There is an almost exact parallel
between the two sides of his genius. Nothing could be more absurd than
the general view of him as a masterly professional on the one side and
a trifling amateur on the other. He was, certainly, a painter who
wrote; but, by the slightest movement of Fate's little finger, he
might have been a writer who painted, and this essay have been written
not by me from my standpoint, but by some painter, eager to suggest
that Whistler's painting was a quite serious thing.
Yes, that painting and that writing are marvellously akin; and such
differences as you will see in them are superficial merely. I spoke of
Whistler's vanity in life, and I spoke of his timidity and reverence
in art. That contradiction is itself merely superficial. Bob Acres was
timid, but he was also vain. His swagger was not an empty assumption
to cloak his fears; he really did regard himself as a masterful and
dare-devil fellow, except when he was actually fighting. Similarly,
except when he was at his work, Whistler, doubtless, really did think
of himself as a brilliant effortless butterfly. The pose was,
doubtless a quite sincere one, a necessary reaction of feeling. Well,
in his writing he displays to us his vanity; whilst in his Painting we
discern only his reverence.
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