International studio (56.1915)

An Afternoon with James McNeill IVhistler

Whistler, dropping his monocle and his English
accent at the same time. “I said painter not art-
ist. Correct it”—and I did. The cocktail was
evidently getting in its fine work, or it might have
been that the liberal terms made by Noyes had
something to do with the great man’s softening
mood. At any rate he now said: “You are
familiar with my ‘ Gentle Art of Making Enemies,’
have you read my latest book, ‘The Baronet and
the Butterfly’? ”
I was obliged to confess that I had not, and we
sent a waiter to the nearest bookstore for two
copies of the book. Whistler cut the leaves, and
read us extracts with ironic explanations and com-
ments. When he had finished and we had ex-
hausted our enthusiasm, he suddenly turned to
me and said: “Wray, why did you like that por-
trait of my mother?” I told him candidly I
understood nothing of his symphonies and noc-
turnes or opuses 234 or 800, but that that woman
on the canvas appealed to me as a real mother.
“To illustrate. If I had belonged to her and was
in trouble, I could go to her and say, ‘Mother, I
don’t know how it happened, but I am bone of
your bone and flesh of your flesh. Will you stand
by me?’ and I could see her thin arm stretch
toward me, her hand would rest on my head and
she would say, ‘My boy, you know I will.’”
I looked up and Whistler’s eyes were moist.
Had I accidentally touched some hidden chord, or
were we both getting maudlin? To relieve the
situation I added, flippantly, “Or if it happened
to be a little matter of money, I could say,
‘Mother, I need a quarter in my business, and I
need it badly,’ and I’d get it.”
Whistler called the waiter and asked for pen and
ink. On the flyleaf of “The Baronet and the
Butterfly” he wrote: “To Henry Russell Wray, a
bold interpreter, with best hopes,” and signed it,
not with his own name, but with a funny little
woozy butterfly.
Then he became reminiscent and told us of his
early experiences and added: “Wray, you are a
newspaper man. Tell the American people that I
would not exchange my two years at West Point
for all the honours that foreign countries have
given me. I am really a d— bluffer when I pre-
tend that I am not proud of being an American.”
“Yes, I’d make a fine fist telling people that,
wouldn’t I? ” I replied. “ Suppose my article was
printed and some one showed it to you, you would
say” (I imitated his English accent and use of

monocle): “ ‘ Wray, Wray, who in-is Wray?
I never heard of the man.’ ”
Whistler smiled good-naturedly: “ Well, perhaps
I should, but you needn’t give a-. Write it
just the same.”
Now it was dinner time. Whistler had forgot-
ten his duchesses and his vicomtesses and the rest
of his titled friends, and he insisted that we should
go home with him. We called a cab and the man
whom I had so heartily detested a few hours be-
fore sat on one of my knees, and on one of Noyes,
as we squeezed into the single seat. Many people
turned to look at the famous painter who was now
talking gaily to us both. His studio and house
were both on the rue du Bac, but in different
buildings. The cab stopped before a large door.
I started to jump out, but Whistler called, “ Come
back, you wild Western cowboy. The concierge
will pull a string and open the door.” That was
the last natural tone I was to hear from him.
We drove in and saw a low pavilion at the back
of the courtyard. The front door opened into a
long, rather narrow reception room. Directly
opposite us was a fireplace, and over it a portrait
of Whistler’s wife. On each side of the fireplace
was an upright panel of peacocks. The room was
furnished with a few Louis XV chairs and tables,
and at the far end I thought I saw another
Whistler picture. It represented an aristocratic
elderly woman in black, with bands of white at
the throat and wrists. She was seated and behind
her stood a tall, handsome girl. The room was
dimly lighted and silent. Whistler moved toward
the two figuresand, with a courtly bow, said in his
English tone: “Mrs. and Miss Phillips, I desiah to
awsk your permission to present my two newly
acquired American friends, Mr. Noyes and Mr.
Wray.” I realised that the two women were
alive, and they must be Whistler’s mother-in-law
and sister-in-law. I had presence of mind enough
to make a low bow. But the worst was yet to
come, for Whistler added, with a wicked smile:
“Mrs. Phillips, I regret to add that I feah my
American friend, Mr. Wray, has succeeded in
making me slightly intoxicated.” With all the
sang froid I could muster I protested, but it is
needless to say that we did not accept Mr.
Whistler’s invitation to dinner, and we beat as
hasty a retreat as we could accomplish.
I regret that Mr. Whistler is not in the flesh to
read these lines, and to say, “Wray, Wray! Who
in-is Wray? I never heard of the man.”

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