Puslapio vaizdai

"What would my dear Mummy don't you know, as you see her with her folded hands at the Luxembourghave said to that? And our stay in Russia! Our arrival in London! Why, the account of my mother and myself coming to Chelsea and finding lodgings makes you almost see us wanderers, bundles at end of long sticks over our shoulders, arriving footsore and weary in the late afternoon. Amazing! It would be worth while to describe, not the book, but the effect on Whistler reading it. It would be worth while to do something about it. I must think it over." While he was still reading, Sauter and Lavery came in, and as I knew it was to talk over the International and its affairs, I left at once.

Nog! I'm Mastin Smith:

Monday, July 6. To Whistler's. The doctor was with him, and I waited almost an hour up-stairs with Mrs. Whibley. Then he sent for me to the studio. He was up and dressed, had been out driving; but he looked worse than last week, his eyes vaguer and more dead, giving one the impression of a man in a stupor, and he said not a word, while I did my best to interest him, describing Loubet's arrival at Victoria. Finally, Miss Philip asked

him if he were tired. I had been there not more than ten minutes. He said yes, and so I told him I must go. And yet, when he said good-by, the one thing he added was characteristic: "You are looking very nice!"

Thursday, July 14. To Whistler's. The doctor was with him, but he asked me to wait, and I went up-stairs with Mrs. Whibley, who seemed hopeful. In about ten minutes he sent for me. He was dressed, in the studio, and pictures were on the easels. He seemed distinctly better, though his face was as sunken and his eyes were as vague. But he talked. When I told him he looked better and asked him how he felt, he answered, with all his old gallantry, "I only wish I felt as well as you look." He asked for news; what of Henley, had I heard anything? I spoke of the Sauters, who came in to see us a few evenings before. They were in our neighborhood for a lecture, which they found impossible, and came to us instead. I said their energy was wonderful; they were ready to do anything, to go everywhere they were asked. "Not so much energy, perhaps," Whistler said, "as not knowing how to put in their time." The little mother cat, lately banished from the studio, was running round again, and she jumped into my lap, rubbing her face up and down against mine. "She remembers you," Whistler said. Altogether, he was like another man, or, rather, like himself again, especially when Miss Philip brought him a cup of chicken broth. He was in a fury at the sight of it. "I suppose I must take the damned thing. Excuse the word,"-turning to me,"but it must be said." And he scolded in a voice as strong as ever. How did they expect him to have an appe


tite for his dinner? They never gave him a chance, they were always making him take something; he had no peace. Every hour it was something until, of course, he did not want his dinner. Miss Philip looked as if her nerves were giving. She poured him out a cup of tea instead, and went in the next room for a minute. Every now and then his eyes closed, but he was interested in everything, and when Lavery was announced, told the maid to show him in, and asked me why I was going so soon when

I got up to say good-by. But I was afraid that to have Lavery and myself both there would be too much for him. Mrs. Whibley and Miss Philip came to the door with me, and they seemed encouraged.


doctor said the heart was all right. Saturday, July 18. When I came down to breakfast, I opened a letter

asked to be excused,-and we sat in the hall. On Thursday, she said, he seemed so well. He went out driving with Mr. Freer. Then, after he came back, he sat talking to her for a long while, and he and Miss Philip and she played dominoes together. The three dined in the studio, and she told him he was so much better, be

Sketch of Maude

from Fisher of "The Daily Chronicle." "Why did you not let me know of the death of Whistler?" He died suddenly yesterday. . . . After lunch Sauter came as I was starting for Chelsea.

