a fourth. "In my opinion they're the best of the kind ever written."

Whistler, who had remained silent, tapped the last speaker on the shoulder.

"Painted, too, didn't he?" he said.

A patron of art asked Whistler to tell him where a friend lived on a certain street in London, to which the artist replied:

"I can't tell you, but I know how you can find it. Just you ring up houses until you come across a caretaker who talks in B flat, and there you are."

A friend of Whistler's saw him on the street in London a few years ago talking to a very ragged little newsboy. As he approached to speak to the artist he noticed that the boy was as dirty a specimen of the London "newsy" as he had ever encountered--he seemed smeared all over--literally covered with dirt.

Whistler had just asked him a question, and the boy answered:

"Yes, sir; I've been selling papers three years."

"How old are you?" inquired Whistler.

"Seven, sir."

"Oh, you must be more than that."

"No, sir, I ain't."

Then, turning to his friend, who had overheard the conversation, Whistler said: "I don't think he could get that dirty in seven years; do you?"

Benrimo, the dramatist, who wrote "The Yellow Jacket," relates that when he was a young writer, fresh from the breezy atmosphere of San Francisco, he visited London. Coming out of the Burlington Gallery one day, he saw a little man mincing toward him, carrying a cane held before him as he walked, whom he recognized as Whistler. With Western audacity he stopped the pedestrian, introduced himself, and broke into an elaborate outburst of acclamation for the works of the master, who "ate it up," as the saying goes.

Waving his wand gently toward the famous gallery, Whistler queried:

"Been in there?"

"Oh, yes."

"See anything worth while?"

"Some splendid things, magnificent examples--"

"I'm sorry you ever approved of me," observed the master, majestically, and on he went, leaving Benrimo withered under his disdain.

Whistler had a French poodle of which he was extravagantly fond. This poodle was seized with an affection of the throat, and Whistler had the audacity to send for the great throat specialist, Mackenzie. Sir Morell, when he saw that he had been called to treat a dog, didn't like it much, it was plain. But he said nothing. He prescribed, pocketed a big fee, and drove away. The next day he sent posthaste for Whistler. And Whistler, thinking he was summoned on some matter connected with his beloved dog, dropped his work and rushed like the wind to Mackenzie's. On his arrival Sir Morell said, gravely: "How do you do, Mr. Whistler? I wanted to see you about having my front door painted."

Whistler used to tell this story about Dante Gabriel Rossetti in his later years. The great Pre-Raphaelite had invited the painter of nocturnes and harmonies to dine with him at his house in Chelsea, and when Whistler arrived he was shown into a reception-room. Seating himself, he was soon disturbed by a noise which appeared to be made by a rat or a mouse in the wainscoting of the room. This surmise was wrong, as he found the noise was in the center of the apartment. Stooping, to his amazement he saw Rossetti lying at full length under the table.

"Why, what on earth are you doing there, Rossetti?" exclaimed Whistler.

"Don't speak to me! Don't speak to me!" cried Rossetti. "That fool Morris"--meaning the famous William--"has sent to say he can't dine here to-night, and I'm so mad I'm gnawing the leg of the table."

One of the affectations of Whistler was his apparent failure to recognize persons with whom he had been on the most friendly terms. An American artist once met the impressionist in Venice, where they spent several months together painting, and he was invited to call on Whistler if he should go to Paris. The painter remembered the invitation. The door of the Paris studio was opened by Whistler himself. A cold stare was the only reply to the visitor's effusive greeting.

"Why, Mr. Whistler," cried the painter, "you surely haven't forgotten those days in Venice when you borrowed my colors and we painted together!"

"I never saw you before in all my life," replied Whistler, and slammed the door.

This habit of forgetting persons, or pretending to do so, for nobody ever knew when the lapses of recognition were due to intention or absent-mindedness, often tempted other artists to play pranks upon him. He was a man who resented a joke at his own expense, except on a few occasions, and this trait was often turned to good account.

He was at Naples soon after the incident just related had gained wide circulation. A conspiracy was entered into whereby the Whistler worshipers there were to be unaware of his presence. He tried to play billiards with a company of young artists. They met his advance with a stony glare.

"Oh, I say," persisted he, "I think I know something of that game. I'd like to play."

A consultation was held, and the artists shook their heads, inquiring of one another, "Who is he?" Whistler retired crestfallen, and a roar of laughter which rang through the room added to his discomfiture.

"Oh, well," he said, pulling nervously at his mustache, and his tone was petulant, "I don't care."

Mr. Chase has contributed largely to the budget of Whistler anecdotes. One day when the two men were painting together in Whistler's studio in London, a wealthy woman visited them with the demand, which she had made many times before, that Whistler return to her a picture by himself which he had borrowed several years before to place on exhibition. The suave voice of Whistler was heard in argument, and he finally induced his patron to depart without the work of art.

When she had gone he returned to his work, muttering something about the absurdity of some persons who believed that because they had paid two hundred pounds for a picture they thought they thereby owned it.

"Besides," he said, "there is absolutely nothing else in her house to compare with it, and it would be out of place."

"Chase," said Whistler one day, "how-is it now in America? Do you find there, as you do in London, that in houses filled with beautiful pictures and superb statuary, and other objects of artistic merit, there is invariably some damned little thing on the mantel that gives the whole thing away?" Mr. Chase replied, sadly: "It is even so, but you must remember, Whistler, that there are such things as birthdays. People are not always responsible."

Mr. Chase came up for discussion once at a little party, and Whistler's sister observed, "Mr. Chase amuses James, doesn't he, James?" James, tapping his finger-tips together lightly: "Not often, not often."

"I'm going over to London," said he once to Chase, "and there I shall have a hansom made. It shall have a white body, yellow wheels, and I'll have it lined with canary-colored satin. I'll petition the city to let me carry one lamp on it, and on the lamp there will be a white plume. I shall then be the only one."

He gave Mr. Chase some pretty hard digs. He said to him one time in the heat of a discussion on some technical point: "Chase, I am not arguing with you. I am telling you."

Reproved by Mr. Chase for antagonizing his friends, Whistler retorted:

"It is commonplace, not to say vulgar, to quarrel with your enemies. Quarrel with your friends! That's the thing to do. Now be good!"

"The good Lord made one serious mistake," he rasped to Chase, in Holland.

"What?"

"When he made Dutchmen."

When he had finished his portrait of Mr. Chase he stood off and admired the work. "Beautiful! Beautiful!" was his comment. Chase, who had irked under the queer companionship, retorted, "At least there's nothing mean or modest about you!"

During the Chase sittings, the creditors were always calling. Whistler divined their several missions with much nicety by the tone of the raps on the door.

A loud, business-like bang brought, out this comment:

"Psst! That's one and ten."

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