“To you—yes.”
It was agreed; and the following day Whistler with several of the party paid each a shilling to see “Nana” stretched at ease under a strong light at the far end of a dark room. It might have been a painting or “Nana” herself, the realism was so gross.
All save Whistler were in raptures over the wondrous thing. He was silent.
Then they went to the National Gallery, and he took them before one great portrait after another.
“But we have seen these before,” chorused the voices.
“Impossible!” exclaimed Whistler.
“Oh, yes, many times,” sang the voices.
“But you do not like them; you detest them.”
“Oh, no! no! no——!”
“But they are not at all like ‘Nana’; they haven’t ‘Nana’s’ wonderful flesh-tones, ‘Nana’s’ beautiful skin; are not so life-like as ‘Nana,’ and beside ‘Nana’ you must consider them as poor, wretched daubs.”