VIII The Royal Society of British Artists — In Paris Once More — At Home and at Work
In June, 1886, Whistler was elected president of the Royal Society of British Artists.
Prior to that time he had exhibited in the rooms of the society in Suffolk Street, and he was no doubt elected to give life to a moribund association. He succeeded beyond the wildest anticipations of the most sanguine members.
He rearranged the exhibitions by excluding sufficient of the unworthy to leave ample space on the walls for the proper exhibition of such pictures as were accepted.
When the Prince of Wales, now King Edward, visited the galleries for the first time, Whistler, as president, received him. And when the prince said he had never before heard of the society and asked its history, Whistler, with the grace of a courtier, replied:
“It has none, your Highness. Its history dates from to-day.”
Two years of so revolutionary a president were all the ancient association could stand. As has been well said:45
“That Suffolk-Street episode was, perhaps, the oddest of an odd career. The most mediocre and middle-class of all the artistic societies of London was in low water, and the thought occurred to some revolutionary members to make Whistler president. It was like electing a sparrow-hawk to rule a community of bats. Some of the bats moved out, some followers of the sparrow-hawk came in; but the interesting new community did not last long. The suburban ladies, who had been the support of the Society of British Artists, were shocked at the changes. They found no pleasure in the awning stretched across the middle of the room, the battened walls, the spaced-out ‘impressionist’ pictures, and the total absence of the anecdotes and bright colors which they loved. A few hundred visitors of another sort came, and were charmed, but the commercial test of success was not satisfied. Before long Whistler ceased to be president, and the society, under a more congruous chief, ‘relapsed to its ancient mood.’”
When he failed of re-election many of his friends resigned.
“It is all very simple,” he said. “The ‘Royal Society of British Artists’ has disintegrated,—the ‘Artists’ have come out, the ‘British’ remain.”
When interviewed to obtain his explanation of the “state of affairs:”
“The state of affairs?” said Mr. Whistler, in his light and airy way, raising his eyebrows and twinkling his eyes, as if it were all the best possible fun in the world; “why, my dear sir, there’s positively no state of affairs at all. Contrary to public declaration, there’s actually nothing chaotic in the whole business. On the contrary, everything is in order, and just as it should be,—the survival of the fittest as regards the presidency, don’t you see; and, well—Suffolk Street is itself again! A new government has come in; and, as I told the members the other night, I congratulate the society on the result of their vote: for no longer can it be said that the right man is in the wrong place. No doubt their pristine sense of undisturbed somnolence will again settle upon them after the exasperated mental condition arising from the unnatural strain recently put upon the old ship. Eh? what? ha! ha!”
He painted a signboard for the entrance to the galleries,—a lion and a butterfly,—a “harmony in gold and red,” with which, he says, “I took as much trouble as I did with the best picture I ever painted.”
But his successor in office clothed the golden lion “with a coat of dirty black,” and effaced the butterfly entirely; whereupon he called the society to task for destroying the work of a fellow-artist, and the entire episode appears in the “Gentle Art” as only he could tell it.
In 1887 he married the widow of E. W. Godwin, the architect of the “White House,” and not long after they went to live in Paris, at 110 Rue du Bac.
The narrow passage-way that leads from the street to where they lived is, like thousands of others in Old Paris, just an archway between two shops, unpromising and uninviting.
Passing through, one finds a small paved court immediately in the rear, and on three sides of this court the entrances and windows of the apartments and houses opening therefrom.
The court itself is not without interest. On one side there is an old bronze fountain, long since dry; about the walls a sculptured frieze, much the worse for wear; everything of by-gone days,—the very architecture, in all its details, of another generation.
Whistler’s entrance was on the ground floor, just across the little court. On a memorable day the bell was answered by a solemn-faced English servant,—possibly more than ordinarily solemn-faced, because that particular morning he was in great disfavor, and was subsequently discharged for a cumulation of shortcomings which would have exhausted the patience of an ordinary man thrice over. But Whistler—all impressions to the contrary, notwithstanding—was a man of infinite patience with sitter and servant,—the work of the latter being considerably lighter than that of the former. Under only the greatest provocation would he discharge either.
Passing through the door, one went down several steps into the small hall, and through that into the reception-room.
This room was a revelation of the personality of the artist,—simple, dignified, harmonious; it was restful and charming to the last degree. The details were so unobtrusive that it is difficult to recall particular features. The floor was covered with a coarse, dark-blue matting; the panelled walls were in pure white and blue, while the ceiling was in a light shade of blue. The room stood firmly on its feet, unlike so many in even the best of houses, which have floors so light and walls so dark that everything is topsy-turvy.
Color seeks and finds its level; light floors, with darker walls and ceilings, reverse the natural order of things, and compel people to live on their heads.
The few pieces of furniture were of an old pattern, graceful almost to fragility, and covered with some light stuff which harmonized with the tone of the walls.
There were but two pictures in the room, one at each end, both sketches by Whistler, “harmonies” or “arrangements” in color rather than compositions. The “key” being blue, the pictures blended with the walls, as all pictures should, as if part of the original scheme of decoration.
When a visitor, who was fascinated by the color of these two studies, asked the painter if he would part with them, he said:
“God bless me, no! I am going to do something big some day from those. Pretty, eh?”
His studio was filled with just such “notes” and “jottings” of schemes in color and composition, and from each it was his intention to work out something more important and complete; but such was the fertility of his imagination that no man could hope to carry even a fraction to finished conclusions.
Near the fireplace, at one end of the room, was a little old-fashioned table covered with writing-materials,—paper of the smallest size, a dainty ink-stand, and several quill pens. This was the table of controversy, the battlefield of disputation, the veritable mount of irony, while the ink-well was the fountain of exquisite sarcasm, and the quill pens the scalpels which laid bare the vital recesses of unlucky opponents.
It was the habit of the painter, in his idle moments, to sit at this little table, with a small cup of coffee and a cigarette, and write those barbed and pointed notes which, like so many banderillas, irritated to frenzy the bulls they were aimed at.
The far side of the room opened into one of those quaint old gardens so often found tucked away in the midst of crumbling buildings on the ancient thoroughfares. Its narrow confines were enlarged to the eye by winding, gravelled walks and vistas of flowers and bushes; the rickety seats, half hidden by the foliage, invited the loiterer to repose, and the high wall beyond suggested the gloomy confines of some convent or deserted monastery.
“A picturesque spot. Once at dusk there came the tinkle of a far-off bell, as if for vesper prayers; the years rolled back, and visions of other days flitted along the garden paths; stately dames in rich brocades, with powder, patch, and high coiffure, and gallant courtiers with graved and jewelled blades, whose whispered vows were no more stable than the sound of rustling leaves.”
Here of a Sunday afternoon Mrs. Whistler frequently served tea, and in this garden he made some of his best lithographs.
At home Whistler was the most delightful of—guests. The cares of hospitality sat lightly upon him.
To the caller who had come at the appointed hour, and had waited for thirty or forty minutes, he would apologize so delightfully for the “unpardonable delay,” that a prince could take no offence, much less an ordinary visitor, who could profitably spend the time in studying the harmonious surroundings.
It is difficult to describe the charm of his manner, so different from the notion of it that prevails generally.
He was far more easy of approach than most celebrities; and once within the charmed circle, he was the most agreeable and companionable of living men.
He would make the diffident feel instantly at ease, and he would exert himself to interest even the stupid visitor, but he would not encourage him to come again.
His own talk was so bright that it was unnecessary for any guest to say much,—a capacity for listening appreciatively being the best qualification. Still, he did not monopolize the conversation. He himself was one of the keenest listeners that ever sat at a dinner-table; nothing escaped him. And if by chance some one said a good thing, he was the first to applaud it.
In company it was impossible to draw him into serious discussion. If the attempt were made, it usually led to a monologue on his part on some branch of the topic under discussion,—a monologue so extravagant, so funny, so irresistible in its humor and denunciation that the entire company would turn and listen with delight.
No one who has ever heard his comparison of the Englishman who carries his tub and sponge on the top of the coach to parade his cleanliness with the French who had vast public baths before England was discovered can ever forget the inimitable wit and humor and—underlying truth of it all. Again, his description of the Germans,—a people that call a glove a hand-shoe. Well, it is idle to even call to mind these things; they will never be heard again, and no report could do them justice.
A lady, after visiting him, said, “He is like no other human being; a creature of moods and epigrams, but perfectly delightful. I feel as if I’d been conversing with a flash of lightning in a brown velvet coat.”
No man could draw him out of malice aforethought. It was fatal to say:
“Mr. Whistler, do tell that story of the——” etc.
Of that sort he was no story-teller at all, and if persistently urged, would close up like a clam; but, if left to himself, he would take part in any conversation that might be started, and would soon take the lead, not obviously or offensively, but naturally, and say things that would make the professed wit dumb with envy. He would say things he had said, or even printed, before, if the subject warranted it. He might even go a bit out of his way to drag in a good thing which he thought would fit; but for the most part his talk was the spontaneous utterance of the occasion.
He was known to every “chef” and “maître d’hôtel” in London and Paris,—for, while he ate and drank most sparingly, he was exceedingly fastidious.
He did not care greatly for the large caravansaries like the “Ritz,” where people go to perform in public astounding gastronomic feats; but he knew every place in Paris where a really good dish was to be had at a moderate price, and every such place gave him the best it had.
Nearly every sketch, drawing, or portrait of Whistler gives some phase of his many-sided personality, but not one—not even those by himself—gives anything like an adequate conception.
He was a man most difficult to place on canvas. He could not be grasped and held long enough. He himself tried it, but with only moderate success. Others have tried it and failed completely,—that is, failed to portray him at his best; for that matter, no one who has ever drawn or painted him did so when he was at his best, for those moments came only in the seclusion of his own studio, when, alone with model or sitter, he worked absolutely oblivious to everything but his art. No man is at his best when posing for photograph, sketch, or portrait, and Whistler was farther from being an exception to this rule than most others. He knew too well what a portrait should be to feel the indifference which is essential to a perfectly natural pose. Consequently, while few men were better known by sight in Paris and London, scarce any one knew him as he was,—the most profoundly serious, conscientious, and consistent artist of his day and generation.
As has been stated, he was always exceedingly particular about his dress,—as finicky as a woman. In his early London days he carried a long, slender wand, like a mahl-stick, for a cane, and was conspicuous wherever he went, not only on account of his diminutive size, but also by his stick and dress.
An attendant at an exhibition once wished to relieve him of his cane, but he exclaimed:
“Oh, no, my man! I keep this for the critics.”
The following, by a London correspondent, is a very good description, though of late years he had abandoned the cane and his hair was somewhat grayer:
“They say Whistler is fifty-six. But years have nothing to do with him. He is as young in spirit, as lithe in body, as dapper in ‘get-up’ as he was twenty years ago.
“Is there another man in London with such vitality as Whistler has,—I care not what his age,—another so dainty, another so sprightly in wit? Do you see that dapper gentleman coming along Cheyne Walk, silk hat with very tall crown and very straight brim; habit apparently broadcloth (frock coat), fitting to perfection a supple figure; feet small as a girl’s,—an American girl’s; hands delicately gloved in yellow; in the right hand a lithe, slim wand, twice as long as a walking stick; glass in eye; black moustache and slight ‘imperial;’ black hair with wavy threads of gray here and there? The dainty gentleman lifts his hat, and you see above his forehead the slender, white lock—the white plume as famous as that of Navarre. This is our friend Whistler, the inimitable, truly called ‘the master.’ You may meet him in the early morning, or at a private view in the afternoon, at an evening party, two hours before midnight or two hours after it; and you will find him as fresh in spirit, as dainty, as lively, as witty at one time as at another.”
Some one once gave him an American umbrella,—one of those that when rolled tightly are as small as walking-sticks. He was delighted with it, and used it as a cane. One day, coming out of the studio with a friend, and while hurrying to the cab-stand a few blocks away, it began to drizzle, and his friend, who had no umbrella, said:
“Hurry and put up your umbrella or we’ll get our hats wet.”
He fumbled a second at the umbrella, then hurried on.
“But I would get my umbrella wet.”
It was commonly said Whistler was unapproachable. In his studio, when at work, yes; in his home, no.
A note of introduction from any approved correspondent would almost invariably bring a favorable response. But not every correspondent was approved; or if so at one time, did not necessarily remain so indefinitely, and a note from the wrong—perhaps wronged—source was no commendation at all. On the whole, a frank application from a stranger for permission to call was quite as likely as not to prove successful, such a note in itself being a tribute.
But at the studio it was very different. He had no reception-days or hours, as many painters have. He had no use for the social rabble in his workshop.
