Modern Painting | Page 4

if the table on which she is standing were indicated, the movement of
outstretched arm would be incomprehensible. The hand, too, is
somewhat uncertain, undetermined, and a gesture is meaningless that
the hand does not determine and complete. I do not speak of the fingers
of the right hand, which are non-existent; after a dozen attempts to
paint the gloved hand, only an approximate result was obtained. Look

at the ear, and say that the painter's nerves did not give wayonce or
twice. And the likeness is vague and shadowy; she is only fairly
representative of her class. We see fairly well that she is a lady _du
grand monde_, who is, however, not without knowledge of les environs
du monde. But she is hardly English--she might be a French woman or
an American. She is a sort of hybrid. Miss Rose Corder and "the lady in
the fur jacket" are equally cosmopolitan; so, too, is Miss Alexander.
Only once has Mr. Whistler expressed race, and that was in his portrait
of his mother. Then these three ladies--Miss Corder, Lady Archibald
Campbell, and "the lady in the fur jacket"--wear the same complexion:
a pale yellow complexion, burnt and dried. With this conventional tint
he obtains unison and a totality of effect; but he obtains this result at
the expense of truth. Hals and Velasquez obtained the same result,
without, however, resorting to such meretricious methods.
The portrait of the mother is, as every one knows, in the Luxemburg;
but the engraving reminds us of the honour which France has done, but
which we failed to do, to the great painter of the nineteenth century;
and after much hesitation and arguing with myself I feel sure that on
the whole this picture is the painter's greatest work in portraiture. We
forget relations, friends, perhaps even our parents; but that picture we
never forget; it is for ever with us, in sickness and in health; and in
moments of extreme despair, when life seems hopeless, the strange
magic of that picture springs into consciousness, and we wonder by
what strange wizard craft was accomplished the marvellous pattern on
the black curtain that drops past the engraving on the wall. We muse on
the extraordinary beauty of that grey wall, on the black silhouette
sitting so tranquilly, on the large feet on a foot-stool, on the hands
crossed, on the long black dress that fills the picture with such solemn
harmony. Then mark the transition from grey to white, and how le ton
local is carried through the entire picture, from the highest light to the
deepest shadow. Note the tenderness of that white cap, the white lace
cuffs, the certainty, the choice, and think of anything if you can, even in
the best Japanese work, more beautiful, more delicate, subtle, illusive,
certain in its handicraft; and if the lace cuffs are marvellous, the
delicate hands of a beautiful old age lying in a small lace handkerchief
are little short of miraculous. They are not drawn out in anatomical
diagram, but appear and disappear, seen here on the black dress, lost

there in the small white handkerchief. And when we study the faint,
subtle outline of the mother's face, we seem to feel that there the painter
has told the story of his soul more fully than elsewhere. That soul,
strangely alive to all that is delicate and illusive in Nature, found
perhaps its fullest expression in that grave old Puritan lady looking
through the quiet refinement of her grey room, sitting in solemn profile
in all the quiet habit of her long life.
Compared with later work, the execution is "tighter", if I may be
permitted an expression which will be understood in studios; we are
very far indeed from the admirable looseness of handling which is the
charm of the portrait of Miss Rose Corder. There every object is born
unconsciously beneath the passing of the brush. If not less certain, the
touch in the portrait of the mother is less prompt; but the painter's
vision is more sincere and more intense. And to those who object to the
artificiality of the arrangement, I reply that if the old lady is sitting in a
room artificially arranged, Lady Archibald Campbell may be said to be
walking through incomprehensible space. But what really decides me
to place this portrait above the others is the fact that while painting his
mother's portrait he was unquestionably absorbed in his model; and
absorption in the model is perhaps the first quality in portrait-painting.
Still, for my own personal pleasure, to satisfy the innermost cravings of
my own soul, I would choose to live with the portrait of Miss
Alexander. Truly, this picture seems to me the most beautiful in the
world. I know very well that it