Most artists delight in seeing exhibited immediately--often prematurely--the things they do, and the delight is not unnatural. Others there are who, on account of numerous disappointments or from queer crotchets, are opposed altogether to exhibitions. Whistler was not of the latter class; he was quite human enough to enjoy, as he himself said, the honors which come from well-conducted exhibitions. He was an officer of the Legion of Honor, had received awards and honors without number, including the extraordinary award of the gold medal for etching and also for painting at the Paris Exposition of 1900, and an honorary degree from a Scotch University. These honors sat lightly, but by no means uneasily, upon him. * * * * * His unwillingness to part with work led to no end of trouble and misunderstanding. People could not understand why they should not have what they had bargained and often paid for, why there should be any delay whatsoever, much less why after many demands their money should be returned and the picture kept by the artist. All this is, of course, diametrically opposed to the rules of commerce, and Whistler has been blamed for his unreliability, to use the mildest term urged against him. Without knowing him it is impossible to understand his attitude towards his pictures. In the first place, he was profoundly attached to them, whether sold or not. They were and remained _his_ work; and in a humorous way he frequently insisted upon this superior right of the creator,--as on the fly-leaf of the catalogue of his London exhibition, which read: “_Nocturnes, Marines, and Chevalet Pieces_: a catalogue. Small collection kindly _lent_ their owners.” And sometimes this assertion of a superior equity went so far as to interfere with the right of possession, which was quite beyond the comprehension of the multitude. The story is told that a certain Lady B---- purchased one of his pictures, but was never able to get it. One day she drove to the studio in her victoria. Mr. Whistler went out to the sidewalk to greet her. “Mr. Whistler,” she said, “two years ago I bought one of your pictures, a beautiful thing, and I have never been able to hang it on my walls. It has been loaned to one exhibition after another. Now, to-day I have my carriage with me, and I would like to take it home with me. I am told it is in your possession.” “Dear lady,” returned Whistler, “you ask the impossible. I will send it to you at the earliest practicable moment. You know,--those last slight touches,--which achieve perfection,--make all things beautiful.” And so forth and so forth, to the same effect, and the lady drove off without her picture. After she had departed, Whistler commenced to poke around the studio, and, to the great astonishment of a friend who had been an involuntary listener to the above conversation, he brought forth a canvas.