One warm afternoon, when hard at work, the bell rang. Brush in hand, he went to the outer door at the head of the six flights of steep, slippery oak stairs, and found there Mr. C——, whom he knew,—a man who had little to do but bother others,—and Lady D——, a distinguished and clever woman, both out of breath from their long climb.
“Ah! my dear Mr. Whistler,” drawled C——, “I have taken the liberty of bringing Lady D—— to see you. I knew you would be delighted.”
“Delighted! I’m sure; quite beyond expression; but,”—mysteriously, and holding the door so as to bar their entrance,—“my dear Lady D——, I would never forgive our friend for bringing you up six flights of stairs on so hot a day to visit a studio at one of those—eh—pagan moments when”—and he glanced furtively behind him and still further closed the door—“it is absolutely impossible for a lady to be received. Upon my soul, I should never forgive him.”
And the lady looked daggers at her confused cavalier, as Whistler bowed them down the six flights of oaken stairs and returned to resume work on the portrait of a very sedate old gentleman, who had taken advantage of the interruption to break for a moment the rigor of his pose.
In those days and for many years the Paris studio was at No. 86 Notre Dame des Champs. Whistler said one day, “Only the French have any taste in the naming of streets.”
The six steep flights of polished oak stairs no doubt shortened his life by many years. As long ago as 1894 he was accustomed to take a long rest on a settee at the head of the third flight, and again on reaching the top. Later he would have his luncheon served in the studio to avoid the fatigue of going down and coming back. He was by no means an old man, and looked the picture of health, cheeks ruddy, eye bright; but he would get out of breath, and his heart gave him trouble,—startled him at times with its eccentricities and warnings.
A blunt friend, frightened at seeing him one day almost collapse on reaching the studio, said:
“I tell you, Whistler, those stairs will be the death of you; and I’ll be hanged if I am coming here any more with you, for you’ll die on my hands, and that would get me into a nice mess. Why don’t you have a studio on the ground floor?”
“When I die—I will.”
But while casual callers met with scant courtesy at the studio, he was, as has already been noted, exceptionally cordial to all who were sincerely interested in his work, and would spend hours and hours of days that were precious in showing pictures to people who really could not understand them,—for that matter, who did understand them?—but who were honest in their expressions of approval, and this, too, with no thought of selling anything he had; in fact, nothing chilled the enthusiasm of the moment so much as the suggestion of a purchase; he became immediately a different being, and one by one his treasures would be turned to the wall.
The studio was a large barn-like room at the very top of the high building. There was a small entryway, which had a glass door opening out upon a balcony, high up over the street, and another door which opened into the studio proper.
A huge skylight lighted this great attic, but only in part, for the room was too big to be well lighted from any one opening.
The old oak floor was quite dark, and in places where he worked it was polished by use, for when entirely absorbed he had the habit of moving back and forth so quickly as to slide a pace or two.
The tone of the studio was brown, not a deep or muddy brown, but a brown that seemed tinged with gray.
The base-board that stretched a narrow line about the big room was a deeper shade than the wall, and so nice were the gradations of tone, that floor, base-board, wall, and raftered ceiling blended together as one harmonious whole, all of which was the work of Whistler.
The furniture amounted to nothing: a table near the far side, where he lunched, an old sofa against the wall under the skylight, two or three old French chairs, his easel and palette. There was a high stove near the door,—one of those French complications intended for the generation of a maximum of heat with a minimum consumption of precious coal. Like most labor-saving devices, it required some skill for its management, and Whistler was not a mechanic.
One cold day it was only too apparent the stove needed encouragement, and the sitter suggested that the damper be opened,—in fact, started to open it himself, when Whistler, greatly alarmed, exclaimed:
“God bless me! but you must not touch that; the last time I meddled with it, the fire went out. There is only one man in Paris who understands that stove.”
“Well, where is he?”
“Dear me, I discharged him to-day. How unlucky.”
“Then, we must seize the stove by the horns and take our chances on the consequences.” And throwing the damper wide open, there was soon a blazing fire.
For work outside, Whistler used a very small palette of the usual form; in his studio he carried no palette whatsoever, but used in lieu thereof a rectangular table that resembled a writing-desk. The top sloped slightly; at the left were tubes of colors, at the right one or two bowls containing oil and turpentine, with which the colors when mixed were reduced so thin that they would run on the sloping top of the table.
