One of these canvases, a copy of an Ingres, turned up in New York a year or two ago. It bore Whistler’s signature, but was so atrocious—imagine a combination of Ingres and Whistler—that even the dealer doubted its authenticity; but when a photograph was shown Whistler, he recognized the picture and told the story.
Of these early days many stories are told, but they are all more or less apocryphal. It is as natural for stories to cluster about Whistler as for barnacles to cling to a ship. He told so many good ones that, as with Lincoln, innumerable good, bad, and indifferent which he did not tell are attributed to him, and thousands are told about him which have slight foundations in fact.
It is well nigh impossible to sift the true from the false,—a thing Whistler himself did not attempt,—though it is possible to sift the wheat from the chaff, the inane, insipid, and pointless from the bright and crisp.
Any man can vouch for a story, but who can vouch for a good story? The story-teller? Heaven forbid! By all the rules of evidence the testimony of so interested a witness is inadmissible. The better the story, the more doubtful its authenticity,—its formal, its literal authenticity. The better the teller, the more daring his liberties with prosaic details. A good story-teller is a lapidary who receives his material in the rough and polishes it into a jewel by removing three-fourths of its substance; or, under pressure of necessity, he deftly manufactures paste. To be without stories is the story-teller’s crime; a wit without witticisms is no wit at all, hence the strain upon veracity.
Happily, the world conspires to help both wit and story-teller by supplying during their lives, and in great abundance after their deaths, stories and witticisms without end. Give a man the reputation of being a humorist, and all he has to do is to sit discreetly silent and watch his reputation grow. If he really deserves his reputation, he may add to his fame by fresh activities; but if he is something of a sham, as most wits are, he would better leave his sayings to the imaginations of others.
Whistler’s sense of humor was so keen, his wit so sharp, his facility in epigram and clever sayings so extraordinary, that what are genuinely his are better than anything others have said about him; therefore, it is a pity some one has not jotted down first hand some of the good things that constantly fell from his lips. Perhaps some one has, and his life and sayings will yet appear with all the marks of authority and authenticity.
But his sharp and exceedingly terse sayings often suffer greatly in the telling, frequently to the loss of all point and character. The following instance is in point:
A group of society women were once discussing the graces and accomplishments of Frederic Leighton.
“So handsome.”
“Plays divinely.”