Punch, Or the London Charivari, Volume 102, April 16, 1892

A Lady (after looking at a representation of Old Battersea Bridge--in the tone of a person who feels she is making a liberal concession). Well, do you know, I must say that isn't so bad. I shouldn't so much mind having that in the room, should you?

Her Companion (dubiously). Well, I don't know. He's put a steamer in. Should you think there were steamers in--a--(vaguely)--those days?

First Lady (evidently considering Mr. WHISTLER capable of any eccentricity). Oh, I don't suppose he would mind that much.

First Literal Person (coming to the portrait of Miss ALEXANDER). Well--(plaintively)--he might have put a nicer expression on the child!

Second Do. Do. Yes--very unpleasing. (Refers to Catalogue.) Oh, I see it says--"It is simply a disagreeable presentment of a disagreeable young lady."

First Do. Do. (rejoicing that the painter has vindicated himself this time). Ah--that explains it, then. Of course if he meant it--!

A Serious Elderly Lady. There's one thing I must say I do like, my dear, and that's the way he puts down all the unfavourable criticisms on his pictures. So straightforward and honest of him, I call it.

Her Companion. Yes, but I expect he can't help seeing how right and sensible the critics are, you know. Still--(charitably)--it shows he would do better if he could!

An Advanced Nephew (who is endeavouring to convert a Philistine Uncle to the superiority of the Modern School). Now here, Uncle, look at this. Look at the way the figure looms out of the canvas, look at the learning in the simple sweep of the drapery, the drawing of it, and the masterly grace of the pose--you don't mean to tell me you don't call that a magnificent portrait?

His Uncle. Who's it of? That's what I want to know first.

Nephew (coldly). You will find it in the Catalogue, no doubt--No. 41.

Uncle (looking it up). "_Arrangement in Black. La Dame au Brodequin Jaune._"--the lady in a yellow something or other. Tchah! And not a word to tell you who she's supposed to be? If I pay a shilling for a Catalogue, I expect to find information in it. And let me ask you--where's the interest in looking at a portrait when you're not told who it's intended for?

[_The Nephew, not being prepared to answer this difficult query, leads his relative gently up to a "Nocturne in Opal and Silver." The Uncle conveys his opinion of it by a loud and expressive snort._

First Prosaic Person (before No. 28). Valparaiso, is it? (Hopefully.) Well, come, I ought to recognise this--I've been there often enough. (Inspecting it closely.) Ha--um!

Second P.P. (with languid interest). Is it like?

First P.P. I could tell you better if he'd done it by daylight. I can't make out this in the front--looks to me like the top of a house, or something. Don't remember that.

Second P.P. I think it's meant for a jetty, landing-stage, or that sort of thing, and, when you look into it, there's something that seems intended for people--_most_ extraordinary, isn't it?

The Domesticated Matron (who is searching for a picture with a subject to it). There, CAROLINE, it's evidently a harbour, you see, and ships, and they're letting off fireworks--probably for a regatta, Does it tell you what it is in the Catalogue?

Caroline (after consulting it). It only says, "_A Nocturne in Blue and Gold_"--oh yes--(reading)--"a splash and splutter of brightness, on a black ground, to depict a display of fireworks."

Her Mother (gratified at her own intelligence). I thought it must be fireworks. He seems quite fond of fireworks, doesn't he?

First Facetious Philistine. Hullo, what have we got here? "_Crepuscule, in Flesh-colour and Green._" Very like one, too, daresay--when you know what it is.

Second F.P. As far as I can make it out, a Crepuscule's either a Harmony inside out, or a Symphony upside down--it don't much matter.

A Lady (who is laboriously trying to catch the right spirit). "_The Blue Wave at Biarritz_." Now I do admire that. And what I like even better than the Blue wave is this great Brown one breaking in the foreground--so exactly like water, isn't it, DICK?

Dick (not a Whistlerite). Y--yes--just. Only it's a rock, you know.

The Lady. But if that's the way he saw it, DICK!

Dick. Here's a thing! "_St. Mark's, Venice_." I'll trouble you! What's he done with the flagstaffs and the bronze horses and the pigeons? I never saw the place look like that.

The Lady. Because it didn't happen to be foggy while we were there, that's all.

First Pros. Person. Ah, there's old CARLYLE, you see! Dear me, what a very badly fitting coat--see how it bulges over his chest!

Second P.P. Yes. I daresay he buttoned the wrong button--philosopher and all that sort o' thing, y'know.

First P.P. (sympathetically). Well, I do think WHISTLER might have told him of it!

IN THE SECOND ROOM.

The Matron in Search of a Subject. Ah, now, this really is more my idea of a picture. Quite a pretty crétonne those curtains, and there's a little girl reading a book, and a looking-glass with reflections and all, and a young lady in a riding-habit--just going out for a ride.

Caroline. Yes. Mother. Or just come in from one.

Her Mother. Do see what it's called. "_The Morning Canter_" or "_Back from the Row_"--something of that kind, I expect it would be.

Caroline. All it says is, "_A Harmony in Green and Rose_."

The Mother (disappointed). Now, why can't he give it some sensible name, instead of taking away all one's interest!

The Phil. Uncle (whom a succession of Symphonies and Harmonies has irritated to the verge of fury). Don't talk to me, Sir! Don't tell me any of these things are pictures. Look at _this_--a young woman in an outlandish dress sitting on the floor--on the bare floor!--in a litter of Japanese sketches! And he has the confounded impertinence to call it a "_Caprice_"--a "_Caprice in Purple and Gold_." I'd purple and gold him, Sir, if I had my way! Where's the sense in such things? What do they teach you? What story do they tell? Where's the human interest in them? Depend upon it, Sir, these things are rubbish--sheer rubbish, according to all my notions of Art, and I think you'll allow I ought to know something about it?

His Nephew (provoked beyond prudence). You certainly ought to know more than that, my dear Unc--Are you going?

The Uncle (grimly). Yes--to see my Solicitor, Sir. (To himself, savagely.) That confounded young prig will find he's paid dear enough for his precious Whistlers--if I don't have a fit in the cab!

[_He goes; the Nephew wonders whether his attempt at proselytising was quite worth while._