He relied upon innumerable coats of thin color to secure the desired effect rather than upon one or two coats of greater consistency. This made the work long and tedious as compared with the modern mode of taking the pigments as they squirm from the tubes and pasting them while yet alive on the canvas; but it has undoubtedly given his pictures a permanency and durability far beyond that of others.
He seldom began to arrange his palette until the model or sitter was in pose; and ten or fifteen minutes were not infrequently spent in getting palette and brushes to suit him. To a model paid by the hour this delay was of no concern, but to the unpractised sitter, whose limit of endurance and patience did not exceed an hour, the time spent in setting the palette seemed unduly long and altogether wasted. But all that was a part of the refinement of Whistler’s art.
So susceptible was his color-sense that he could not mix colors to suit him unless canvas and sitter were before him precisely as they would be when he began to paint. The arrangement of the colors on the palette was but preliminary to placing those same colors on the canvas, therefore the sitter was as essential to the one process as the other.
Once inside his studio, Whistler seemed to lose all the eccentricities of manner by which he was known to the world. He doffed his coat, substituted for his monocle a pair of servicable spectacles, and was ready for work.
If it were a full-length portrait, he placed the canvas near his palette and his sitter in pose about four feet to the other side of the easel. For observation he stood about twelve feet back towards the doorway,—very close, in fact, to the refractory stove. The light fell slanting on the right of the portrait and sitter, over the painter’s left shoulder, and this light he would modify each day according to the amount of sunshine and the effect he desired.
He then selected two or three small brushes with handles about three feet in length, stood back about twelve feet, took a good look at both sitter and canvas, then stepping quickly forward, and, standing as far from the canvas as the long handles and his arms permitted, he began to rapidly sketch in the figure with long, firm strokes of the brush. The advantage of long handles was obvious,—they enabled him to stand back quite a distance and sketch directly from his sitter. Except for this first sketch, he used ordinary brushes with ordinary handles.
There was nothing eccentric or unusual in his methods or in what he worked with. Probably no painter in all Paris used simpler means to arrive at great results. It is quite likely that no other painter of to-day—judging entirely from appearances of modern canvases—could achieve any satisfactory results with materials so elemental.
To make the sketch required possibly thirty minutes. To the casual observer there was often more of a likeness in the first sketch than at any time after,—which simply goes to show the power of line devoid of color and also the easy task of the caricaturist.
The sketch finished, the long-handled brushes were discarded and work began in earnest. With one or more, sometimes a handful of brushes,—for they would accumulate without his realizing it,—he would again stand back and carefully scrutinize sitter and canvas until it seemed as if—and no doubt it was so—he transferred a visual impression of the subject to the canvas and fixed it there ready to be made permanent with line and color; then quickly, often with a run and a slide, he rushed up to the canvas and, without glancing at his sitter, vigorously painted so long as his visual image lasted, then going back the full distance he took another look, and so on day after day to the end.
In life-size work he seldom stood close to the canvas and painted direct from his sitter.
He has laid down the proposition:
“The one aim of the unsuspecting painter is to make his man ’stand out’ from the frame, never doubting that, on the contrary, he should really, and in truth absolutely does, stand within the frame, and at a depth behind it equal to the distance at which the painter sees his model. The frame is, indeed, the window through which the painter looks at his model, and nothing could be more offensively inartistic than this brutal attempt to thrust the model on the hitherside of this window.”46
The number of sittings required varied greatly, and did not depend in any degree upon the size of the canvas. Sometimes he would paint a life-size figure with great rapidity; again he would spend weeks and months on a very small picture. All depending upon conditions over which he had no control.
He has devoted as many as ninety sittings to a portrait, only to pronounce it unfinished and unsatisfactory.
No work counted or was permitted to remain save that painted in what he called his “grand manner,” which meant the work of those days and hours when everything—sitter, light, weather, spirits, mood, enthusiasm—was just right,—a combination that might come several days in succession or but once in a fortnight.
He once said, “The portrait of my mother was painted in a few hours,” meaning that the work of the last few hours was the work that really counted.
It was interesting to watch a picture grow under the hands of Whistler. With most painters something is finished from day to day, and in the course of ten or twelve sittings the portrait is complete. Not so with him. Nothing, not a detail, not even an infinitesimal section of the background was finished until the last.
