One day, when the pupils had been sketching from life, he came upon the work of one which, if it contained all of the truth, did not contain all of the beautiful.

After gazing at it for some time Whistler observed to the student: 

“Ah, well!  You can hardly expect me to teach you morals.”  And he walked away.

* * * * *

A carelessly kept palette was an abhorrence to the painter.  He would inspect those used by his class, and on the discovery of untidiness uttered a reproof like this:  “My friends, have you noticed the way in which a musician cares for his violin?  How beautiful it is?  How well kept?  How tenderly handled?  Your palette is your instrument, its colors the notes, and upon it you play your symphonies!”

* * * * *

The colloquies with the class were spirited, sarcastic, interesting.  Here is a characteristic one: 

Question: “Do you know what I mean when I say tone, value, light, shade, quality, movement, construction, etc.?”

Chorus: “Oh, yes, Mr. Whistler!”

Mr. Whistler: “I’m glad, for it’s more than I do myself!”

* * * * *

He objected to smoking in the atelier, partly because it obscured the light and partly because of its obfuscating qualities.  In Paris a big Englishman clouded the class-room with a copious discharge of smoke.  “My dear sir,” said Whistler, gently, “I know you do not smoke to show disrespect for my request that students refrain from smoking on the days I come to them, nor would you desire to infringe upon the rules of the atelier, but—­er—­it seems to me—­er—­that when you are painting—­er—­you might possibly become so absorbed in your work as to—­er—­let your cigar go out!”

Visiting Earl Stetson Crawford in his studio at Paris, he noted on the wall a photographic copy of the Nicholson portrait of himself.

“Is that the best you have of me?” he asked.  “Not that it is not very beautiful and artistic and so on—­but I say, come now, you don’t think it quite does me justice, do you?”

* * * * *

When the class was formed, so runs the tale, Whistler inquired of each pupil with whom he had studied before.

“With Julian,” said one.

“Couldn’t have done better, sir,” Whistler answered.

“With Chase,” replied another.

“Couldn’t have done better, sir.”

“With Mowbray,” answered a third.

“Couldn’t have done better, sir,” and so on.

He approached a student slightly deaf, who stammered in reply, “I beg pardon?”

“Couldn’t have done better, sir,” responded Whistler, placidly, passing on to the next.

* * * * *

“It suffices not, Messieurs,” he once observed to the class, “that a life spent among pictures makes a painter, else the policeman in the National Gallery might assert himself.”