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Title: Wilde v Whistler: Being an Acrimonious Correspondence on Art Between Oscar Wilde and James A McNeill Whistler
Author: Whistler, James McNeill, Wilde, Oscar
Language: English
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WILDE v WHISTLER
Four hundred copies on small quarto paper, and one hundred large paper
copies on demy octavo paper, have been printed of this brochure.
WILDE v WHISTLER
BEING
AN ACRIMONIOUS CORRESPONDENCE
ON ART
BETWEEN
OSCAR WILDE
AND
JAMES A McNEILL WHISTLER
LONDON PRIVATELY PRINTED MCMVI
Mr WHISTLER’S TEN O’CLOCK,
BY MR OSCAR WILDE.
“_RENGAINES!_”
Pall Mall Gazette, Feb. 21st, 1885.
Last night at Prince’s Hall, Mr. Whistler made his first public
appearance as a lecturer on Art, and spoke for more than an hour with
really marvellous eloquence on the absolute uselessness of all lectures
of the kind. Mr. Whistler began his lecture with a very pretty _aria_
on pre-historic history, describing how in earlier times hunter and
warrior would go forth to chase and foray, while the artist sat at
home making cup and bowl for their service. Rude imitations of nature
they were first, like the gourd bottle, till the sense of beauty and
form developed, and, in all its exquisite proportions, the first vase
was fashioned. Then came a higher civilisation of Architecture and
Arm-chairs, and with exquisite design, and dainty diaper, the useful
things of Life were made lovely: and the hunter and the warrior lay
on the couch when they were tired, and, when they were thirsty, drank
from the bowl, and never cared to lose the exquisite proportions of
the one, or the delightful ornament of the other: and this attitude
of the primitive anthropophagous Philistine formed the text of the
lecture, and was the attitude which Mr Whistler entreated his audience
to adopt towards Art. Remembering, no doubt, many charming invitations
to wonderful private views, this fashionable assemblage seemed somewhat
aghast, and not a little amused, at being told that the slightest
appearance among a civilized people of any joy in beautiful things is
a grave impertinence to all painters; but Mr. Whistler was relentless,
and with charming ease, and much grace of manner, explained to the
public that the only thing they should cultivate was ugliness, and that
on their permanent stupidity rested all the hopes of art in the future.
The scene was in every way delightful; he stood there, a miniature
Mephistopheles mocking the majority! he was like a brilliant surgeon
lecturing to a class composed of subjects destined ultimately for
dissection, and solemnly assuring them how valuable to science their
maladies were and how absolutely uninteresting the slightest symptoms
of health on their part would be. In fairness to the audience, however,
I must say that they seemed extremely gratified at being rid of the
dreadful responsibility of admiring anything, and nothing could have
exceeded their enthusiasm when they were told by Mr Whistler that no
matter how vulgar their dresses were, or how hideous their surroundings
at home, still it was possible that a great painter, if there was such
a thing, could, by contemplating them in the twilight, and half closing
his eyes, see them under really picturesque conditions, and produce a
picture which they were not to attempt to understand, much less dare
to enjoy. Then there were some arrows, barbed and brilliant, shot off,
with all the speed and splendour of fireworks at the archaeologists,
who spend their lives in verifying the birth-places of nobodies, and
estimate the value of a work of art by its date or decay; at the art
critics who always treat a picture as if it were a novel, and try
and find out the plot; at dilettanti in general, and amateurs in
particular, and (_O mea culpa!_) at dress reformers most of all. “Did
not Velasquez paint crinolines? What more do you want?”
Having thus made a holocaust of humanity, Mr Whistler turned to
Nature, and in a few minutes convicted her of the Crystal Palace, Bank
Holidays, and a general overcrowding of detail, both in omnibuses and
in landscapes; and then, in a passage of singular beauty, not unlike
one that occurs in Corot’s letters, spoke of the artistic value of dim
dawns and dusks, when the mean facts of life are lost in evanescent
and exquisite effects, when common things are touched with mystery and
transfigured with beauty: when the warehouses become as palaces, and
the tall chimneys of the factory seem like campaniles in the silver air.