He worked with great rapidity and long hours, but he used his colors thin and covered the canvas with innumerable coats of paint. The colors increased in depth and intensity as the work progressed. At first the entire figure was painted in grayish-brown tones, with very little of flesh color, the whole blending perfectly with the grayish-brown of the prepared canvas; then the entire background would be intensified a little; then the figure made a little stronger; then the background, and so on from day to day and week to week, and often from month to month, to the exhaustion of the sitter, but the perfection of the work, if the sitter remained patient and continued in favor.
At no time did he permit the figure to get away from or out of the background; at no time did he permit the background to oppress the figure, but the development of both was even and harmonious, with neither discord nor undue contrast.
And so the portrait would really grow, really develop as an entirety, very much as a negative under the action of the chemicals comes out gradually—lights, shadows, and all from the first faint indications to their full values.
It was as if the portrait were hidden within the canvas and the master by passing his wands day after day over the surface evoked the image.
Most painters can take a canvas and begin at once with the colors of the finished picture, making each stroke count from the very first, often, if the canvas has been prepared, doing little or nothing to the background. Whistler himself would sometimes let the prepared canvas show, all the resources of his art he understood, but if he did, the picture was simply a sketch.
In a very profound sense Whistler’s work from the very beginning was always finished,—finished in the sense that any growing thing is perfect from day to day. The plant may be but a tender shoot just appearing above the ground, or it may be in full leaf, or in gorgeous blossom, but it is finished, it is perfect by day and night. In that sense were Whistler’s paintings finished. If they were sketches, then the slight amount of color used was precisely the amount the sketch required. At no time was the sense of proportion outraged by carrying line or color or likeness beyond the symmetrical development of the three.
One must not be understood as saying that all his pictures are of equal merit,—perfection does not necessarily mean that; nor that he did not do many things he considered failures.
Few painters ever destroyed more work, no painter was ever more critical of his own work. But, in spite of all he could do, things would get out into the world that he wished destroyed. This was due in part to the facility with which he made sketches and the enthusiasm with which he would begin new things, many of which never got on. Now and then some of these unfinished things—unfinished from the first stroke, because never quite satisfactory to him—would escape his studio.
Artists express very positive opinions regarding the merits of his pictures, placing some with the best the world has done, others as quite unworthy the master. As no two painters agree which are the best and which are the least worthy, the layman is helpless. In truth, only Whistler himself could have pointed out all the qualities and defects, and this he never did. If pressed for an opinion or a preference, he would evade the question, or by deftly speaking of this or that quality of the works under discussion would leave his hearers with the impression they knew all about the matter, when in reality they were no wiser than before. He simply did not care to discuss his work intimately with the lay or the professional mind. What he saw was beyond their comprehension, or if not beyond their comprehension, then they saw it without further words from him, for did not the picture speak plainly for itself?
Contrary to general impression, he was patience itself in his studio. A sitter who was with him every day for nearly six weeks never heard him utter an impatient word; on the contrary, he was all kindness. He would permit his sitter to bring friends to the studio, and he would listen to all the foolish suggestions that could occur to a tired and impatient man.
Sometimes he would rebuke a too-insistent sitter, as the following anecdotes show, if true:
It is said that one man annoyed him by saying at the end of each sitting:
“How about that ear, Mr. Whistler? Don’t forget to finish that!”
At the last sitting, everything being done except this ear, Whistler said:
“Well, I think I am through. Now I’ll sign it.” Which he did in a very solemn, important manner, as was his way.
“But my ear, Mr. Whistler! You aren’t going to leave it that way?”
“Oh, you can put it in after you get home.”
He was once painting the portrait of a distinguished novelist, who, though extremely clever, was not blessed with the fatal gift of beauty. When the portrait was finished, the sitter did not seem satisfied with it.
“Don’t you like it?” inquired Whistler.
“No; can’t say I do. But,” in self justification, “you must admit that it is a bad work of art.”
“Yes,” Whistler replied; “but I think you must admit that you are a bad work of nature.”
The truth is, he would listen to every suggestion made by the sitter, model, or even casual visitor, if one were admitted.
A sitter once said to him:
“Mr. Whistler, isn’t there something wrong about the right eye?”
