Whistler as I knew him . er fromthe decorative standpoint, he would say, Not bad,Menpes, eh? This was, perhaps, a very soiled andgrubby little person indeed. But Whistler wouldtake her kindly by the hand and ask her where shelived; and the three of us would trot along to askthe mother if she might sit, the child, with itsupturned flowerlike though dirty face, gazing withperfect confidence at Whistler. And the Masterwould talk to the gutter-snipe in a charmingly inti-mate way about his work and aspirations. Nowwe are going to do great things together, he wouldsay, and the little dirty-faced chi
Whistler as I knew him . er fromthe decorative standpoint, he would say, Not bad,Menpes, eh? This was, perhaps, a very soiled andgrubby little person indeed. But Whistler wouldtake her kindly by the hand and ask her where shelived; and the three of us would trot along to askthe mother if she might sit, the child, with itsupturned flowerlike though dirty face, gazing withperfect confidence at Whistler. And the Masterwould talk to the gutter-snipe in a charmingly inti-mate way about his work and aspirations. Nowwe are going to do great things together, he wouldsay, and the little dirty-faced child, blinking up athim, seemed almost to understand. For Whistlernever failed with children: no one understood themquite like the Master, and no one depicted child-lifebetter than he. Whistlers children were never littleold ladies: they were real children, with all thegrace and ingenuousness of childhood apparent inevery line. Then would come the tussle with themother, who, naturally enough, wanted to clean up THE KITCHEN. IN THE DAYS ROUND 5 her child, and with the Master, who insisted that sheshould come just as she was, dirt and all. Eventu-ally we would go back to the studio, where, per-haps, the little one would help to set the table forluncheon, settling down at once to full was in some ways very helpless; but healways cooked our luncheon. A great deal of timewould be spent over this work, for the Master wasvery exact and dainty in everything he was the breaking of the eggs into the pan andthe careful manipulation of an omelette. I wouldbe despatched for a bottle of white wine, and Whistlerhimself would drink milk with biscuits soaked in it— he always lived on very slender fare. Then thechild would sit, and Whistler would paint, — some-times a life-sized oil-colour, sometimes a little pas-tel. But from the moment his brush touched thecanvas the child as a child was forgotten: shemight droop and faint before Whistler would comedow
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Keywords: ., bookauthormenpesmo, bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, bookyear1904
