Immediately alert, Whistler said:
“What’s that? what’s that you said? Did you get that out of Shakespeare?”
“Not at all; it is simply a physical fact that if you let good wine dribble through a small spiggot you lose its fragrance and character.”
“God bless me, but I believe you are right; and it’s a good saying,—it’s James to a—drop.”
No doubt there are many still living who knew Whistler in those early Paris days, but if so, few have so far made known their reminiscences. One fellow-student describes one of the places they used to dine inexpensively as follows:[8]
“In Paris, in the fifties, there existed in the Rue de la Michandiere what appeared to be an ordinary Paris creamery. In the front shop were sold milk, butter, and eggs. Over the door was the usual painted tin coffee-pot, indicating that caffé au lait, and eggs, butter, and rolls could be obtained in the back room.
“The place was kept by Madame Busque, who had been a governess in a private family in the south of France, and having saved a little money, had come to Paris and opened a creamery. The very day she opened her shop, Mr. Chase, Paris correspondent of the New York Times, passing by, was attracted by the clean look of the place, and stepped in for his early breakfast of coffee and rolls. The little back room contained two round tables, and beyond was the kitchen with the usual charcoal broiler and little furnaces. Chase was so pleased that he came again, and getting acquainted with Madame, who was well educated and very ladylike and anxious to please, arranged for a dinner at 6.30 for a party of four. Everything was good and so well served that soon she had a regular custom of American residents,—literary men, artists, and students of all kinds, art, scientific, literary, and medical,—and soon the place became famous. American dishes were introduced,—mince and pumpkin pies and buckwheat cakes. It was not easy to reproduce these things in Paris. The pumpkin pie was a trouble. Madame was told how to make it by a man who only knew how it looked and tasted, and who neglected to mention the crust; and as Madame had no knowledge of pies in general, she served the first pumpkin pie as a soup in a tureen. Just at that time came in a bright young woman, introduced by one of the habitués, who offered to come next forenoon and show Madame Busque how to make a genuine Yankee pumpkin pie, which she did; and the pies produced in that little creamery were famous and were sent out to Americans all over Paris. Fine carriages, including that of the American minister, to the amazement of the neighborhood, would call for these pies to take home.
“Among the habitués was young Whistler, then an art student. He was bright, original, and amusing, but gave at that time no promise of any particular ability as an artist. His drawing was careless. I remember one of his pictures,—a woman seated at the piano, a little child playing on the floor. The piano was so out of drawing that it looked as if it were falling over. As students are always fond of guying each other, one said to Whistler, ‘Hurry and put a fifth leg under that piano or it will fall and smash the baby.’
“One day, in the Luxembourg, Whistler had his easel in a crowd with others. They were all at work making copies from a famous picture that had just been added to the gallery. Whistler would paint a bit, and then rush back to contemplate what he had done. In one of these mad backward rushes he struck a step-ladder on the top of which was a painter. Over went step-ladder, painter, and all, and the painter, trying to save himself, seized the top of his own canvas and another, pulling them over, easels and all. One knocked down another, and there was a great crash. Whistler was in the midst, and his loud voice was heard, as he sat on the floor, his head protruding through a big canvas that had fallen on him, using expressions of a vigorous type. He was seized by the guardian, because, as Whistler was making the most noise, he assumed that the whole fuss was due to him. This was quite correct; but all the painters coming to his rescue, telling the guardian that it was all an accident, he let Whistler off.
“He organized a company of French negro minstrels, writing the songs and stories, and gave a performance which was very amusing. Among the habitués at Madame Busque’s was a student from the School of Mines, Vinton, afterwards Professor of Mining at Columbia College, and during the war a brigadier-general. He himself told me the following story in 1866. One night in South Carolina an officer wandered into his camp. He sent word to the general by the sergeant of the guard that he was an officer who had lost his way, that he asked permission to pass the rest of the night in his camp, adding that he had known General Vinton when a student in Paris. General Vinton sent for the officer, whom he failed to recognize. After some thought he asked the question, ‘Who was the funniest man we knew in Paris?’ ‘Whistler,’ instantly answered the officer. ‘All right,’ says Vinton; ‘take that empty cot; you are no spy.’”