“I bequeath my wife’s entire collection of garnets rare and beautiful, together with sprays, pendants, etc., of the same style of work or setting in white stones, brilliants, or old paste, our entire collection of beautiful old silver and plate, and the complete collection of old china, to the Louvre. This bequest is on condition that the three collections be gathered together in one and displayed as the ‘Beatrix Whistler Collection.’ Also that in it or appropriately in the same room shall be hung proofs of my wife’s exquisite etchings, of which I leave a list attached to my will signed by me.” By a codicil dated May 7, 1903, he revoked the bequest to the Louvre, but he expressed a desire that, in the event of his residuary legatee retaining the collection of garnets during her life, she would bequeath them to the Louvre upon her death. He was unsparing of his sitters only in this one respect,--he would become so absorbed in his work as to completely forget them, and they would collapse with fatigue. Sometimes he would notice by their pallor the faintness which was overcoming them, and instantly, all solicitude, he would have them rest, or go out on the balcony for fresh air; but he himself never sat down. While they were resting he would walk back and forth, looking at the canvas, but rarely touching it, and talking to himself,--now and then, but not often, taking the sitter into his confidence. The moment the sitter was rested he would begin working again like one possessed. By close observation it could be seen that the best work was usually done during the first long pose, or in the last hour of the afternoon, when the shadows were deepening; and the wise sitter would humor this trait and pose his longest and best in those two hours. To the unaccustomed a half-hour standing--without moving so much as to disturb a line of the garments--is a long pose. But with practice--and with Whistler one had practice--an hour and a half without moving a muscle is not impossible. Every portrait Whistler ever began he expected to make his masterpiece. That is the way he started in with any work. It was to be the best thing he ever did; and so long as the enthusiasm lasted he would walk up and down the studio talking half to himself half to his sitter: “We will just go right on as we have begun, and it will be fine,--perhaps the finest thing I have ever done.” “Not as good as the portrait of your mother?”--the inevitable question. “Perhaps; who knows? Possibly finer in a way; for this, you know, is different. We’ll make a big thing of it.” And so on for days and weeks, until something would occur,--possibly weariness on the part of the sitter; possibly failure to keep appointments on days when the painter felt like doing his best; possibly too great anxiety to see the picture finished,--and the painter’s enthusiasm would subside, and the portrait would turn out not so great after all.