Chapter I

by William Somerset Maugham

　　I confess that when first I made acquaintance with CharlesStrickland I never for a moment discerned that there was inhim anything out of the ordinary. Yet now few will be foundto deny his greatness. I do not speak of that greatness whichis achieved by the fortunate politician or the successfulsoldier; that is a quality which belongs to the place heoccupies rather than to the man; and a change of circumstancesreduces it to very discreet proportions. The Prime Ministerout of office is seen, too often, to have been but a pompousrhetorician, and the General without an army is but the tamehero of a market town. The greatness of Charles Stricklandwas authentic. It may be that you do not like his art, but atall events you can hardly refuse it the tribute of yourinterest. He disturbs and arrests. The time has passed whenhe was an object of ridicule, and it is no longer a mark ofeccentricity to defend or of perversity to extol him.His faults are accepted as the necessary complement to his merits.It is still possible to discuss his place in art, and theadulation of his admirers is perhaps no less capricious thanthe disparagement of his detractors; but one thing can neverbe doubtful, and that is that he had genius. To my mind themost interesting thing in art is the personality of theartist; and if that is singular, I am willing to excuse athousand faults. I suppose Velasquez was a better painterthan El Greco, but custom stales one's admiration for him:the Cretan, sensual and tragic, proffers the mystery of hissoul like a standing sacrifice. The artist, painter, poet, ormusician, by his decoration, sublime or beautiful, satisfiesthe aesthetic sense; but that is akin to the sexual instinct,and shares its barbarity: he lays before you also the greatergift of himself. To pursue his secret has something of thefascination of a detective story. It is a riddle which shareswith the universe the merit of having no answer. The mostinsignificant of Strickland's works suggests a personalitywhich is strange, tormented, and complex; and it is thissurely which prevents even those who do not like his picturesfrom being indifferent to them; it is this which has excitedso curious an interest in his life and character.It was not till four years after Strickland's death thatMaurice Huret wrote that article in the Mercure de Francewhich rescued the unknown painter from oblivion and blazed thetrail which succeeding writers, with more or less docility,have followed. For a long time no critic has enjoyed inFrance a more incontestable authority, and it was impossiblenot to be impressed by the claims he made; they seemedextravagant; but later judgments have confirmed his estimate,and the reputation of Charles Strickland is now firmlyestablished on the lines which he laid down. The rise of thisreputation is one of the most romantic incidents in thehistory of art. But I do not propose to deal with CharlesStrickland's work except in so far as it touches uponhis character. I cannot agree with the painters who claimsuperciliously that the layman can understand nothing ofpainting, and that he can best show his appreciation of theirworks by silence and a cheque-book. It is a grotesquemisapprehension which sees in art no more than a craftcomprehensible perfectly only to the craftsman: art is amanifestation of emotion, and emotion speaks a language thatall may understand. But I will allow that the critic who hasnot a practical knowledge of technique is seldom able to sayanything on the subject of real value, and my ignorance ofpainting is extreme. Fortunately, there is no need for me torisk the adventure, since my friend, Mr. Edward Leggatt, anable writer as well as an admirable painter, has exhaustivelydiscussed Charles Strickland's work in a little book[1] whichis a charming example of a style, for the most part, lesshappily cultivated in England than in France.[1] "A Modern Artist: Notes on the Work of CharlesStrickland," by Edward Leggatt, A.R.H.A. Martin Secker, 1917.Maurice Huret in his famous article gave an outline of CharlesStrickland's life which was well calculated to whet theappetites of the inquiring. With his disinterested passionfor art, he had a real desire to call the attention of thewise to a talent which was in the highest degree original;but he was too good a journalist to be unaware that the "humaninterest" would enable him more easily to effect his purpose.And when such as had come in contact with Strickland in thepast, writers who had known him in London, painters who hadmet him in the cafes of Montmartre, discovered to theiramazement that where they had seen but an unsuccessful artist,like another, authentic genius had rubbed shoulders with themthere began to appear in the magazines of France and America asuccession of articles, the reminiscences of one, theappreciation of another, which added to Strickland'snotoriety, and fed without satisfying the curiosity ofthe public. The subject was grateful, and the industriousWeitbrecht-Rotholz in his imposing monograph[2] has been ableto give a remarkable list of authorities.