or two ago. It bore Whistler’s signature, but was so atrocious--imagine
a combination of Ingres and Whistler--that even the dealer doubted its
authenticity; but when a photograph was shown Whistler, he recognized
the picture and told the story.
* * * * *
Of these early days many stories are told, but they are all more or less
apocryphal. It is as natural for stories to cluster about Whistler as
for barnacles to cling to a ship. He told so many good ones that, as
with Lincoln, innumerable good, bad, and indifferent which he did not
tell are attributed to him, and thousands are told about him which have
slight foundations in fact.
It is well nigh impossible to sift the true from the false,--a thing
Whistler himself did not attempt,--though it is possible to sift the
wheat from the chaff, the inane, insipid, and pointless from the bright
and crisp.
Any man can vouch for a story, but who can vouch for a good story? The
story-teller? Heaven forbid! By all the rules of evidence the testimony
of so interested a witness is inadmissible. The better the story, the
more doubtful its authenticity,--its formal, its literal authenticity.
The better the teller, the more daring his liberties with prosaic
details. A good story-teller is a lapidary who receives his material in
the rough and polishes it into a jewel by removing three-fourths of its
substance; or, under pressure of necessity, he deftly manufactures
paste. To be without stories is the story-teller’s crime; a wit without
witticisms is no wit at all, hence the strain upon veracity.
Happily, the world conspires to help both wit and story-teller by
supplying during their lives, and in great abundance after their deaths,
stories and witticisms without end. Give a man the reputation of being a
humorist, and all he has to do is to sit discreetly silent and watch his
reputation grow. If he really deserves his reputation, he may add to his
fame by fresh activities; but if he is something of a sham, as most wits
are, he would better leave his sayings to the imaginations of others.
* * * * *
Whistler’s sense of humor was so keen, his wit so sharp, his facility in
epigram and clever sayings so extraordinary, that what are genuinely his
are better than anything others have said about him; therefore, it is a
pity some one has not jotted down first hand some of the good things
that constantly fell from his lips. Perhaps some one has, and his life
and sayings will yet appear with all the marks of authority and
authenticity.
But his sharp and exceedingly terse sayings often suffer greatly in the
telling, frequently to the loss of all point and character. The
following instance is in point:
A group of society women were once discussing the graces and
accomplishments of Frederic Leighton.
“So handsome.”
“Plays divinely.”
“Perfectly charming.”
“Sings.”
“And is so great a sculptor.”
Whereupon Whistler, who was of the party, timidly advanced the query:
“Paints a little, too, does he not?”
That is one version of an old and well-worn Whistler anecdote, and other
versions, which are at all characteristic, do not vary in more than two
or three words.
See what the story becomes in the mouth of the incompetent.[7]
“One evening a dozen of us were sitting in Broughton’s
reception-room, waiting for our carriages to be announced, and
Whistler was sitting by himself on a lounge on the other side of
the room. We were discussing the versatile talents of Frederic
Leighton, one of the leading painters of England, and afterwards
president of the Royal Academy. One spoke of his astonishing
linguistic accomplishments: he could express himself in every
European tongue and in several Oriental ones. Another mentioned his
distinguished merit as an architect: he was building an addition to
his studio which was like a vision of Aladdin or Haroun Al Rashid.
Another called attention to his ability in sculpture: a group of an
athlete and a serpent was then exhibiting in the Academy, which
challenged the works of antique art. Another mentioned his talent
as an orator: no man in London could make a better after-dinner
speech. Another praised his personal beauty and grace and his
athletic prowess. At length there fell a silence, because all of us
had contributed his or her mite of eulogy,--all of us, that is,
with the exception of Whistler, reclining on his elbow at the other
side of the room.
“By a common impulse we all glanced over at him: what would he
say? He partly raised himself from his lolling attitude and reached
for his crush hat on the sofa. ‘Yes,’ he added, slowly and
judicially, as if benevolently confirming all the praise we had
poured forth; and then, as if by an after-thought, calling our
attention to a singular fact not generally known, ‘Yes, and he can
paint, too!’”
After all the verbosity, padding, and penny-a-lining, the point is
missed by attributing to Whistler the positive averment that Leighton
could paint.
