Likewise in the drama the insistent “Voice” demands trash or otherwise, quite regardless of the protest of the Critic. The run of a play is not determined by the criticisms. The opinion of the Critic is often foreseen and defied; but neither writer, manager, nor actor can foretell the verdict of the “Voice,”—favorable often when least expected; adverse often when least deserved.
But in art the “Voice”—stentorian in literature and the drama—sinks to a whisper so diffident that it cannot be heard amidst the trumpetings of the Critics.
The Critics—those whose business it was to write and talk about art—ridiculed Whistler, not the “Voice.” Left wholly to itself, it is quite likely the “Voice” would have found much that it liked in the beautiful combinations of tones and colors, for there is nothing inherently repulsive in Whistler’s work, as in much other that Critics command the “Voice” to praise; on the contrary, his paintings are exceedingly restful to the eye, and exceedingly attractive as schemes of color if nothing else. The “Voice,” left to itself, would say, “I do not understand them, but I like them,—just as I like music, without knowing much about it.”
But the “Voice”—independent enough in literature, the drama, and even in music—dares not lisp in art until the Critic speaks. Then the “Voice” praises what he praises, condemns what he condemns, until the secret purchases and growing demand for the outcast confounds both Critic and echoing “Voice.” Then the “Voice” turns—as it has in the case of Whistler—and rends the Critics, unless those agile gentlemen change sides and praise what they formerly condemned.
Too bad that Whistler attributed the “Voice” of the Critic to that long-suffering animal—the Public, which, if often wrong, is always honest, and, in all but art—vociferous.
Concerning his habit of persistently impaling the critics, a writer says:[29]
“We wish that the catalogue did not, for the tenth time, contain quotations from all the dull things which bewildered criticism has said about him. Mr. Whistler is a wit, and should recollect that the same old joke must not be told too often to the same old audience.”
But where is the joke? In the criticisms or in their repetition? If the criticisms were serious, then repetition is doubly serious.
Nor is it “the same old audience,” but each year, each hour, a new audience. Of all the English-speaking people not one in a million have ever heard the joke; and if joke there be, it is surely a gracious act to make it known.
The far-seeing publisher deftly detaches the favorable comment from uncongenial context and prints it boldly on the fly-leaf of the volume. Why should not author or painter print his page of depreciations that, as Whistler says, “history may be cleanly written”? And if preserved and printed once, why not for all time?