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.