Small wonder that the writer in the next paragraph confesses:
“My own crude first attempts to understand Whistler’s paintings
were dismal failures; and of course I imagined that the failure was
in the painting, and not in myself. I could see no beauty in them:
the drawing was indeterminate; the colors were not pretty; the
pictures all seemed unfinished.”
It is less difficult than one would suppose to recall things said by
Whistler, for he would repeat a good thing and was always polishing.
For instance, in his controversy with the critics he originally said
that “Ruskin’s high-sounding, empty things ... flow of language that
would, could he hear it, give Titian the same shock of surprise that was
Balaam’s when the first great critic proffered his opinion.”
A very literal correspondent wrote to the papers that the “ass was
right,” and quoted the Bible in proof.
Nothing daunted, Whistler acknowledged the hit, saying, “But, I fancy,
you will admit that this is the only ass on record who ever did see the
Angel of the Lord, and that we are past the age of miracles.”
Years after, in referring to the matter, he improved his reply to, “But
I fancy you will admit that this is the only ass on record that ever was
right, and the age of miracles is past.”
* * * * *
His love of epigram was so great that nothing which was terse or pointed
escaped his ears or fled his memory.
One day, while lunching with a friend who knew something about the
habits and eccentricities of good wine, Whistler was telling about the
peculiarities of Henry James, how James would drag a slender incident
through several pages until it was exhausted, whereupon his friend
casually remarked:
“The best of wine is spoiled by too small a spiggot.”
Immediately alert, Whistler said:
“What’s that? what’s that you said? Did you get that out of
Shakespeare?”
“Not at all; it is simply a physical fact that if you let good wine
dribble through a small spiggot you lose its fragrance and character.”
“God bless me, but I believe you are right; and it’s a good
saying,--it’s James to a--drop.”
* * * * *
No doubt there are many still living who knew Whistler in those early
Paris days, but if so, few have so far made known their reminiscences.
One fellow-student describes one of the places they used to dine
inexpensively as follows:[8]
“In Paris, in the fifties, there existed in the Rue de la
Michandiere what appeared to be an ordinary Paris creamery. In the
front shop were sold milk, butter, and eggs. Over the door was the
usual painted tin coffee-pot, indicating that _caffé au lait_, and
eggs, butter, and rolls could be obtained in the back room.
“The place was kept by Madame Busque, who had been a governess in a
private family in the south of France, and having saved a little
money, had come to Paris and opened a creamery. The very day she
opened her shop, Mr. Chase, Paris correspondent of the New York
_Times_, passing by, was attracted by the clean look of the place,
and stepped in for his early breakfast of coffee and rolls. The
little back room contained two round tables, and beyond was the
kitchen with the usual charcoal broiler and little furnaces. Chase
was so pleased that he came again, and getting acquainted with
Madame, who was well educated and very ladylike and anxious to
please, arranged for a dinner at 6.30 for a party of four.
Everything was good and so well served that soon she had a regular
custom of American residents,--literary men, artists, and students
of all kinds, art, scientific, literary, and medical,--and soon the
place became famous. American dishes were introduced,--mince and
pumpkin pies and buckwheat cakes. It was not easy to reproduce
these things in Paris. The pumpkin pie was a trouble. Madame was
told how to make it by a man who only knew how it looked and
tasted, and who neglected to mention the crust; and as Madame had
no knowledge of pies in general, she served the first pumpkin pie
as a soup in a tureen. Just at that time came in a bright young
woman, introduced by one of the _habitués_, who offered to come
next forenoon and show Madame Busque how to make a genuine Yankee
pumpkin pie, which she did; and the pies produced in that little
creamery were famous and were sent out to Americans all over Paris.
Fine carriages, including that of the American minister, to the
amazement of the neighborhood, would call for these pies to take
home.
“Among the _habitués_ was young Whistler, then an art student. He
was bright, original, and amusing, but gave at that time no promise
of any particular ability as an artist. His drawing was careless. I
remember one of his pictures,--a woman seated at the piano, a
little child playing on the floor. The piano was so out of drawing
that it looked as if it were falling over. As students are always
fond of guying each other, one said to Whistler, ‘Hurry and put a
fifth leg under that piano or it will fall and smash the baby.’
“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.”
[Illustration]
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: