“It took a long time to paint this portrait.”
There was a pause, of which my friend took advantage to say that she would much like to have him paint her portrait.
“How long shall you be in Paris?” he asked.
“Another week.”
“There you are! You Americans are all the same; here to-day, gone to-morrow; à Paris aujourd’hui, demain, à Hoboken. One might as well try to paint fish jumping out of the water,” he added with his captivating laugh.
With this laugh, all the ice that had been accumulating melted away. I found voice to say that I had recognized him immediately the day before from having seen and greatly admired his portrait by a fellow-artist. To my complete discomfiture, he shrugged his shoulders and said:
“He imagines that he has painted my portrait.”
At last we were having a glimpse of the real Whistler, or, rather, of the one we had heard of and read about.
He showed us two more canvases, one by a pupil. Then he drew up to the tea-table and began to discourse on the “Nocturne” which my friend had bought. This led to a recital of his hopes of the budding “Académie Whistler,” which had been formally opened in the autumn of 1898. However, the academy did not remain open long. Nothing in his training or natural gifts gave him the endurance and patience required of a teacher; besides, his health failed, and he went to a milder climate. We dared ask him how he liked being a teacher, to which he answered: