Waving his wand gently toward the famous gallery, Whistler queried: 

“Been in there?”

“Oh, yes.”

“See anything worth while?”

“Some splendid things, magnificent examples—­”

“I’m sorry you ever approved of me,” observed the master, majestically, and on he went, leaving Benrimo withered under his disdain.

* * * * *

Whistler had a French poodle of which he was extravagantly fond.  This poodle was seized with an affection of the throat, and Whistler had the audacity to send for the great throat specialist, Mackenzie.  Sir Morell, when he saw that he had been called to treat a dog, didn’t like it much, it was plain.  But he said nothing.  He prescribed, pocketed a big fee, and drove away.  The next day he sent posthaste for Whistler.  And Whistler, thinking he was summoned on some matter connected with his beloved dog, dropped his work and rushed like the wind to Mackenzie’s.  On his arrival Sir Morell said, gravely:  “How do you do, Mr. Whistler?  I wanted to see you about having my front door painted.”

* * * * *

Whistler used to tell this story about Dante Gabriel Rossetti in his later years.  The great Pre-Raphaelite had invited the painter of nocturnes and harmonies to dine with him at his house in Chelsea, and when Whistler arrived he was shown into a reception-room.  Seating himself, he was soon disturbed by a noise which appeared to be made by a rat or a mouse in the wainscoting of the room.  This surmise was wrong, as he found the noise was in the center of the apartment.  Stooping, to his amazement he saw Rossetti lying at full length under the table.

“Why, what on earth are you doing there, Rossetti?” exclaimed Whistler.

“Don’t speak to me!  Don’t speak to me!” cried Rossetti.  “That fool Morris”—­meaning the famous William—­“has sent to say he can’t dine here to-night, and I’m so mad I’m gnawing the leg of the table.”

* * * * *

One of the affectations of Whistler was his apparent failure to recognize persons with whom he had been on the most friendly terms.  An American artist once met the impressionist in Venice, where they spent several months together painting, and he was invited to call on Whistler if he should go to Paris.  The painter remembered the invitation.  The door of the Paris studio was opened by Whistler himself.  A cold stare was the only reply to the visitor’s effusive greeting.

“Why, Mr. Whistler,” cried the painter, “you surely haven’t forgotten those days in Venice when you borrowed my colors and we painted together!”

“I never saw you before in all my life,” replied Whistler, and slammed the door.

This habit of forgetting persons, or pretending to do so, for nobody ever knew when the lapses of recognition were due to intention or absent-mindedness, often tempted other artists to play pranks upon him.  He was a man who resented a joke at his own expense, except on a few occasions, and this trait was often turned to good account.