“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.”