Also his second literary attempt, more than ten years later, when he objected to having one of his pictures called "The Yacht Race: A symphony in B sharp," had little merit except that of indignation.
Whistler was an iconoclast, as fanatic as any, when problems of art were in question, but his image-breaking was always indirect, "inverted" as it were; he defended his position by asserting his own beliefs. He, no doubt, was prompted by his own deep-rooted convictions, but the stimulant of his literary activity was never based on didacticism: to bring out an idea because it was a great truth and ought to be brought out. The stimulant for his utterances was always personal anger, irritation and wrath. He fought for himself and his art, but not for others. He was one of the greatest egotists that ever lived. Whenever he felt hurt at some injustice and stupidity he had to set it aright, no matter at what cost, to his own satisfaction.
It was not before he was forty-four that he took up letter writing seriously. In one of his earliest answers he is seen at his best; it was written as early as 1867 but never published until 1887, when it appeared in the "Art Journal." Somebody had found fault with him calling one of his pictures "A Symphony in White," because one of the girls had reddish hair; and a yellow dress, a blue ribbon and a blue fan had been introduced into a white tonality. He replied in his vigorous fashion:
"Can anything be more amazing than the stultified prattle of this poor person? Not precisely a symphony in white ... for there is a yellowish dress ... brown hair ... and of course there is the flesh colour of the complexions. Bon Dieu! Did this creature expect white hair and chalked faces? And does he then in his astounding wisdom believe that a symphony in F contains no other note, but a continued repetition of F, F, F, F, F?... Fool!
James Whistler."
In this letter he took the right attitude, that of the fighter, who, with a few penstrokes, annihilated the foolishness of his opponents. If all his feuds had been of this character, no objection would have been raised to them. Alas, he did things, frequently, merely to pose as a wit, to say something that would make London society laugh, caring little in how malicious and vituperative a manner he would couch his words. Even when he was wrong and knew that he was wrong he would fight, as in the Café Orientale incident. A correspondent of the "World" attacked the title, stating that it had an e too many for French, and an f too few for Italian. Whistler does not attempt to justify his orthographical error, but, by telling an anecdote, endeavours to ridicule all criticism which pretends to such accuracy. It is cleverly told, but after all it is silly.
Nearly all his friends, sooner or later, were forced into crossing swords with him. The list is a long one and embraces many well-known names. He fought with his brother-in-law, F. Seymour Haden, because he had admired Frank Duveneck's etchings and mistaken them for Whistler's. He advised Harry Quilter, an art writer, "his bitterest enemy," to employ his sense of smell in preference to his eyesight; he calls the art critic P. G. Hamerton, "a certain Mr. Hamerton." He wrangled with Sir William Eden and even his friend Leyland about the price for ordered pictures, in each case making the whole transaction public; he attacked Tom Taylor and F. Wedmore for misquotations in their writings (he who had been guilty of the same thing himself), he quarrelled with the Academy when they repainted an old sign of his, "the famous Lion and Butterfly wrangle;" and wrote most insulting letters to Wyke Bayliss, who has succeeded him in the presidency. He withdrew all his pictures from the Paris Exposition, because the American colonel, C. R. Hawkins, had refused a few of his etchings in a rather impolite manner. The real reason was lack of space, and one could hardly expect from an American colonel the manners of a Chesterfield. Surely, Whistler did not possess them himself. He, at all times, practised more "manner" than manners, his language had at times an irritating touch of rudeness and coarseness. The feuds were endless. He continually baited his fellow artists. He called the pre-Raphaelites "What a damn crew." Legros, Val Prinsep, W. P. Frith, Sir Frederick Leighton and Dante Gabriel Rossetti, were at one time or another recipients. Everybody who came in contact with him, William M. Chase, "the masher of the Avenues," Theodore Child, who had to bear the brunt of a pun on his name, etc., all have some queer experiences to tell about him.
George Moore, who had stood so gallantly by Whistler's side, was thrown over without much ado as soon as he remained neutral, and did not join the front ranks of the fighting host in the Sir William Eden episode. Swinburne did not fare better; nor his friend Stott of Oldham, on whom he had passed such exaggerated eulogies in the beginning of his career. Even his oldest friend and supporter, Kennedy, the picture dealer, was finally bespattered with the mud of Whistler's invectives. His bon mots and repartee in ordinary life were as significant as those in his pamphlets, letters and catalogues. We all remember his "Why drag in Velasquez!" his "Goodness gracious! you don't fancy a man owns a picture because he bought it," or "Indeed! it is not every man in England I paint for." Then again talking about Leighton, "Yes, and he paints too." In meeting Du Maurier and Wilde at one of the exhibitions Whistler burst forth: "I say, which one of you invented the other, eh!" The famous repartee, Whistler:—"Nature's creeping up." Oscar Wilde: "Heavens, I wish I had said that!" "You will," dryly replied Whistler.
