hawker--combining in their person the motley of many manners with the
medley of the mummers' closet.
Set up as a warning, and a finger-post of danger, they point to the
disastrous effect of Art upon the middle classes.
* * * * *
Why this lifting of the brow in deprecation of the present--this
pathos in reference to the past?
If Art be rare to-day, it was seldom heretofore.
It is false, this teaching of decay.
The master stands in no relation to the moment at which he
occurs--a monument of isolation--hinting at sadness--having no part in
the progress of his fellow men.
He is also no more the product of civilisation than is the scientific
truth asserted dependent upon the wisdom of a period. The assertion
itself requires the _man_ to make it. The truth was from the
beginning.
So Art is limited to the infinite, and beginning there cannot
progress.
A silent indication of its wayward independence from all extraneous
advance, is in the absolutely unchanged condition and form of
implement since the beginning of things.
The painter has but the same pencil--the sculptor the chisel of
centuries.
Colours are not more since the heavy hangings of night were first
drawn aside, and the loveliness of light revealed.
Neither chemist nor engineer can offer new elements of the
masterpiece.
* * * * *
False again, the fabled link between the grandeur of Art and the
glories and virtues of the State, for Art feeds not upon nations, and
peoples may be wiped from the face of the earth, but Art _is_.
It is indeed high time that we cast aside the weary weight of
responsibility and co-partnership, and know that, in no way, do our
virtues minister to its worth, in no way do our vices impede its
triumph!
How irksome! how hopeless! how superhuman the self-imposed task of the
nation! How sublimely vain the belief that it shall live nobly or art
perish.
Let us reassure ourselves, at our own option is our virtue. Art we in
no way affect.
A whimsical goddess, and a capricious, her strong sense of joy
tolerates no dulness, and, live we never so spotlessly, still may she
turn her back upon us.
As, from time immemorial, she has done upon the Swiss in their
mountains.
What more worthy people! Whose every Alpine gap yawns with tradition,
and is stocked with noble story; yet, the perverse and scornful one
will none of it, and the sons of patriots are left with the clock that
turns the mill, and the sudden cuckoo, with difficulty restrained in
its box!
For this was Tell a hero! For this did Gessler die!
Art, the cruel jade, cares not, and hardens her heart, and hies her
off to the East, to find, among the opium-eaters of Nankin, a favourite
with whom she lingers fondly--caressing his blue porcelain, and
painting his coy maidens, and marking his plates with her six
marks of choice--indifferent in her companionship with him, to all
save the virtue of his refinement!
He it is who calls her--he who holds her!
And again to the West, that her next lover may bring together the
Gallery at Madrid, and show to the world how the Master towers above
all; and in their intimacy they revel, he and she, in this knowledge;
and he knows the happiness untasted by other mortal.
She is proud of her comrade, and promises that in after-years, others
shall pass that way, and understand.
So in all time does this superb one cast about for the man worthy her
love--and Art seeks the Artist alone.
Where he is, there she appears, and remains with him--loving and
fruitful--turning never aside in moments of hope deferred--of
insult--and of ribald misunderstanding; and when he dies she sadly
takes her flight, though loitering yet in the land, from fond
association, but refusing to be consoled.[33]
[Note 33: And so have we the ephemeral influence of
the Master's memory--the afterglow, in which are warmed,
for a while, the worker and disciple.]
With the man, then, and not with the multitude, are her intimacies;
and in the book of her life the names inscribed are few--scant,
indeed, the list of those who have helped to write her story of love
and beauty.
From the sunny morning, when, with her glorious Greek relenting,
she yielded up the secret of repeated line, as, with his hand in hers,
together they marked in marble, the measured rhyme of lovely limb and
draperies flowing in unison, to the day when she dipped the Spaniard's
brush in light and air, and made his people live within their frames,
and _stand upon their legs_, that all nobility and sweetness, and
tenderness, and magnificence should be theirs by right, ages had gone
by, and few had been her choice.
Countless, indeed, the horde of pretenders! But she knew them not.
A teeming, seething, busy mass, whose virtue was industry, and whose
industry was vice!
Their names go to fill the catalogue of the collection at home, of the
gallery abroad, for the delectation of the bagman and the critic.
* * * * *
Therefore have we cause to be merry!--and to cast away all
care--resolved that all is well--as it ever was--and that it is not
meet that we should be cried at, and urged to take measures!
Enough have we endured of dulness! Surely are we weary of weeping, and
our tears have been cozened from us falsely, for they have called out
woe! when there was no grief--and, alas! where all is fair!
