Part 13 (1/2)

”Who's gone?” I asked.

”My old friend Thomas Carlyle. He lived with me many a year, and I sold him to-day for a base thousand pounds.” This with a touch of sadness, permitting the monocle to drop into his right hand, and gazing reflectively at the fire. Then, with a sudden turn towards me: ”The Mun-eeee-ci-pal Corrrrporration o' Glasgie has purchased it for its Arrt Museum.” The monocle was thrust to the eye again where it seemed to flash the question, ”What do you think of that?”

I thought very well of it, and said something to the effect that it was a wise city which knew enough to buy such a masterpiece.

”Surprising, is n't it?” said Whistler, and then he told me that a committee of braw Scots had called at his studio to conduct the negotiations for Glasgow. His mimicry of the baillies I will not try to reproduce here. Type cannot present it. Action, expression, accent, all are lost. It was a delightful imitation, and I shouted with laughter when Whistler mounted the climax of his story:

”'But Mr. Wheestler,' said one of the baillies, by way of expostulation over the price I had modestly suggested, 'but Mr. Wheestler, this is a moderrn {167} paainting, an' I ken that moderrn paintings mostly faade.'

”Behold me there,” continued Whistler, ”the b.u.t.terfly Rampant, hotly retorting, 'Gentlemen; you are mistaken. It is the d.a.m.nation of modern paintings that they do _not_ fade!'”

It was about the same time that France bought that other masterpiece, the portrait of ”The Artist's Mother.” Whistler came to tell me a few hours after the transfer to Paris had been arranged. He said quietly, as if he were touched deeply,

”France gives me honour, and I accept the invitation for Mother.

Mother goes to the Luxembourg, and, after my death, to the Louvre.

They pay her expenses, for what more does the _honorarium_ amount to?

It's only one hundred and twenty pounds. But one cannot sell one's Mother. She will be glad that I am represented in the Luxembourg, and later in the Louvre. I am glad it is Mother who will represent me.”

And then, probably because he feared that he was dropping into sentiment, he broke off gaily with a jest about ”another ghost who haunted the pavements of Chelsea”, a critic stung to death by the b.u.t.terfly, ”the late Harry Q--” still haunting t.i.te Street. ”The late Harry”, it may be said to children of the present hour, was quite as much alive as Whistler, and occupied--Whistler said ”haunted”--the house which Jimmie had built and which he had lost in bankruptcy.

I had received from a friend in Boston a letter asking if I would ”sound Whistler” about the {168} probability of his accepting a commission for the decoration of some part of the Public Library. The authorities hesitated about approaching him. They had an idea that his att.i.tude toward America was antagonistic, they knew he was ”touchy”; they did not wish to submit a proposal, or to invite a suggestion, that might, ninety-nine chances to one, evoke a scornful reply. He might tell them he was not a housepainter. ”You are a friend of his. Won't you find out how he would receive a proposal, and advise us how best to make an approach?”

One day when, like Rosalind, he was in ”a coming-on disposition”, I asked, ”What is your real att.i.tude towards America?”

”I haven't any,” said he. ”How can a man have an att.i.tude toward a continent? Oh, there are the discerning; more of them, perhaps, over there than here. But there 's no 'public taste' there nor here. There never was 'public taste' anywhere. There's only the relation of beauty to the discerning. That's all. But the American mind is not closed.

The English mind is closed and bound. England wants art that tells stories. I want art that tells of beauty.”

”If the discerning in America were to say, 'There's Whistler now, an American; we wish him to do a great public work'--for instance, a room in the Boston Library, or something like that,--well, would you accept?”

”Of course! It would be the evidence of discernment that I 've been waiting for. But there's no chance of it.”

{169}

”Yes, there is; I a.s.sure you there is.”

”If that's true, I'd really like it. I'd like it immensely.”

”Hand on heart?”

”Hand on heart!”

The offer came to him, but, as far as I know, he never carried out the work.

He left Chelsea soon after that, going to Paris to live. But before going to Paris he met, at my home, my dearest friend, of whom I shall write later. My friend is dead now, but he had produced then two excellent novels and a successful play. Whistler expressed an interest in him, and he looked in one evening to ask me if he might borrow the books. I lent them to him. Here is another aspect of his entertaining character. After he had been some months in Paris, I wrote to him reminding him of the volumes, which, for certain personal reasons, the author never permitted to be reprinted.

Fatal error!