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? The record of a people is not complete unless their likes and dislikes be known. What would we not give for the adverse criticisms of Shakespeare? And there must have been many besides poor Greene’s. What would we not give for some of the off-hand comments of his fellow-actors and his fellow-managers? The world conspires to deceive the world. The literature of adulation is carefully conserved until mortals, denuded of their frailties, become gods. * * * * * In the course of his career Whistler met with many bizarre appreciations, but none more astonishing than this:[30] “To understand Mr. Whistler you must understand his body. I do not mean that Mr. Whistler has suffered from bad health,--his health has always been excellent; all great artists have excellent health, but his constitution is more nervous than robust. He is even a strong man, but he is lacking in weight. Were he six inches taller and his bulk proportionally increased, his art would be different.”