We have then but to wait--until, with the mark of the Gods upon
him--there come among us again the chosen--who shall continue what has
gone before. Satisfied that, even were he never to appear, the story
of the beautiful is already complete--hewn in the marbles of the
Parthenon--and broidered, with the birds, upon the fan of Hokusai--at
the foot of Fusi-yama.
[Illustration]
"_Rengaines!_"
[Sidenote: _Pall Mall Gazette_, Feb. 21, 1885.]
Last night, at Prince's Hall, Mr. Whistler made his first public
appearance as a lecturer on Art.... There were some arrows ... shot
off ... and (O, _mea culpa!_) at dress reformers most of all.... That
an artist will find beauty in ugliness, _le beau dans l'horrible_, is
now a commonplace of the schools.... I differ entirely from Mr.
Whistler. An Artist is not an isolated fact; he is the resultant of a
certain _milieu_ and a certain _entourage_, and can no more be born of
a nation that is devoid of any sense of beauty than a fig can grow
from a thorn or a rose blossom from a thistle.... The poet is the
supreme Artist, for he is the master of colour and of form, and the
real musician besides, and is lord over all life and all arts; and so
to the poet beyond all others are these mysteries known; to Edgar
Allan Poe and Baudelaire, not to Benjamin West and Paul Delaroche....
OSCAR WILDE.
[Sidenote: _REFLECTION:_
It is not enough that our simple Sunflower thrive on his
"thistle"--he has now grafted Edgar Poe on the "rose"
tree of the early American Market in "a certain milieu"
of dry goods and sympathy; and "a certain entourage" of
worship and wooden nutmegs.
Born of a Nation, not absolutely "devoid of any sense of
beauty"--Their idol--cherished--listened to--and
understood!
Foolish Baudelaire!--Mistaken Mallarmé!
[Illustration]]
_Tenderness in Tite Street_
_TO THE POET:_
[Sidenote: _The World._]
Oscar--I have read your exquisite article in the _Pall Mall_. Nothing
is more delicate, in the flattery of "the Poet" to "the Painter," than
the _naïveté_ of "the Poet," in the choice of his Painters--Benjamin
West and Paul Delaroche!
You have pointed out that "the Painter's" mission is to find "_le beau
dans l'horrible_," and have left to "the Poet" the discovery of
_"l'horrible" dans "le beau"_!
Chelsea.
[Illustration]
_TO THE PAINTER:_
[Sidenote: _The World._]
Dear Butterfly--By the aid of a biographical dictionary, I made the
discovery that there were once two painters, called Benjamin West and
Paul Delaroche, who rashly lectured upon Art. As of their works
nothing at all remains, I conclude that they explained themselves
away.
[Sidenote: _REFLECTION:_
I do know a bird, who, like Oscar, with his head in the
sand, still believes in the undiscovered!
If to be misunderstood is to be great, it was rash in
Oscar to reveal the source of his inspirations: the
"_Biographical Dictionary_!"
[Illustration]]
Be warned in time, James; and remain, as I do, incomprehensible. To be
great is to be misunderstood.--_Tout à vous_,
OSCAR WILDE.
_To the Committee of the "National Art Exhibition"_
[Sidenote: Letter read at a meeting of this Society,
associated for purposes of Art reform.]
[Sidenote: _The World_, Nov. 17, 1888.]
Gentlemen--I am naturally interested in any effort made among Painters
to prove that they are alive--but when I find, thrust in the van of
your leaders, the body of my dead 'Arry, I know that putrefaction
alone can result. When, following 'Arry, there comes on Oscar, you
finish in farce, and bring upon yourselves the scorn and ridicule of
your _confrères_ in Europe.
What has Oscar in common with Art? except that he dines at our tables
and picks from our platters the plums for the pudding he peddles in
the provinces. Oscar--the amiable, irresponsible, esurient Oscar--with
no more sense of a picture than of the fit of a coat, has the courage
of the opinions ... of others!
[Sidenote: Enclosed to the Poet, with a line: "Oscar,
you must really keep outside 'the radius'!"
[Illustration]]
With 'Arry and Oscar you have avenged the Academy.
I am, Gentlemen, yours obediently,
[Illustration]
_Quand même!_
[Sidenote: _The World_, Nov. 24, 1886.]
Atlas, this is very sad! With our James vulgarity begins at home, and
should be allowed to stay there.--_À vous_,
OSCAR WILDE
TO WHOM:
"A poor thing," Oscar!--"but," for once, I suppose "your own."
