Chapter XLIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Looking back, I realise that what I have written about CharlesStrickland must seem very unsatisfactory. I have givenincidents that came to my knowledge, but they remain obscurebecause I do not know the reasons that led to them.The strangest, Strickland's determination to become a painter,seems to be arbitrary; and though it must have had causes inthe circumstances of his life, I am ignorant of them.From his own conversation I was able to glean nothing. If I werewriting a novel, rather than narrating such facts as I know ofa curious personality, I should have invented much to accountfor this change of heart. I think I should have shown astrong vocation in boyhood, crushed by the will of his fatheror sacrificed to the necessity of earning a living; I shouldhave pictured him impatient of the restraints of life; and inthe struggle between his passion for art and the duties of hisstation I could have aroused sympathy for him. I should sohave made him a more imposing figure. Perhaps it would havebeen possible to see in him a new Prometheus. There was here,maybe, the opportunity for a modern version of the hero who forthe good of mankind exposes himself to the agonies of the damned.It is always a moving subject.On the other hand, I might have found his motives in theinfluence of the married relation. There are a dozen ways inwhich this might be managed. A latent gift might revealitself on acquaintance with the painters and writers whosesociety his wife sought; or domestic incompatability might turnhim upon himself; a love affair might fan into bright flamea fire which I could have shown smouldering dimly in his heart.I think then I should have drawn Mrs. Strickland quitedifferently. I should have abandoned the facts and made her anagging, tiresome woman, or else a bigoted one with nosympathy for the claims of the spirit. I should have madeStrickland's marriage a long torment from which escape was theonly possible issue. I think I should have emphasised hispatience with the unsuitable mate, and the compassion whichmade him unwilling to throw off the yoke that oppressed him.I should certainly have eliminated the children.An effective story might also have been made by bringing himinto contact with some old painter whom the pressure of wantor the desire for commercial success had made false to thegenius of his youth, and who, seeing in Strickland thepossibilities which himself had wasted, influenced him toforsake all and follow the divine tyranny of art. I thinkthere would have been something ironic in the picture of thesuccessful old man, rich and honoured, living in another thelife which he, though knowing it was the better part, had nothad the strength to pursue.The facts are much duller. Strickland, a boy fresh from school,went into a broker's office without any feeling of distaste.Until he married he led the ordinary life of his fellows,gambling mildly on the Exchange, interested to the extentof a sovereign or two on the result of the Derby or theOxford and Cambridge Race. I think he boxed a little in hisspare time. On his chimney-piece he had photographs of Mrs.Langtry and Mary Anderson. He read Punch and the #iSporting Times>. He went to dances in Hampstead.It matters less that for so long I should have lost sight of him.The years during which he was struggling to acquireproficiency in a difficult art were monotonous, and I do notknow that there was anything significant in the shifts towhich he was put to earn enough money to keep him. An accountof them would be an account of the things he had seen happento other people. I do not think they had any effect on hisown character. He must have acquired experiences which wouldform abundant material for a picaresque novel of modern Paris,but he remained aloof, and judging from his conversation therewas nothing in those years that had made a particularimpression on him. Perhaps when he went to Paris he was tooold to fall a victim to the glamour of his environment.Strange as it may seem, he always appeared to me not onlypractical, but immensely matter-of-fact. I suppose his lifeduring this period was romantic, but he certainly saw noromance in it. It may be that in order to realise the romanceof life you must have something of the actor in you; and,capable of standing outside yourself, you must be able towatch your actions with an interest at once detached andabsorbed. But no one was more single-minded than Strickland.I never knew anyone who was less self-conscious. But it isunfortunate that I can give no description of the arduoussteps by which he reached such mastery over his art as he everacquired; for if I could show him undaunted by failure, by anunceasing effort of courage holding despair at bay, doggedlypersistent in the face of self-doubt, which is the artist'sbitterest enemy, I might excite some sympathy for apersonality which, I am all too conscious, must appearsingularly devoid of charm. But I have nothing to go on.I never once saw Strickland at work, nor do I know that anyoneelse did. He kept the secret of his struggles to himself.If in the loneliness of his studio he wrestled desperately withthe Angel of the Lord he never allowed a soul to divine hisanguish.When I come to his connection with Blanche Stroeve I amexasperated by the fragmentariness of the facts at my disposal.To give my story coherence I should describe theprogress of their tragic union, but I know nothing of thethree months during which they lived together. I do not knowhow they