[2] "Karl Strickland: sein Leben und seine Kunst," by HugoWeitbrecht-Rotholz, Ph.D. Schwingel und Hanisch. Leipzig, 1914.The faculty for myth is innate in the human race. It seizeswith avidity upon any incidents, surprising or mysterious, inthe career of those who have at all distinguished themselvesfrom their fellows, and invents a legend to which it thenattaches a fanatical belief. It is the protest of romanceagainst the commonplace of life. The incidents of the legendbecome the hero's surest passport to immortality. The ironicphilosopher reflects with a smile that Sir Walter Raleigh ismore safely inshrined in the memory of mankind because he sethis cloak for the Virgin Queen to walk on than because hecarried the English name to undiscovered countries.Charles Strickland lived obscurely. He made enemies ratherthan friends. It is not strange, then, that those who wrote ofhim should have eked out their scanty recollections with alively fancy, and it is evident that there was enough in thelittle that was known of him to give opportunity to the romanticscribe; there was much in his life which was strange and terrible,in his character something outrageous, and in his fatenot a little that was pathetic. In due course a legend aroseof such circumstantiality that the wise historian wouldhesitate to attack it.But a wise historian is precisely what the Rev. RobertStrickland is not. He wrote his biography[3] avowedly to"remove certain misconceptions which had gained currency" inregard to the later part of his father's life, and which had"caused considerable pain to persons still living." It isobvious that there was much in the commonly received accountof Strickland's life to embarrass a respectable family.I have read this work with a good deal of amusement, and uponthis I congratulate myself, since it is colourless and dull.Mr. Strickland has drawn the portrait of an excellent husbandand father, a man of kindly temper, industrious habits, andmoral disposition. The modern clergyman has acquired in hisstudy of the science which I believe is called exegesis anastonishing facility for explaining things away, but thesubtlety with which the Rev. Robert Strickland has"interpreted" all the facts in his father's life which adutiful son might find it inconvenient to remember must surelylead him in the fullness of time to the highest dignities ofthe Church. I see already his muscular calves encased in thegaiters episcopal. It was a hazardous, though maybe a gallantthing to do, since it is probable that the legend commonlyreceived has had no small share in the growth of Strickland'sreputation; for there are many who have been attracted to hisart by the detestation in which they held his character or thecompassion with which they regarded his death; and the son'swell-meaning efforts threw a singular chill upon the father'sadmirers. It is due to no accident that when one of his mostimportant works, The Woman of Samaria,[4] was sold atChristie's shortly after the discussion which followed thepublication of Mr. Strickland's biography, it fetched POUNDS235 less than it had done nine months before when it wasbought by the distinguished collector whose sudden death hadbrought it once more under the hammer. Perhaps CharlesStrickland's power and originality would scarcely havesufficed to turn the scale if the remarkable mythopoeicfaculty of mankind had not brushed aside with impatience astory which disappointed all its craving for theextraordinary. And presently Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz producedthe work which finally set at rest the misgivings of alllovers of art.[3] "Strickland: The Man and His Work," by his son, RobertStrickland. Wm. Heinemann, 1913.[4] This was described in Christie's catalogue as follows:"A nude woman, a native of the Society Islands, is lying onthe ground beside a brook. Behind is a tropical Landscapewith palm-trees, bananas, etc. 60 in. x 48 in."Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz belongs to that school of historianswhich believes that human nature is not only about as bad asit can be, but a great deal worse; and certainly the reader issafer of entertainment in their hands than in those of thewriters who take a malicious pleasure in representing thegreat figures of romance as patterns of the domestic virtues.For my part, I should be sorry to think that there was nothingbetween Anthony and Cleopatra but an economic situation; andit will require a great deal more evidence than is ever likelyto be available, thank God, to persuade me that Tiberius wasas blameless a monarch as King George V. Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholzhas dealt in such terms with the Rev. Robert Strickland'sinnocent biography that it is difficult to avoidfeeling a certain sympathy for the unlucky parson. His decentreticence is branded as hypocrisy, his circumlocutions areroundly called lies, and his silence is vilified as treachery.And on the strength of peccadillos, reprehensible in anauthor, but excusable in a son, the Anglo-Saxon race isaccused of prudishness, humbug, pretentiousness, deceit,cunning, and bad cooking. Personally I think it was rash ofMr. Strickland, in refuting the account which had gainedbelief of a certain "unpleasantness" between his father andmother, to state that Charles Strickland in a letter writtenfrom Paris had described her as "an excellent woman," sinceDr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz was able to print the letter infacsimile, and it appears that the passage referred to ran infact as follows: God damn my wife. She is an excellent woman.I wish she was in hell. It is not thus that the Churchin its great days dealt with evidence that was unwelcome.Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz was an enthusiastic admirer of CharlesStrickland, and there was no danger that he would whitewash him.He had an unerring eye for the despicable motive inactions that had all the appearance of innocence. He was apsycho-pathologist, as well as a student of art, and thesubconscious had few secrets from him. No mystic ever sawdeeper meaning in common things. The mystic sees theineffable, and the psycho-pathologist the unspeakable.There is a singular fascination in watching the eagerness withwhich the learned author ferrets out every circumstance which maythrow discredit on his hero. His heart warms to him when hecan bring forward some example of cruelty or meanness, and heexults like an inquisitor at the auto da fe of an hereticwhen with some forgotten story he can confound the filial pietyof the Rev. Robert Strickland. His industry has been amazing.Nothing has been too small to escape him, and youmay be sure that if Charles Strickland left a laundry billunpaid it will be given you in extenso, and if he foreboreto return a borrowed half-crown no detail of the transactionwill be omitted.