[Illustration]
_Philanthropy and Art_
The _Saturday Review_ has not thought it disgraceful to once more
justify its title to be called the "Saturday Reviler." This time it is
not to break upon the wheel some poor butterfly of a lady traveller or
novelist, but to scoff at an aged painter of the highest repute--Mr.
Herbert--upon his retirement to the rank of "Honorary Academician,"
after a career such as few, if any, painters living can boast. This it
pleases the "Reviler" to congratulate artists upon as "good news,"
without a word or a thought of what the retiring Academician has done
in art, except to utter the contemptible untruth that "his resignation
means that he has found out that he is beaten," _not_ by the natural
failing of old age, but because he failed to impress such a writer as
this with the special exhibition of the works of his long life, that
was made some few years back to mark the completion of his last great
picture for the House of Lords, "The Judgment of Daniel." That
exhibition, which most people, who know anything about painting in its
highest style of religious and monumental art, thought a most
interesting display of a painter's career, is described by this most
genial of critics as "acres of pallid purple canvases, with wizened
saints and virgins in attitudinizing groups."
Whether that collection of Mr. Herbert's works had merit or not is
matter of opinion which I am not concerned to dispute; but, as a
matter of fact, there were only _three_ small pictures in which the
virgin or any saints appeared; the other pictures, besides the two
large works of "The Delivery of the Law" and "The Judgment of Daniel,"
painted for the nation, being historical subjects, such as the "Lear
Disinheriting Cordelia," a fresco of which is in the House of Lords;
"The Acquittal of the Seven Bishops," which the Corporation of Salford
purchased for their gallery of art; and several fine works of his
youth, such as the "Brides of Venice," a "Procession in Venice, 1528,"
and others, which won for him his election to the Academy forty-five
years ago, when he had to compete with such men as are, unfortunately,
not to be found now among the candidates--Etty--Maclise--Dyce--Egg--and
Elmore.
But the "_Saturday's_" art critic, if he ever saw this exhibition
at all, didn't go to see these pictures. As Goethe says, "the eye sees
what it came to see," and he went to see the "acres of purple
canvases, with their wizened saints," which were not there. No
matter--it suits his purpose to declare that they were, just as it
does to cram into a paragraph more ignorance, insolence, and false
assertions combined than is often to be met with even in this locality
of literature, where the editor seems to be surrounded with all the
prigs, and the pumps, and the snobs of the literary profession.
_Truth_, Aug. 19, 1886.
"_Nous avons changé tout cela!_"
[Sidenote: _Truth_, Sept. 2, 1886.]
Hoity-toity! my dear Henry!--What is all this? How can you startle the
"Constant Reader," of this cold world, by these sudden dashes into the
unexpected?
Perceive also what happens.
Sweet in the security of my own sense of things, and looking upon you
surely as the typical "_Sapem_" of modern progress and civilization,
here do I, in full Paris, _à l'heure de l'absinthe_, upon mischievous
discussion intent, call aloud for "_Truth_."
"_Vous allez voir_," I say to the brilliant brethren gathered about my
table, "you shall hear the latest beautiful thing and bold, said by
our great Henry--'_capable de tout_,' beside whom '_ce coquin d'Habacuc_'
was mild indeed and usual!" And straightway to my stultification, I
find myself translating paragraphs of pathos and indignation, in which
a colourless old gentleman of the Academy is sympathized with, and
made a doddering hero of, for no better reason than that he _is_
old--and those who would point out the wisdom and comfort of his
withdrawal into the wigwam of private life, sternly reproved and
anathematized and threatened with shame--until they might well expect
to find themselves come upon by the bears of the aged and irascible,
though bald-headed, Prophet, whom the children had thoughtfully urged
to "go up."
Fancy the Frenchmen's astonishment as I read, and their placid
amusement as I attempted to point out that it was "meant drolly--that
_enfin_ you were a _mystificateur_!"
Henry, why should I thus be mortified? Also, why this new _pose_, this
cheap championship of senility?
How, in the name of all that is incompetent, do you find much virtue
in work spreading over more time! What means this affectation of
_naïveté_?
We all know that work excuses itself only by reason of its quality.
If the work be foolish, it surely is not less foolish because an
honest and misspent lifetime has been passed in producing it.
What matters it that the offending worker has grown old among us, and
has endeared himself to many by his caprices as ratepayer and
neighbour?
Personally, he may have claims upon his surroundings; but, as the
painter of poor pictures, he is damned for ever.
