She had none of them. No one in the room was lucky enough to possess the colours he sought, so Whistler sent out for them and chatted pleasantly until the messenger’s return, having told the maiden in the meantime to clean her palette of all the vivid hues she had displayed upon it. The paints and the clean palette arrived together. Jimmy arranged them according to his taste.
“Now,” he said, “that palette is fit to paint with, and so ends your first lesson. Study it, and paint only with those colours until you see me again.”
Before the day was finished every girl had arranged her palette according to the plan, and the men in the other room likewise followed suit. When the artist paid his next visit to the studio, he found the palette he had himself prepared fixed upon the wall and immortalised with a wreath, while underneath was a label announcing, “This palette has been arranged according to the regulation of James Whistler, the artist.”
Whistler’s marriage was the strangest affair in the world, for he was probably about sixty at the time, and his bride, Mrs. Godwin, a widow, although a pretty woman, was by no means young. Yet the romance and enthusiasm they developed were delightful, and during the ten years or so of his married life Whistler became infinitely more human and contented in every way. They were very happy; indeed, his tender solicitude for his wife’s welfare on every occasion, and his anxiety and concern during her long illness, were a revelation to those who only thought of Whistler as a quarrelsome egoist wrapped entirely in himself. Hidden away, he had a kind heart, although he chose generally to conceal it. His wife’s loss was the tragedy of his existence, and he was never the same man afterwards.
Henry Labouchere wrote: “So my old friend Jemmy Whistler is dead. I first knew him in 1854 at Washington. He had not then developed into a painter, but was a young man who had recently left the West Point Military College, and was considering what next he should do. He was fond of balls, but he had not a dress-coat, so he attended them in a frock-coat, the skirts of which were turned back to simulate an evening-coat.
“I believe that I was responsible for his marriage to the widow of Mr. Godwin, the architect. She was a remarkably pretty woman and very agreeable, and both she and he were thorough Bohemians. I was dining with them and some others one evening at Earl’s Court. They were obviously greatly attracted to each other, and in a vague sort of way they thought of marrying. So I took the matter in hand to bring things to a practical point. ‘Jemmy,’ I said, ‘will you marry Mrs. Godwin?’ ‘Certainly,’ he replied. ‘Mrs. Godwin,’ I said, ‘will you marry Jemmy?’ ‘Certainly,’ she replied. ‘When?’ I asked. ‘Oh, some day,’ said Whistler. ‘That won’t do,’ I said; ‘we must have a date.’ So they both agreed that I should choose the day, tell them what church to come to for the ceremony, provide a clergyman, and give the bride away. I fixed an early date, and got the then Chaplain of the House of Commons to perform the ceremony. It took place a few days later.
“After the ceremony was over we adjourned to Whistler’s studio, where he had prepared a banquet. The banquet was on the table, but there were no chairs. So we sat on packing-cases. The happy pair, when I left, had not quite decided whether they would go that evening to Paris or remain in the studio. How unpractical they were was shown when I happened to meet the bride the day before the marriage in the street. ‘Don’t forget to-morrow,’ I said. ‘No,’ she replied, ‘I am just going to buy my trousseau.’ ‘A little late for that, is it not?’ I asked. ‘No,’ she answered, ‘for I am only going to buy a new tooth-brush and a new sponge, as one ought to have new ones when one marries.’ However, there never was a more successful marriage. They adored each other, and lived most happily together; and when she died he was broken-hearted.”
WALTER CRANE’S MOST FAMOUS BOOK PLATE
One day I asked Walter Crane, who knew both Watts and Whistler more intimately than I did, whether he could tell me something of these two, so different from one another, and yet each of whom needs a prominent place—the one in the painter’s Valhalla; the other, well, let time decide in what niche and where Jimmy’s little statue shall command worship.