Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1895-03-30
Observation-Disclosures
just What Really Occurred Upon . Cole
brated Occasion.

just What Really Occurred Upon . Csae-
brated Occasion.
Here is true version of an oft-told
story of Whistler, the distortion bear
Ing only faint racial likeness to the
original:
A man from nowhere made large
fortune in London and at once pro-
seeded to indulge a genuine, if some
what Grass, love of art. He sent agents
the length and breadth of Europe to
purchase the highest-priced pictures to
be had; old masters, if possible; if not,
copies by first-class artists, if they
could be got to do the work. Modern
artists were patronized in the original;
In fact, he set up a private Luxem-
bourg crossed with spurious Louvre.
The home he built him was magnifi-
cent. No man in London with leanings
toward art had such a house. Every
body, or nearly everybody, who was
invited went to see it, to remain, to
feast, even to gaze upon the millionaire
ct his easel, brush in hand, the robes
of Japan or of Greece flowing about
him.
But one crumpled roseleaf had the
millionaire. Whistler would not go to-
his home. Millais, Tadema, Sargent
and a hundred lights, only trife or
SO less distinguished, had graced his
board, but Whistler could not be got
through the front door. When he saw
the millionaire coming he whislsed
around the corner; his notes of invita-
ton, of adulation, he did not con-
descend to open; he turned a deaf ear
to opportunities of mutual friends.
The art millionaire was in despair.
His wine turned to gall, his palette
grinned at him, his sleep was infected
with nightmare, which wore the dis
dainful smirk of Whistler. Even the
famous white lock seemed to assume an
air of lofty unattainableness.
1 short, he was miserable, for until
Whistler, the exigeant, the eccentric,
the impossible, set the cachet of his ap-
prevail, the art millionaire's position in
the world of art was open to dispute.
One day Whistler abruptly sent him
word that he would call upon him the
next morning at ten o'clock. What ac-
tuated the great man will never be
known. The simplest explanation is
that it was one of his many freaks.
The art millionaire, fairly palpitat-
ing with joy, received Whistler at the
entrance of his palatial home, effusive
with welcome. Whistler bowed grave
". He uttered never word. The
millionaire offered his arm. Whistler
took it impassively and permitted him
self to be conducted over the house.
lie walked through rooms filed with
the treasures OF Japan, of India, Of
Turkey; rooms hung with priceless
tapestries, inlaid with rare porcelains:
rooms representing apartments in an
cient Greece, Rome. Pompeii. He stared
with fixed eyes and said never a word.
dining-room taken from a feudal
castle, hall arched like Cleopatra's
bedrooms, whose sillsnn hangings could
have gone through the eye of needle
never word.
The host, much perturbed, but will
ing to make all allowances for the
eccentricities of genius, finally flung
aside the porticres of q great studio.
In it were such couches and stuffs and
curios as artists dream of. The easels
were solid rosewood. Two-guinea-an-
hour models awaited the leisure of the
millionaire. Never word. Whistler
permitted his stony stare to roam from
one object to another, then swung his
host about, led him through the por-
there's, and made for the entrance. As
they descended the grand staircase
the millionaire burst forth:
"Great heavens, Mr.. Whistler! Amt
you going to say anything?"
Whistler turned abruptly and re-
garded him for rSbment with SOL
emn stare. Then he brought his hand
heavily down on the millionaire's back
and exclaimed hoarsely:
"It's amazing! And-there's-no-ex@
cuse-for tn. Y. Sun.