You see, my Henry, that it is not sufficient to be, as you are in wit
and wisdom, among us, amazing and astute; a very Daniel in your
judgment of many vexed questions; of a frankness and loyalty withal in
your crusade against abuses, that makes of the keen litigator a most
dangerous Quixote.
This peculiar temperament gives you that superb sense of right,
_outside the realms of art_, that amounts to genius, and carries with
it continued success and triumph in the warfare you wage.
But here it helps you not. And so you find yourself, for instance,
pleasantly prattling in print of "English Art."
Learn, then, O! Henry, that there is no such thing as English Art. You
might as well talk of English Mathematics. Art is Art, and Mathematics
is Mathematics.
What you call English Art, is not Art at all, but produce, of which
there is, and always has been, and always will be, a plenty, whether
the men producing it are dead and called ----, or (I refer you to your
own selection, far be it from me to choose)--or alive and called
----, whosoever you like as you turn over the Academy catalogue.
The great truth, you have to understand, is that it matters not at all
whom you prefer in this long list. They all belong to the excellent
army of mediocrity; the differences between them being infinitely
small--merely microscopic--as compared to the vast distance between
any one of them and the Great.
They are the commercial travellers of Art, whose works are their
wares, and whose exchange is the Academy.
They pass and are forgotten, or remain for a while in the memory of
the worthies who knew them, and who cling to their faith in them, as
it flatters their own place in history--famous themselves--the friends
of the famous!
Speak of them, if it please you, with uncovered head--even as in
France you would remove your hat as there passes by the hearse--but
remember it is from the conventional habit of awe alone, this show of
respect, and called forth generally by the casual corpse of the
commonest kind.
PARIS, Aug. 21, 1886.
[Illustration]
_The Inevitable_
[Sidenote: _Truth_, Sept. 9, 1886.]
When I suggested you as the "Sapeur of modern progress," my dear
Henry, I thought to convey delicately my appreciation, wrapped in
graceful compliment.
When I am made to say that you are the "Sapem" of
civilisation--whatever that may mean--I would seem to insinuate an
impertinence clothed in classic error.
I trust that, if you forgive me, you will never pardon the
printer.--Always,
[Illustration]
"_Noblesse oblige_"
[Sidenote: _The World_, Dec. 31, 1884.]
Atlas, look at this! It has been culled from the _Plumber and
Decorator_, of all insidious prints, and forwarded to me by the
untiring people who daily supply me with the thinkings of my critics.
Read, Atlas, and let me execute myself:
"The 'Peacock' drawing-room of a well-to-do shipowner, of Liverpool,
at Queen's Gate, London, is hand-painted, representing the noble bird
with wings expanded, painted by an Associate of the Royal Academy, at
a cost of £7000, and fortunate in claiming his daughter as his bride,
and is one of the finest specimens of high art in decoration in the
kingdom. The mansion is of modern construction."
He is not guilty, this honest Associate! It was _I_, Atlas, who did
this thing--"alone I did it"--_I_ "hand-painted" this room in the
"mansion of modern construction."
Woe is me! _I_ secreted, in the provincial shipowner's home, the
"noble bird with wings expanded"--_I_ perpetrated, in harmless
obscurity, "the finest specimen of high-art decoration"--and the
Academy is without stain in the art of its member. Also the immaculate
character of that Royal body has been falsely impugned by this wicked
"_Plumber_"!
Mark these things, Atlas, that justice may be done, the innocent
spared, and history cleanly written.
_Bon soir!_
Chelsea.
[Illustration]
_Early Laurels_
_TO THE EDITOR:_
[Sidenote: _The Observer_, April 11, 1886.]
Sir--In your report of the Graham sale of pictures at Messrs. Christie
and Manson's rooms, I read the following:
"The next work, put upon the easel, was a 'Nocturne in blue and
silver,' by J. M. Whistler. It was received with hisses."
May I beg, through your widely spread paper, to acknowledge the
distinguished, though I fear unconscious, compliment so publicly paid.
It is rare that recognition, so complete, is made during the lifetime
of the painter, and I would wish to have recorded my full sense of
this flattering exception in my favour.
Chelsea.
[Illustration]
_A Further Proposition_
[Sidenote: _Art Journal_, 1887.]
The notion that I paint flesh lower in tone than it is in nature, is
entirely based upon the popular superstition as to what flesh really
is--when seen on canvas; for the people never look at nature with any
sense of its pictorial appearance--for which reason, by the way, they
also never look at a picture with any sense of nature, but,
unconsciously from habit, with reference to what they have seen in
other pictures.