got on or what they talked about. After all, thereare twenty-four hours in the day, and the summits of emotioncan only be reached at rare intervals. I can only imagine howthey passed the rest of the time. While the light lasted andso long as Blanche's strength endured, I suppose thatStrickland painted, and it must have irritated her when shesaw him absorbed in his work. As a mistress she did not thenexist for him, but only as a model; and then there were longhours in which they lived side by side in silence. It musthave frightened her. When Strickland suggested that in hersurrender to him there was a sense of triumph over Dirk Stroeve,because he had come to her help in her extremity, he openedthe door to many a dark conjecture. I hope it was not true.It seems to me rather horrible. But who can fathom thesubtleties of the human heart? Certainly not those who expectfrom it only decorous sentiments and normal emotions.When Blanche saw that, notwithstanding his moments of passion,Strickland remained aloof, she must have been filled withdismay, and even in those moments I surmise that she realisedthat to him she was not an individual, but an instrument ofpleasure; he was a stranger still, and she tried to bind himto herself with pathetic arts. She strove to ensnare him withcomfort and would not see that comfort meant nothing to him.She was at pains to get him the things to eat that he liked,and would not see that he was indifferent to food. She wasafraid to leave him alone. She pursued him with attentions,and when his passion was dormant sought to excite it, for thenat least she had the illusion of holding him. Perhaps sheknew with her intelligence that the chains she forged onlyaroused his instinct of destruction, as the plate-glass windowmakes your fingers itch for half a brick; but her heart,incapable of reason, made her continue on a course she knewwas fatal. She must have been very unhappy. But theblindness of love led her to believe what she wanted to betrue, and her love was so great that it seemed impossible toher that it should not in return awake an equal love.But my study of Strickland's character suffers from a greaterdefect than my ignorance of many facts. Because they wereobvious and striking, I have written of his relations towomen; and yet they were but an insignificant part of his life.It is an irony that they should so tragically haveaffected others. His real life consisted of dreams and oftremendously hard work.Here lies the unreality of fiction. For in men, as a rule,love is but an episode which takes its place among the otheraffairs of the day, and the emphasis laid on it in novelsgives it an importance which is untrue to life. There are fewmen to whom it is the most important thing in the world, andthey are not very interesting ones; even women, with whom thesubject is of paramount interest, have a contempt for them.They are flattered and excited by them, but have an uneasyfeeling that they are poor creatures. But even during thebrief intervals in which they are in love, men do other thingswhich distract their mind; the trades by which they earn theirliving engage their attention; they are absorbed in sport;they can interest themselves in art. For the most part, theykeep their various activities in various compartments, andthey can pursue one to the temporary exclusion of the other.They have a faculty of concentration on that which occupiesthem at the moment, and it irks them if one encroaches on theother. As lovers, the difference between men and women isthat women can love all day long, but men only at times.With Strickland the sexual appetite took a very small place.It was unimportant. It was irksome. His soul aimed elsewhither.He had violent passions, and on occasion desire seizedhis body so that he was driven to an orgy of lust, buthe hated the instincts that robbed him of his self-possession.I think, even, he hated the inevitable partner in his debauchery.When he had regained command over himself, heshuddered at the sight of the woman he had enjoyed.His thoughts floated then serenely in the empyrean, and he felttowards her the horror that perhaps the painted butterfly,hovering about the flowers, feels to the filthy chrysalis fromwhich it has triumphantly emerged. I suppose that art is amanifestation of the sexual instinct. It is the same emotionwhich is excited in the human heart by the sight of a lovelywoman, the Bay of Naples under the yellow moon, and theEntombment of Titian. It is possible that Strickland hatedthe normal release of sex because it seemed to him brutal bycomparison with the satisfaction of artistic creation.It seems strange even to myself, when I have described a man whowas cruel, selfish, brutal and sensual, to say that he was agreat idealist. The fact remains.He lived more poorly than an artisan. He worked harder.He cared nothing for those things which with most people makelife gracious and beautiful. He was indifferent to money.He cared nothing about fame. You cannot praise him because heresisted the temptation to make any of those compromises withthe world which most of us yield to. He had no such temptation.It never entered his head that compromise was possible.He lived in Paris more lonely than an anchorite in thedeserts of Thebes. He asked nothing his fellows exceptthat they should leave him alone. He was single-hearted inhis aim, and to pursue it he was willing to sacrifice not onlyhimself -- many can do that -- but others. He had a vision.Strickland was an odious man, but I still think be was a great one.