Small wonder that the writer in the next paragraph confesses:
“My own crude first attempts to understand Whistler’s paintings were dismal failures; and of course I imagined that the failure was in the painting, and not in myself. I could see no beauty in them: the drawing was indeterminate; the colors were not pretty; the pictures all seemed unfinished.”
It is less difficult than one would suppose to recall things said by Whistler, for he would repeat a good thing and was always polishing.
For instance, in his controversy with the critics he originally said that “Ruskin’s high-sounding, empty things ... flow of language that would, could he hear it, give Titian the same shock of surprise that was Balaam’s when the first great critic proffered his opinion.”
A very literal correspondent wrote to the papers that the “ass was right,” and quoted the Bible in proof.
Nothing daunted, Whistler acknowledged the hit, saying, “But, I fancy, you will admit that this is the only ass on record who ever did see the Angel of the Lord, and that we are past the age of miracles.”
Years after, in referring to the matter, he improved his reply to, “But I fancy you will admit that this is the only ass on record that ever was right, and the age of miracles is past.”
His love of epigram was so great that nothing which was terse or pointed escaped his ears or fled his memory.
One day, while lunching with a friend who knew something about the habits and eccentricities of good wine, Whistler was telling about the peculiarities of Henry James, how James would drag a slender incident through several pages until it was exhausted, whereupon his friend casually remarked:
“The best of wine is spoiled by too small a spiggot.”