Now, in the usual "pictures of the year" there is but one flesh, that
shall do service under all circumstances, whether the person painted
be in the soft light of the room or out in the glare of the open. The
one aim of the unsuspecting painter is to make his man "stand out"
from the frame--never doubting that, on the contrary, he should
really, and in truth absolutely does, stand _within_ the frame--and at
a depth behind it equal to the distance at which the painter sees
his model. The frame is, indeed, the window through which the painter
looks at his model, and nothing could be more offensively inartistic
than this brutal attempt to thrust the model on the hither-side of
this window!
Yet this is the false condition of things to which all have become
accustomed, and in the stupendous effort to bring it about,
exaggeration has been exhausted--and the traditional means of the
incompetent can no further go.
Lights have been heightened until the white of the tube alone
remains--shadows have been deepened until black alone is left.
Scarcely a feature stays in its place, so fierce is its intention of
"firmly" coming forth; and in the midst of this unseemly struggle for
prominence, the gentle truth has but a sorry chance, falling flat and
flavourless, and without force.
The Master from Madrid, himself, beside this monster success of
mediocrity, would be looked upon as mild: _beau bien sure, mais pas
"dans le mouvement"_!
Whereas, could the people be induced to turn their eyes but for a
moment, with the fresh power of comparison, upon their fellow-creatures
as they pass in the gallery, they might be made dimly to perceive
(though I doubt it, so blind is their belief in the bad), how
little they resemble the impudent images on the walls! how "quiet" in
colour they are! how "grey!" how "low in tone." And then it might be
explained to their riveted intelligence how they had mistaken
meretriciousness for mastery, and by what mean methods the imposture
had been practised upon them.
[Illustration]
_An Opportunity_
Cher Monsieur--M. ---- m'a remis votre petite planche--port d'Amsterdam
avec une épreuve. Elle est charmante et je serais fort heureux de la
faire paraître dans l'article consacré à vos eaux fortes. Seulement,
je crois que vous avez mal interprété ma demande et que par le fait
nous ne nous entendons pas bien. Vous me demandez 63 guinées pour
cette planche, soit plus de 2000 francs, outre que le prix dépasse
celui de la planche la plus chère parue dans la _Gazette_ depuis sa
fondation, y compris les chefs-d'oeuvre de Jacquemart et de
Gaillard, il n'est pas dans les habitudes de la maison, de payer les
planches d'artistes qui accompagnent un compte-rendu de leur oeuvre.
C'est ainsi que nous avons agi avec Méryon, Seymour Haden, Edwards,
Evershed, Legros, &c.
Du reste, la planche pourrait rester votre propriété. Nous vous la
remettrions après avoir fait notre tirage. Il est entendu qu'elle
serait acierée.
Si ces conditions vous agréent, cher monsieur, je me ferai un
vrai plaisir de faire dans la _Gazette_ un article sur votre beau
talent d'aquafortiste. Dans le cas contraire, je me verrais avec mille
regrets, dans la necessité de vous renvoyer la planche que je me fusse
fait cependant un véritable honneur de publier.
Veuillez agréer, cher monsieur, l'expression de mes meilleurs
sentiments.
LE DIRECTEUR de la
_Gazette des Beaux-Arts_.
PARIS, le 12 Juin 1878.
_The Opportunity Neglected_
Cher Monsieur--Je regrette infiniment que mes moyens ne me permettent
pas de naître dans votre Journal.
L'article que vous me proposez, comme berceau, me coûterait trop cher.
Il me faudrait donc reprendre ma planche et rester inconnu jusqu'à la
fin des choses, puisque je n'aurais pas été inventé par la _Gazette
des Beaux Arts_.--Recevez, Monsieur,
[Illustration]
_Nostalgia_
[Sidenote: Extract from a letter _à propos_ of Mr.
Whistler's contemplated visit to his native land.]
... "Quite true--now that it is established as an improbability, it
becomes true!
[Sidenote: _The World_, Oct. 13, 1886.]
They tell me that December has been fixed upon, by the Fates, for my
arrival in New York--and, if I escape the Atlantic, I am to be wrecked
by the reporter on the pier.
I shall be in his hands, even as is the sheep in the hands of his
shearer--for I have learned nothing from those who have gone
before--and been lost too!
What will you! I know Matthew Arnold, and am told that he whispered
Truth exquisite, unheeded in the haste of America.