“‘What!’
“‘My posthumous prices.’ And the painter added, ‘Good-morning.’”
X
The School of Carmen—In Search of Health—Chelsea once more—The End.
To please Madame Carmen Rossi, who as a child had been one of his best models, Whistler consented in 1897 to criticise the work of such students as might attend her school. As a result Carmen’s atelier was for the time being the most distinguished in Paris, and it was not uncommon to see carriages with coachmen and footmen in livery before the door on the days that Whistler was expected.
As he passed about among the pupils he seldom praised and was never enthusiastic. He would sometimes stand many minutes before a canvas that merited his attention and would suggest changes and improvements; and now and then he took a brush and made the alterations himself, remarking, if the student were a young woman, “Now you have a Whistler all to your charming self.”
The story is told that once he stopped before a very brilliant canvas, and exclaimed, “Hideous! hideous!” The student said, somewhat proudly, that she had taken private lessons from Bouguereau, and he blandly inquired, “Bouguereau, Bouguereau,—who is Bouguereau?”
A pupil has printed some reminiscences of those days:[47]
“Usually Mr. Whistler came once a week to criticise us, and on those days the class, numbering anywhere from fifteen to forty, had been instructed to adopt a certain respectful mode of bearing on the arrival of the master; so, when the concierge threw wide the door and formally announced, ‘Monsieur Whistler,’ every student had risen to return his ceremonious salutation. Vividly I recall the scene: a man of not much more than medium stature, but so slight as to give the impression, when standing apart from others, of being much taller; dressed entirely in black, even to the suéde gloves; every garment immaculate in fit and condition; a little red rosette of the Legion of Honor of France forming the only spot of color about him until a faint flush rose to his cheek as he greeted the class with kindly smile.
“Then, as massier (or monitor, in charge of the class), he passed me his long, black, fur-lined coat and tall, straight-brimmed hat,—those well-known targets for the caricaturist,—and began his criticism by inspecting every drawing and weighing its merits—if any there were, as only too rarely happened—before uttering a word. This silent inspection finished, Mr. Whistler usually asked for a palette,—preferably mine, because it was patterned after his own, and made him ‘feel at home,’ as he expressed it,—and then, without removing his gloves, painted a few strokes here and there on some of the pupils’ work. Even in the matter of a palette he evinced marked sentiment. A carelessly kept one was, above all, his particular abhorrence, and generally elicited some such remark as the following: ‘My friends, have you noticed the way in which a musician cares for his violin—how beautiful it is? how well kept? how tenderly handled? Your palette is your instrument, its colors the notes, and upon it you play your symphonies.’