(A REMINISCENCE OF A RECENT EXHIBITION.)
SCENE--_The Goupil Gallery. Groups of more or less puzzled
Britons discovered, conscientiously endeavouring to do justice
to the Collection, having realised that Mr. WHISTLER's work
is now considered entitled to serious consideration, but
feeling themselves unable to get beyond a timid tolerance.
In addition to these, there are Frank Philistines who are
here with a fixed intention of being funny, Matrons with a
strongly domesticated taste in Art, Serious Elderly Ladies,
Literal Persons, &c., &c._
_A Lady_ (_after looking at a representation of Old Battersea
Bridge--in the tone of a person who feels she is making a liberal
concession_). Well, do you know, I must say that _isn't_ so bad. I
shouldn't so much mind having _that_ in the room, should you?
[Illustration: A Brother Brush.]
_Her Companion_ (_dubiously_). Well, I don't know. He's put a steamer
in. Should you think there _were_ steamers in--a--(_vaguely_)--those
days?
_First Lady_ (_evidently considering Mr. WHISTLER capable of any
eccentricity_). Oh, I don't suppose he would mind _that_ much.
_First Literal Person_ (_coming to the portrait of Miss ALEXANDER_).
Well--(_plaintively_)--he _might_ have put a nicer expression on the
child!
_Second Do. Do._ Yes--very unpleasing. (_Refers to Catalogue._) Oh,
I see it says--"It is simply a disagreeable presentment of a
disagreeable young lady."
_First Do. Do._ (_rejoicing that the painter has vindicated himself
this time_). Ah--that _explains_ it, then. Of course if he _meant_
it--!
_A Serious Elderly Lady._ There's one thing I must say I _do_ like, my
dear, and that's the way he puts down all the unfavourable criticisms
on his pictures. So straightforward and honest of him, _I_ call it.
_Her Companion._ Yes, but I expect he can't help seeing how right and
sensible the critics are, you know. Still--(_charitably_)--it shows he
would do better if he _could_!
_An Advanced Nephew_ (_who is endeavouring to convert a Philistine
Uncle to the superiority of the Modern School_). Now here, Uncle,
look at this. Look at the way the figure looms out of the canvas, look
at the learning in the simple sweep of the drapery, the _drawing_ of
it, and the masterly grace of the pose--you don't mean to tell me you
don't call _that_ a magnificent portrait?
_His Uncle._ Who's it of? That's what _I_ want to know first.
_Nephew_ (_coldly_). You will find it in the Catalogue, no doubt--No.
41.
_Uncle_ (_looking it up_). "_Arrangement in Black. La Dame au
Brodequin Jaune._"--the lady in a yellow something or other. Tchah!
And not a word to tell you who she's supposed to _be_? If I pay a
shilling for a Catalogue, I expect to find information in it. And let
me ask you--where's the interest in looking at a portrait when you're
not told who it's intended for?
[_The Nephew, not being prepared to answer this difficult
query, leads his relative gently up to a "Nocturne in Opal and
Silver." The Uncle conveys his opinion of it by a loud and
expressive snort._
_First Prosaic Person_ (_before No. 28_). Valparaiso, is it?
(_Hopefully._) Well, come, I _ought_ to recognise this--I've _been_
there often enough. (_Inspecting it closely._) Ha--um!
_Second P.P._ (_with languid interest_). Is it _like_?
_First P.P._ I could tell you better if he'd done it by daylight.
I can't make out this in the front--looks to me like the top of a
_house_, or something. Don't remember _that_.
_Second P.P._ I think it's meant for a jetty, landing-stage, or that
sort of thing, and, when you look _into_ it, there's something that
seems intended for people--_most_ extraordinary, isn't it?
_The Domesticated Matron_ (_who is searching for a picture with a
subject to it_). There, CAROLINE, it's evidently a _harbour_, you see,
and ships, and they're letting off fireworks--probably for a regatta,
Does it tell you what it is in the Catalogue?
_Caroline_ (_after consulting it_). It only says, "_A Nocturne in Blue
and Gold_"--oh yes--(_reading_)--"a splash and splutter of brightness,
on a black ground, to depict a display of fireworks."
_Her Mother_ (_gratified at her own intelligence_). I thought it
_must_ be fireworks. He seems quite _fond_ of fireworks, doesn't he?
_First Facetious Philistine._ Hullo, what have we got here?
"_Crepuscule, in Flesh-colour and Green._" Very _like_ one, too,
daresay--when you know what it is.
_Second F.P._ As far as I can make it out, a Crepuscule's either a
Harmony inside out, or a Symphony upside down--it don't much matter.
_A Lady_ (_who is laboriously trying to catch the right spirit_).
"_The Blue Wave at Biarritz_." Now I _do_ admire that. And what I like
even better than the Blue wave is this great Brown one breaking in the
foreground--so exactly _like_ water, isn't it, DICK?
_Dick_ (_not a Whistlerite_). Y--yes--just. Only it's a rock, you
know.
_The Lady._ But if that's the way he _saw_ it, DICK!
_Dick._ Here's a thing! "_St. Mark's, Venice_." I'll _trouble_ you!
What's he done with the flagstaffs and the bronze horses and the
pigeons? _I_ never saw the place look like that.
_The Lady._ Because it didn't happen to be _foggy_ while we were
there, that's all.
_First Pros. Person._ Ah, there's old CARLYLE, you see! Dear me, what
a very badly fitting coat--see how it bulges over his chest!
_Second P.P._ Yes. I daresay he buttoned the wrong button--philosopher
and all that sort o' thing, y'know.
_First P.P._ (_sympathetically_). Well, I _do_ think WHISTLER might
have _told_ him of it!