The room shook with laughter.
On another occasion a well-known critic was laying down the law about somebody's "technique." He appealed to Whistler for confirmation.
"My dear fellow," said Whistler, "that's an opinion one would wish to express diffidently." Among his hearers was an artist accustomed to illustrate in Punch some of the "Things one would wish to express differently."
You know what Whistler said to the Prince of Wales (afterwards Edward VII) at an Exhibition of the Royal Society of British Artists. Whistler, recently elected president, was showing the Prince around the galleries.
"What is the history of your Society?" asked the Prince.
"It has none, Sir; its history begins to-day," was the quick reply. It fitted like a glove. There were sleepy years behind; and anything you like later. Whistler stirred up the pools of somnolence. He did not stir them long, for the British artists of those days, whether or not they were interested in art, preferred Britons for presidents. I daresay they were right.
One afternoon he came to my flat with the tall bamboo wand which he often used, in Chelsea at any rate, instead of a walking stick. He was of a phenomenal slenderness, which was emphasised by the long wand, and the long, flat-brimmed hat, and the long, black, tight coat. He had yellow gloves, and his little soft shoes—his feet were the smallest I ever saw on a man—were the last word in daintiness. No London maker could have produced them. Jimmie was always, at all points, fastidious. He gesticulated more than any Briton, but his gesticulations were not Parisian, they were Whistlerian. He pointed dramatically to the ceiling and murmured, "White, all white."
"White." Then to the walls—"All white. And a white you can wash! Londoners forget that they must live in their houses in winter. All their colours are dismal, and there 's no sun."
"Apropos?" I was about to enquire.