* * * * *

Henry Labouchere, who first met Whistler as a boy in Washington in the fifties, when he himself was an attaché of the British Legation, took the credit for bringing Whistler and his wife together.  His story was denied by Mrs. Whistler’s relatives, but is interesting enough to be recorded.

“I believe,” wrote Mr. Labouchere in Truth, “I was responsible for his marriage to the widow of Mr. Godwin, the architect.  She was a remarkably pretty woman and very agreeable, and both she and he were thorough Bohemians.

“I was dining with them and some others one evening at Earl’s Court.  They were obviously greatly attracted to each other, and in a vague sort of way they thought of marrying, so I took the matter in hand to bring things to a practical point.

“‘Jimmy,’ I said, ‘will you marry Mrs. Godwin?’

“‘Certainly.’

“‘Mrs. Godwin,’ I said, ‘will you marry Jimmy?’

“‘Certainly,’ she replied.

“‘When?’ I asked.

“‘Oh, some day,’ said Whistler.

“‘That won’t do,’ I said.  ‘We must have a date.’

“So they both agreed that I should choose the day, tell them what church to come to for the ceremony, provide a clergyman, and give the bride away.

“I fixed an early date and got them the chaplain of the House of Commons to perform the ceremony.  It took place a few days later.  After the ceremony was over we adjourned to Whistler’s studio, where he had prepared a banquet.  The banquet was on the table, but there were no chairs, so we sat on packing-cases.  The happy pair, when I left, had not quite decided whether they would go that evening to Paris or remain in the studio.

“How unpractical they were was shown when I happened to meet the bride the day before the marriage in the street.

“‘Don’t forget to-morrow,’ I said.

“‘No,’ she replied; ‘I am just going to buy my trousseau.’

“‘A little late for that, is it not?’ I asked.

“‘No,’ she answered, ’for I am only going to buy a tooth-brush and a new sponge, as one ought to have new ones when one marries.’

“However, there never was a more successful marriage.  They adored each other, and lived most happily together, and when she died he was broken-hearted indeed.  He never recovered from the loss.”

* * * * *

When Frederick Keppel, the American print expert, first called upon the artist at the Tite Street studio, the famous portrait of Sarasate, “black on black,” stood at the end of the long corridor that he used to form a vista for proper perspective of his work.  Laying his hand on Keppel’s shoulder, he said: 

“Now, isn’t it beautiful?”

“It certainly is,” was the reply.

“No,” said he; “but isn’t it beautiful?”

“It is indeed,” said Keppel.

This was too mild a form of agreement.  Whistler raised his voice to a scream: