Chapter II

by William Somerset Maugham

　　When so much has been written about Charles Strickland, it mayseem unnecessary that I should write more. A painter'smonument is his work. It is true I knew him more intimatelythan most: I met him first before ever he became a painter,and I saw him not infrequently during the difficult years hespent in Paris; but I do not suppose I should ever have setdown my recollections if the hazards of the war had not takenme to Tahiti. There, as is notorious, he spent the last yearsof his life; and there I came across persons who were familiarwith him. I find myself in a position to throw light on justthat part of his tragic career which has remained most obscure.If they who believe in Strickland's greatness are right,the personal narratives of such as knew him in theflesh can hardly be superfluous. What would we not give forthe reminiscences of someone who had been as intimatelyacquainted with El Greco as I was with Strickland?But I seek refuge in no such excuses. I forget who it wasthat recommended men for their soul's good to do each day twothings they disliked: it was a wise man, and it is a preceptthat I have followed scrupulously; for every day I have got upand I have gone to bed. But there is in my nature a strain ofasceticism, and I have subjected my flesh each week to a moresevere mortification. I have never failed to read the LiterarySupplement of The Times. It is a salutary discipline toconsider the vast number of books that are written, the fairhopes with which their authors see them published, and thefate which awaits them. What chance is there that any bookwill make its way among that multitude? And the successfulbooks are but the successes of a season. Heaven knows whatpains the author has been at, what bitter experiences he hasendured and what heartache suffered, to give some chancereader a few hours' relaxation or to while away the tedium ofa journey. And if I may judge from the reviews, many of thesebooks are well and carefully written; much thought has gone totheir composition; to some even has been given the anxiouslabour of a lifetime. The moral I draw is that the writershould seek his reward in the pleasure of his work and inrelease from the burden of his thought; and, indifferent to aughtelse, care nothing for praise or censure, failure or success.Now the war has come, bringing with it a new attitude.Youth has turned to gods we of an earlier day knew not, and itis possible to see already the direction in which those who comeafter us will move. The younger generation, conscious ofstrength and tumultuous, have done with knocking at the door;they have burst in and seated themselves in our seats.The air is noisy with their shouts. Of their elders some, byimitating the antics of youth, strive to persuade themselvesthat their day is not yet over; they shout with the lustiest,but the war cry sounds hollow in their mouth; they are likepoor wantons attempting with pencil, paint and powder, withshrill gaiety, to recover the illusion of their spring.The wiser go their way with a decent grace. In their chastenedsmile is an indulgent mockery. They remember that they tootrod down a sated generation, with just such clamor and withjust such scorn, and they foresee that these brave torch-bearerswill presently yield their place also. There is no last word.The new evangel was old when Nineveh reared her greatnessto the sky. These gallant words which seem so novel to thosethat speak them were said in accents scarcely changed a hundredtimes before. The pendulum swings backwards and forwards.The circle is ever travelled anew.Sometimes a man survives a considerable time from an era inwhich he had his place into one which is strange to him, andthen the curious are offered one of the most singularspectacles in the human comedy. Who now, for example, thinksof George Crabbe? He was a famous poet in his day, and theworld recognised his genius with a unanimity which the greatercomplexity of modern life has rendered infrequent. He hadlearnt his craft at the school of Alexander Pope, and he wrotemoral stories in rhymed couplets. Then came the FrenchRevolution and the Napoleonic Wars, and the poets sang new songs.Mr. Crabbe continued to write moral stories in rhymed couplets.I think he must have read the verse of these youngmen who were making so great a stir in the world, and I fancyhe found it poor stuff. Of course, much of it was. But theodes of Keats and of Wordsworth, a poem or two by Coleridge, afew more by Shelley, discovered vast realms of the spirit thatnone had explored before. Mr. Crabbe was as dead as mutton,but Mr. Crabbe continued to write moral stories in rhymed couplets.I have read desultorily the writings of the younger generation.It may be that among them a more fervid Keats, a moreethereal Shelley, has already published numbers the worldwill willingly remember. I cannot tell. I admire theirpolish -- their youth is already so accomplished that it seemsabsurd to speak of promise -- I marvel at the felicity oftheir style; but with all their copiousness (their vocabularysuggests that they fingered Roget's Thesaurus in theircradles) they say nothing to me: to my mind they know toomuch and feel too obviously; I cannot stomach the heartinesswith which they slap me on the back or the emotion with whichthey hurl themselves on my bosom; their passion seems to me alittle anaemic and their dreams a trifle dull. I do not like them.I am on the shelf. I will continue to write moral stories inrhymed couplets. But I should be thrice a fool if I did it foraught but my own entertainment.