International studio (56.1915)

An Afternoon with James McNeill VAhistler

dreamily, “Deah old Pendleton, how is he? Fine
old chap. Of course, you shall have anything the
deah fellow asks for.” Now Whistler seemed
conscious of my insignificant presence for the first
time, and I was introduced. He adjusted his
monocle and sized me up. “And are you a
painter?” he asked.
It was too much. My idol was shattered, and I
replied, somewhat brusquely, “No, I am only a
bum Western newspaper man.”
“Beg pahdon,” said Whistler, shoving his mono-
cle into a firmer crevice around his eye. I, un-
daunted by such a reception, repeated my flippant
remark. Whistler dropped his monocle and ejac-
ulated: “Reahly!”
An uncomfortable pause followed, which Noyes
broke by giving our address, and we said good-bye.
We unclimbed those flights of stairs in silence.
When we reached the street, Noyes asked what I
thought of him. I replied that he was a little too
ladylike to appeal to me.
I had not recovered from the shock when a few
days later Whistler’s cards were brought to our
rooms, in the little hotel in the rue des Petits
Champs where we were staying. I swore that I’d
be choked before I would meet that conceited,
affected little creature again, but it was business
with Noyes, and he soothed my wounded vanity
by saying I was a great pause-filler, and must help
him out. Mollified, I went downstairs.
Whistler was seated on the edge of a chair in the
little salon. On his knees he held a Latin Quarter
high silk hat, with a straight rim. He wore a
rusty brown overcoat, which was thrown open,
revealing the red button of the Legion of Honour
in the buttonhole of his sack coat underneath.
He rose as we entered, and at once began to talk of
Pendleton.
Then there was a pause. I, anxious to do my
prescribed part, remarked, apropos of nothing:
“That’s a wonderful portrait of your mother in
the Luxembourg.” Whistler reached for his
monocle, surveyed me leisurely from head to foot
and said, with an insolent drawl, “You liked it?
Well, I’m glad you liked it.”
I could cheerfully have handed him an upper-
cut, had I been there in the character of a pugilist
instead of that of a conversationalist. Noyes, see-
ing my wrath, quickly filled in the breach. I
recovered my temper, and at the next pause sug-
gested a cocktail, thinking that that might smooth
our dispositions. Again the monocle was put into

service, and there was a survey of the tiny room.
“A cocktail heah?” and the English accent was
again in evidence. I ignored his rudeness and
remarked that if two or three Americans were
stranded on the desert of Sahara with some
Worcestershire sauce and a lemon they would con-
coct some sort of a drink. Whistler ignored this
and rose to go, saying he had come to pay his
respects to Pendleton’s friend, and that he rarely
gave an afternoon to calling, but that as this
was one of the days he must see the Duchesse
de -, and the Vicomtesse de-, going
through a list of titles which he apparently thought
would fill our American souls with awe. It was
nauseating, and I wished to heaven he would go.
Noyes, however, protested: “Mr. Whistler must
at least do us the honour of taking a cocktail.” It
was only a step to the Chatham, and we were soon
seated at a table in the cafe, with the American
drink before us. The two men talked over the
business they had to transact, while the button
was pushed from time to time for more cocktails.
When the business was finished, I again proved
that fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
It is perhaps superfluous to state that my friends
accuse me of being loquacious, and they tell me
that I hate a pause as Nature does a vacuum.
This time I ventured:
“Your ‘Gentle Art of Making Enemies’ is a
very clever book. I understand it better now
than I did when I first read it.” Again the mono-
cle. “May I awsk, where in your wild and crude
Western country you could have found my book? ”
Emboldened by this gracious query, I leaned for-
ward and said, confidentially: “I live in a dug-out
and your ‘ Gentle Art ’ must have dropped from a
prairie schooner near my home.” He eyed me
suspiciously, not quite sure that I was not in
earnest, but I did not give him time for analysis,
and quickly asked:
“Why do you wear that dinky little button in
your coat? Is it the latest French style, or did
you win it in a bicycle race?” Again Whistler
was uncertain as to whether I was grossly ignorant
or making fun of him. He replied with caution,
“That is the only great distinction that a great
painter may accept from a great country.”
“That’s a classic and should be handed down to
posterity,” I exclaimed, and taking out a card, I
wrote: “That is the only great distinction that a
great artist may accept from a great country.”
“No, no, you bum little newspaper man,” cried

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