As I was shown into the house, Freer was coming out of the studio. He could tell me nothing. He got to the house the afternoon before at half past three, and everything was over. Mrs. Whibley joined us,-Miss Philip

fore long he would be dressing again for dinner. Anyway, she said, never at any time had he been so bad as last summer at The Hague. Friday morning Mrs. Law

son, who had sat up with him, said that

he passed a fairly good night, and Mrs. Whibley, who

was tired, did not go down. But after lunch they called her. She saw at once the attack was serious. The doctor was sent for. She and Miss Philip were with him, and, as I understood, it was over before the doctor got to the house. house. With him, it seemed to her, as with all people with whom she has been at the last, that, dying, he saw something the living could not see. The time for the funeral is not yet arranged, but the service will be held at old Chelsea Church-the church he used to go to with his mother. As I left, a brisk youth "representing the American press" made his appearance, asking for information.


Wednesday, July 22. The funeral-J. went early with the International. . . . At last the funeral procession. The coffin was carried the short distance from the house to the church. The men staggered under it as they walked up the aisle, the purple-velvet pall any which way, owing, no doubt, to difficulty of passing the font at the entrance; then the pall-bearers; then the Philip family, the five sisters, the brother; young Godwin, young Lawson; then Webb, the doctor, and Studd, and immediately after, as if part of the procession, Brandon Thomas and his wife, who came in the pew with me. The clergyman has a dull, emotionless voice, and as he reads lessons and prayers, the beautiful burial service is not in the least impressive, neither so simple as to be solemn in its simplicity, nor so fine in its formality as to be dignified with the dignity Whistler loves. The procession reforms, the International Council fall in behind, and the people follow in carriages and hansoms provided by themselves, but not many.

At Chiswick a crowd evidently is expected, for numbers of policemen form round the funeral party as if to protect it, but there are few people. Miss Philip walks to the grave and looks in with calm, expressionless face. The International Council are given a place close to the grave. A man in blue monocle, red coat, blue shirt, orange flower in buttonhole, long fur cap, fur-edged gloves, comes leaping over the graves like some strange, uncanny monster. The clergyman takes off his biretta, mumbles the prayers as if in haste to get through with them. Miss Kinsella crouches on the grass, crying audibly,

and all is over. and all is over. But the graveyard is calm and beautiful, the grave under a wall covered with clematis.

In the confusion of coming away J. finds himself in a carriage with Studd, who explains how he happened to be with the family. They had asked him to be a pall-bearer, but at the last moment, as a favor, begged him to make way for Duret. It is to be noted that among the pall-bearers-George Vanderbilt, Freer, Abbey, Guthrie, Lavery, and Duret-there are three Americans, one Scotchman, one Irishman, one Frenchman, and no Englishman. It is also to be noted that not an art critic is present in the church. A wreath of gold bay-leaves, one of the only two wreathes on the coffin, was sent by the International. When J. reached the church no arrangement had been made to reserve seats for anybody, and only by his instructions to the verger were pews reserved for the International Council and friends. He lunched at the Hyde Park Hotel with the others of the council, to talk over a Whistler memorial. Sauter was in a state of indignation because the funeral was so little impressive. Anywhere else it would have been an official occasion, the chief authorities represented, the military out. The societies and academies to which Whistler belonged should have been represented, and they probably would be very indignant because they had not been.

This is the end of the extracts from "The Whistler Journal," during the three years that passed between the day of our first talk after he asked us to write his life, down to the day of his funeral.

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NCE during the day the bishop general, had come to define happiness, Nad spoken over his telephone in when it was not ignorance, as being

a voice of trust and affection:

"Can't you come to dinner to-night? I am unable to invite your family, because my family is n't at home."

When he caught the reply he laughed softly and said:

"Oh, then, if your family is n't at home either, come the more. We can prop ourselves against one another."

The day had passed, dinner was now just over, and the bishop moved at the side of the guest from the beautiful dining-room into the equally beautiful library.

A comfortable-seeming man; but, then, would any group of believers choose a bishop or use a bishop who did not seem comfortable? No matter what spiritual wine you may believe yourself to be, if nature stored this in a miserable-looking vessel, toil not ever to have yourself sealed and then poured out as a bishop: though vintaged on high, as you may think, hardly will you be decanted and drunk on earth.

Over opposite the bishop, before the stately fireplace, sat his company. Probably the company was not suffering any pain in any part of his person, probably he was as permeated with bodily well being and contentment as his host, but the whole look of him suggested a man who might have learned to make the most of bodily miseries and who, as to human life in


Do you happen to be an admirer of the work of El Greco? Lest at the moment you may not exactly recall who El Greco was, be most politely and pleasantly reminded that he was a Spanish painter who, before he painted a man, took him by the head and heels, so to speak, and pulled him out to be longer than he naturally had been, so to speak; made of him a stretchable, extensible phenomenon; drew his head a degree away from his neck, his neck from his shoulders, his arms out of their sockets, his fingers out of their joints, his legs down from his thighs, his feet loose from his ankles. Having elongated him, dislocated him, deformed him, ruined him, he painted him faithfully and marvelously well for the rest of time.

The bishop's companion was a living masterpiece after El Greco, as though Nature had copied one of El Greco's most stylistic portraits. He did somehow appear to you to sit higher than he sat, to be even taller than he was tall, thinner than he was thin. His joints bulged beyond the bounds of his anatomy; his gauntness caved in from outside his clothing; a long, powerful, picturesque, exaggerated, rugged rock of a man. Over his dry jaws there had rooted itself what looked like sparse polar moss, scant mouthful for a reindeer. This sallow-hued growth, streaked with gray, grew coarser and

thicker on the chin, and it hung down from the tapering drop of the chin old and rigid, like a pointed stone. Away up on the top of the head the thin hair, which suggested failing sunlight, was parted in the middle and fell away as a revelation of all that was there. It seemed a cold place, that peak of character, summit of a life's thoughtfulness. What flashes of humor played around would be as the quivering pulsations of the arctic night. Lower down, in the eyes, the wisdom, the pity, of them,-in the lines about the mouth, made by large experience with men and things, you saw the tenderness of humanity, the compassion of the world. Altogether he gave you the idea of a gaunt John the Baptist advanced in years who had never been any one's forerunner and who through some choice of his own, or necessity, separated his locusts from his wild honey, letting the honey go.

They were closest of friends, had been since college days, when the bishop had rather expected to study medicine and the other youth had rather decided upon the church. At nearer approach to first choice each had drawn back, and it had ended otherwise the medical student now a physician of souls, the theological student a bishop of the sick; each a name in the world and, better, a light, a leading, the bishop known and loved outside bishopric and blessing, the physician distinguished and honored beyond hospital and lecture; one at work amid the gospels of old, the other through the modern gospel of healing, enduring, ending.

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When they had come in from the dining-room and had put themselves

at ease with chairs and cigars, neither had forthwith plunged into speech. Nature, without being religious, is disposed at moments to give thanks: she sends her gratitude through all stops and organ-pipes of the body as an anthem of digestion; and she asks the brain to cease, as untimely during the music at least, its incessant noise.

The friends sat looking in silence at the rich falling gold of the logs. Then El Greco, allowing his glance to wander over the peaceful harmonies of the library, remarked in a voice so rough and deep a bass that, upon hearing it for the first time, you might have wondered a little just where it came from and what produced it:

"Bishop, you look to me like a man who enjoys a good deal of selfdetermination."

The bishop laughed reminiscently. They laughed reminiscently together. After a moment the bishop replied in his suave, mellow baritone, with a mischievous thrust at the sorely beset phrase:

"I hope I do not look like a great and solemn referendum."

"But that is exactly what you do look like; and it is exactly what you are," exclaimed El Greco, with a mischievous thrust at the bishop. "If you were not a great and solemn referendum, you would not be so impressive and so much besought an ecclesiastic."

The bishop made no immediate rejoinder. He could never have opened so spacious a path through rock and mire of human nature, had he not uniformly acted upon the principle that he must look well before he leaped, no matter what the ground, who the bystander. His reply was, as usual, cautiously weighed.

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