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.