Finally, after making a strong protest against anybody but a painter
judging of painting, and a pathetic appeal to the audience not to
be lured by the aesthetic movement into having beautiful things
about them, Mr Whistler concluded his lecture with a pretty passage
about Fusiyama on a fan, and made his bow to an audience which he
had succeeded in completely fascinating by his wit, his brilliant
paradoxes, and at times, his real eloquence. Of course, with regard
to the value of beautiful surroundings I entirely differ 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. That an artist will find
beauty in ugliness, _le beau dans l’horrible_, is now a commonplace
of the schools, the argot of the atelier, but I strongly deny that
charming people should be condemned to live with magenta ottomans and
Albert blue curtains in their rooms in order that some painter may
observe the side lights on the one and the values of the other. Nor do
I accept the dictum that only a painter is a judge of painting. I say
that only an artist is a judge of art; there is a wide difference. As
long as a painter is a painter merely, he should not be allowed to talk
of anything but mediums and megilp, and on those subjects should be
compelled to hold his tongue; it is only when he becomes an artist that
the secret laws of artistic creation are revealed to him. For there
are not many arts but one art merely: poem, picture, and Parthenon,
sonnet and statue――all are in their essence the same, and he who knows
one, knows all. But the poet is the supreme artist, for he is the
master of colour and 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 to Baudelaire, not to
Benjamin West and Paul Delaroche. However, I would not enjoy anybody
else’s lectures unless in a few points I disagreed with them, and Mr
Whistler’s lecture last night was, like everything that he does, a
masterpiece. Not merely for its clever satire and amusing jests will
it be remembered, but for the pure and perfect beauty of many of its
passages――passages delivered with an earnestness which seemed to amaze
those who had looked on Mr Whistler as a master of persiflage merely,
and had not known him, as we do, as a master of painting also. For
that he is indeed one of the very greatest masters of painting, is
my opinion. And I may add that in this opinion Mr Whistler himself
entirely concurs.
OSCAR WILDE.
REFLECTION: It is not enough that our simple Sunflower flourish
on his “figs”――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!
J. A. McN. W.
TENDERNESS IN TITE STREET
TO THE POET:
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_!”
J. A. McN. WHISTLER.
CHELSEA.
TO THE PAINTER:
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.
Be warned in time, James; and remain, as I do, incomprehensible. To be
great is to be misunderstood.――_Tout à vous_,
OSCAR WILDE.
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_.”
J. A. McN. W.
TO THE COMMITTEE OF THE “NATIONAL
ART EXHIBITION”
The World, Nov. 17, 1886.
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!
With ’Arry and Oscar you have avenged the Academy.
I am, gentlemen, yours obediently,
J. A. McN. WHISTLER.
Letter read at a meeting of this Society, associated for
purposes of Art reform.
Enclosed to the Poet, with a line: “Oscar, you must really keep
outside the radius.”
J. A. McN. W.
QUAND MÊME!
The World, Nov. 24, 1886.
ATLAS, this is very sad! With our James vulgarity begins at home, and
should be allowed to stay there.
A vous,
OSCAR WILDE.
TO WHOM:
“A poor thing,” Oscar――“but” for once, I suppose “your own.”
J. A. McN. W.
THE HABIT OF SECOND NATURES
Truth, Jan. 2, 1890.
MOST VALIANT _TRUTH_――Among your ruthless exposures of the shams of
to-day, nothing, I confess, have I enjoyed with keener relish than
your late tilt at that arch-imposter and pest of the period――the
all-pervading plagiarist!
I learn, by the way, that in America he may, under the “Law of ’84,” as
it is called, be criminally prosecuted, incarcerated, and made to pick
oakum, as he has hitherto picked brains――and pockets!
How was it that, in your list of culprits, you omitted that fattest of
offenders――our own Oscar?
His methods are brought again freshly to my mind, by the indefatigable
and tardy Romeike, who sends me newspaper cuttings of “Herbert Vivian’s
Reminiscences,” in which, among other entertaining anecdotes, is told
at length, the Story of Oscar simulating the becoming pride of author,
upon a certain evening, in the club of the Academy students, and
arrogating to himself the responsibility of the lecture, with which,
at his earnest prayer, I had, in good fellowship, crammed him, that
he might not add deplorable failure to foolish appearance, in his
anomalous position, as art expounder, before his clear-headed audience.
He went forth, on that occasion, as my St. John――but, forgetting that
humility should be his chief characteristic, and unable to withstand
the unaccustomed respect with which his utterances were received, he
not only trifled with my shoe, but bolted with the latchet!