Instantly alert, he said:
“What’s that you say? Um—um—right eye——” And he carefully examined the canvas. “We’ll have a look at that. Suppose you stand for just a moment—just a moment.” And he paid as much heed as if the criticism had come from competent sources.
Mrs. Whistler would now and then come to the studio, and he would eagerly ask her opinion of the progress made; and her suggestions were always followed. For her ability as an artist—for her own pleasure, rather than for profit—and as a critic of his work he had the highest opinion. Her suggestions were ever to the point, and under her influence a work always made rapid headway. It was an irreparable loss when she died in 1897, and he was never again quite so light-hearted. For a long time he kept the apartments at 110 Rue du Bac, but did not live there.
His will expressed his devotion to her memory and belief in her art,—
“I bequeath my wife’s entire collection of garnets rare and beautiful, together with sprays, pendants, etc., of the same style of work or setting in white stones, brilliants, or old paste, our entire collection of beautiful old silver and plate, and the complete collection of old china, to the Louvre. This bequest is on condition that the three collections be gathered together in one and displayed as the ‘Beatrix Whistler Collection.’ Also that in it or appropriately in the same room shall be hung proofs of my wife’s exquisite etchings, of which I leave a list attached to my will signed by me.”
By a codicil dated May 7, 1903, he revoked the bequest to the Louvre, but he expressed a desire that, in the event of his residuary legatee retaining the collection of garnets during her life, she would bequeath them to the Louvre upon her death.
He was unsparing of his sitters only in this one respect,—he would become so absorbed in his work as to completely forget them, and they would collapse with fatigue. Sometimes he would notice by their pallor the faintness which was overcoming them, and instantly, all solicitude, he would have them rest, or go out on the balcony for fresh air; but he himself never sat down. While they were resting he would walk back and forth, looking at the canvas, but rarely touching it, and talking to himself,—now and then, but not often, taking the sitter into his confidence. The moment the sitter was rested he would begin working again like one possessed.
By close observation it could be seen that the best work was usually done during the first long pose, or in the last hour of the afternoon, when the shadows were deepening; and the wise sitter would humor this trait and pose his longest and best in those two hours.
To the unaccustomed a half-hour standing—without moving so much as to disturb a line of the garments—is a long pose. But with practice—and with Whistler one had practice—an hour and a half without moving a muscle is not impossible.
Every portrait Whistler ever began he expected to make his masterpiece. That is the way he started in with any work. It was to be the best thing he ever did; and so long as the enthusiasm lasted he would walk up and down the studio talking half to himself half to his sitter:
“We will just go right on as we have begun, and it will be fine,—perhaps the finest thing I have ever done.”
“Not as good as the portrait of your mother?”—the inevitable question.
“Perhaps; who knows? Possibly finer in a way; for this, you know, is different. We’ll make a big thing of it.” And so on for days and weeks, until something would occur,—possibly weariness on the part of the sitter; possibly failure to keep appointments on days when the painter felt like doing his best; possibly too great anxiety to see the picture finished,—and the painter’s enthusiasm would subside, and the portrait would turn out not so great after all.
After the first few days he would place the canvas in its frame, and thereafter paint with it so. And his frames were designed by himself. All who have seen his pictures know them,—just simple, dignified lines, with no contortions of wood and gilt.
When a sitter was of congenial spirit and complacent mood they would lunch in the studio, and he would paint all day, from eleven in the morning until—well, until it was so dark that all was dim and shadowy and ghostly; and then together both would take their leave, always turning at the door for a last look at the canvas looming mysterious in the darkness; then grope their way down the winding oaken stairs, later to dine together at some unfrequented place where the proprietor watched the fire himself and had stored away in musty depths a few—just a few—relics of memorable vintages.
“O my friends, when I am sped, appoint a meeting; and when ye have met together, be ye glad thereof; and when the cup-bearer holds in her hand a flagon of old wine, then think of old Khayyam and drink to his memory.”
In a glass of ruby Margaux of the vintage of ’58, the last of its dusty bin, I drink to the memory of those glorious days when the vacant canvas assumed the hues of life and grew beneath the touch; and those fragrant nights when, with stately ceremony, the cob-webbed bottle came forth from its bed of long repose to subdue fatigue, banish all care, and leave but the thought of the beautiful.—Behold, far soul, the empty glass!