"He went under the railing again, turning round towards me, saying, 'Now, do get me a chair.' And after it was pushed under the railing, he went on, 'And now, do help me on the top of it.' From that moment there was no holding him back. He went absolutely into raptures over the old women, admiring everything; his exclamation of joy came out now at the top of his voice, now in the most tender, almost caressing whisper: 'Look at it—just look; look at the beautiful colour—the flesh—look at the white—that black—look how those ribbons are put in. Oh, what a swell he was—can you see it all?—and the character—how he realised it.' Moving with his hand so near the picture as if he wanted to caress it in every detail, he screamed with joy: 'Oh, I must touch it—just for the fun of it,' and he moved tenderly with his fingers over the face of one of the old women.
"There was the real Whistler—the man, the artist, the painter—there was no 'Why drag in Velasquez?' spirit—but the spirit of a youth, full of ardour, full of plans, on the threshold of his work, oblivious of the achievements of a lifetime.
"He went on to analyse the picture in its detail.
"'You see, she is a grand person'—pointing to the centre figure—'she wears a fine collar, and look at her two little black bows—she is the treasurer—she is the secretary—she keeps the records'—pointing at each in turn with his finger.
"With a fierce look in his eye, as though he would repulse an attack on Hals, and in contemptuous tone, he burst out, 'They say he was a drunkard, a coarse fellow; don't you believe it—they are the coarse fellows. Just imagine a drunkard doing these beautiful things!'
"'Just look how tenderly this mouth is put in—you must see the portrait of himself and his wife at the Rijks Museum. He was a swagger fellow. He was a cavalier—see the fine clothes he wears. That is a fine portrait, and his lady—she is charming, she is lovely.' In time, however, the excitement proved too much for him in his weak state, and it was high time to take him away into the fresh air. He appeared exhausted, and I feared a collapse after such emotions.
"During my absence in looking for a carriage he went on talking to Mrs. Sauter. 'This is what I would like to do, of course, you know, in my own way'—meaning the continual progress of his work to the last. 'Oh, I would have done anything for my art.' It was a great relief to have him safely seated in the carriage with us.
"Once there he soon regained his spirits, and, as we had expected to meet Mrs. Pennell at the Gallery, but looked in vain for her, we now drove from hotel to hotel in search of her, and on this expedition a truly Whistlerian incident happened. Stopping before one of the hotels, he requested to see the proprietor, who appeared immediately at the side of the carriage, a tall, solemn-looking gentleman, with a long reddish beard, bowing courteously, but the gentleman could give no information about Mrs. Pennell's arrival at his hotel. After minute inquiries about the place, Whistler turned to him, asking, 'Monsieur, what hotel would you recommend in Haarlem if you would recommend any?' to which he promptly and seriously replied, 'Monsieur, if I would recommend an hotel in Haarlem I would recommend my own.' 'Thank you, Monsieur, thank you,' responded Whistler, touching his hat, bowing slightly. And we drove on soon, to arrive at the hotel where we intended to take tea, and rest.
"Soon we were happily settled on our return journey, in a special compartment, which he was, in his chivalrous consideration towards ladies, most anxious to reserve, as he put it, 'to make Mrs. Sauter comfortable—she is tired.'