Mr. Vivian, in his book, tells us, further on, that lately, in an
article in the _Nineteenth Century_ on the “Decay of Lying,” Mr. Wilde
has deliberately and incautiously incorporated, “without a word of
comment,” a portion of the well-remembered letter in which, after
admitting his rare appreciation and amazing memory, I acknowledge that
“Oscar has the courage of the opinions ... of others!”
My recognition of this, his latest proof of open admiration, I send him
in the following little note, which I fancy you may think _à propos_ to
publish, as an example to your readers, in similar circumstances, of
noble generosity in sweet reproof, tempered, as it should be, to the
lamb in his condition:――
“Oscar, you have been down the area again, I see!
“I had forgotten you, and so allowed your hair to grow over the
sore place. And now, while I looked the other way, you have
stolen _your own scalp_! And potted it in more of your pudding.
“Labby has pointed out that, for the detected plagiarist, there
is still one way to self-respect (besides hanging himself of
course), and that is for him boldly to declare, ‘Je prends mon
bien là ou je le trouve.’
“You, Oscar, can go further, and with fresh effrontery,
that will bring you the envy of all criminal _confrères_,
unblushingly boast, ‘Moi, je prends _son_ bien là ou je le
trouve!’”
J. A. McN. WHISTLER.
CHELSEA.
IN THE MARKET PLACE
Truth, Jan. 9, 1890.
SIR――I can hardly imagine that the public are in the very smallest
degree interested in the shrill shrieks of “Plagiarism” that proceed
from time to time out of the lips of silly vanity or incompetent
mediocrity.
However, as Mr. James Whistler has had the impertinence to attack
me with both venom and vulgarity in your columns, I hope you will
allow me to state that the assertions contained in his letters are as
deliberately untrue as they are deliberately offensive.
The definition of a disciple as one who has the courage of the opinions
of his master is really too old even for Mr. Whistler to be allowed
to claim it, and as for borrowing Mr. Whistler’s ideas about Art, the
only thoroughly original ideas I have ever heard him express have had
reference to his own superiority as a painter over painters greater
than himself.
It is a trouble for any gentleman to have to notice the lucubrations of
so ill-bred and ignorant a person as Mr. Whistler, but your publication
of his insolent letter left me no option in the matter.
I remain, Sir, faithfully yours,
OSCAR WILDE.
PANIC
Truth, Jan. 16, 1890.
O TRUTH!――Cowed and humiliated, I acknowledge that our Oscar is at
last original. At bay, and sublime in his agony, he certainly has, for
once, borrowed from no living author, and comes out in his own true
colours――as his own “gentleman.”
How shall I stand against his just anger, and his damning allegations!
for it must be clear to your readers, that, besides his clean polish,
as prettily set forth in his epistle, I, alas! am but the “ill-bred and
ignorant person,” whose “lucubrations” “it is a trouble” for him “to
notice.”
Still will I, desperate as is my condition, point out that though
“impertinent,” “venomous,” and “vulgar,” he claims me as his
“master”――and, in the dock, bases his innocence upon such relation
between us.
In all humility, therefore, I admit that the outcome of my “silly
vanity and incompetent mediocrity,” must be the incarnation: “OSCAR
WILDE.”
J. A. McN. WHISTLER.
_Mea culpa!_ the Gods may perhaps forgive and forget.
To you, _Truth_――champion of the truth――I leave the brave task of
proclaiming again that the story of the lecture to the students of the
Royal Academy was, as I told it to you, no fiction.
In the presence of Mr Waldo Story did Oscar make his prayer for
preparation; and at his table was he entrusted with the materials for
his crime.
You also shall again unearth, in the _Nineteenth Century Review_ of
Jan. 1889, page 37, the other appropriated property, slily stowed away,
in an article on “The Decay of Lying”――though why Decay!
To shirk this matter thus is craven, doubtless; but I am awe-stricken
and tremble, for truly, “the rage of the sheep is terrible!”
J. A. McN. WHISTLER.
JUST INDIGNATION
OSCAR――How dare you! What means the disguise?
Restore those things to Nathan’s, and never again let me find you
masquerading the streets of my Chelsea in the combined costumes of
Kossuth and Mr Mantalini!
J. A. McN. WHISTLER.
Upon seeing the Poet, in Polish cap and green overcoat,
befrogged, and wonderfully befurred.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
――Printer’s, punctuation, and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.
――Variable punctuation has been preserved (e.g. Mr/Mr.), where there
is no predominant instance.
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