The Moon and Sixpence.pdf

The Moon and Sixpence1 The Moon and Sixpenceby W.Somerset MaughamAuthor of Of Human BondageThe Moon and Sixpence2Chapter I I confess that when first I made acquaintance with Charles StricklandI never for a moment discerned that there was in him anything out of theordinary.Yet now few will be found to deny his greatness.I do notspeak of that greatness which is achieved by the fortunate politician or thesuccessful soldier;that is a quality which belongs to the place he occupiesrather than to the man;and a change of circumstances reduces it to verydiscreet proportions.The Prime Minister out of office is seen,too often,to have been but a pompous rhetorician,and the General without an armyis but the tame hero of a market town.The greatness of CharlesStrickland was authentic.It may be that you do not like his art,but at allevents you can hardly refuse it the tribute of your interest.He disturbsand arrests.The time has passed when he was an object of ridicule,andit is no longer a mark of eccentricity to defend or of perversity to extolhim.His faults are accepted as the necessary complement to his merits.Itis still possible to discuss his place in art,and the adulation of his admirersis perhaps no less capricious than the disparagement of his detractors;butone thing can never be doubtful,and that is that he had genius.To mymind the most interesting thing in art is the personality of the artist;and ifthat is singular,I am willing to excuse a thousand faults.I supposeVelasquez was a better painter than El Greco,but custom stales onesadmiration for him:the Cretan,sensual and tragic,proffers the mystery ofhis soul like a standing sacrifice.The artist,painter,poet,or musician,byhis decoration,sublime or beautiful,satisfies the aesthetic sense;but thatis akin to the sexual instinct,and shares its barbarity:he lays before youalso the greater gift of himself.To pursue his secret has something of thefascination of a detective story.It is a riddle which shares with theuniverse the merit of having no answer.The most insignificant ofStricklands works suggests a personality which is strange,tormented,andcomplex;and it is this surely which prevents even those who do not likehis pictures from being indifferent to them;it is this which has excited socurious an interest in his life and character.It was not till four years after Stricklands death that Maurice HuretThe Moon and Sixpence3wrote that article in the which rescued theunknown painter from oblivion and blazed the trail which succeedingwriters,with more or less docility,have followed.For a long time nocritic has enjoyed in France a more incontestable authority,and it wasimpossible not to be impressed by the claims he made;they seemedextravagant;but later judgments have confirmed his estimate,and thereputation of Charles Strickland is now firmly established on the lineswhich he laid down.The rise of this reputation is one of the mostromantic incidents in the history of art.But I do not propose to deal withCharles Stricklands work except in so far as it touches upon his character.I cannot agree with the painters who claim superciliously that the laymancan understand nothing of painting,and that he can best show hisappreciation of their works by silence and a cheque-book.It is agrotesque misapprehension which sees in art no more than a craftcomprehensible perfectly only to the craftsman:art is a manifestation ofemotion,and emotion speaks a language that all may understand.But Iwill allow that the critic who has not a practical knowledge of technique isseldom able to say anything on the subject of real value,and my ignoranceof painting is extreme.Fortunately,there is no need for me to risk theadventure,since my friend,Mr.Edward Leggatt,an able writer as well asan admirable painter,has exhaustively discussed Charles Stricklands workin a little book1 which is a charming example of a style,for the most part,less happily cultivated in England than in France.1 A Modern Artist:Notes on the Work of Charles Strickland,by Edward Leggatt,A.R.H.A.Martin Secker,1917.Maurice Huret in his famous article gave an outline of CharlesStricklands life which was well calculated to whet the appetites of theinquiring.With his disinterested passion for art,he had a real desire tocall the attention of the wise to a talent which was in the highest degreeoriginal;but he was too good a journalist to be unaware that the humaninterest would enable him more easily to effect his purpose.And whensuch as had come in contact with Strickland in the past,writers who hadknown him in London,painters who had met him in the cafes ofThe Moon and Sixpence4Montmartre,discovered to their amazement that where they had seen butan unsuccessful artist,like another,authentic genius had rubbed shoulderswith them there began to appear in the magazines of France and America asuccession of articles,the reminiscences of one,the appreciation ofanother,which added to Stricklands notoriety,and fed without satisfyingthe curiosity of the public.The subject was grateful,and the industriousWeitbrecht-Rotholz in his imposing monograph2 has been able to give aremarkable 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 seizes withavidity upon any incidents,surprising or mysterious,in the career of thosewho have at all distinguished themselves from their fellows,and invents alegend to which it then attaches a fanatical belief.It is the protest ofromance against the commonplace of life.The incidents of the legendbecome the heros surest passport to immortality.The ironic philosopherreflects with a smile that Sir Walter Raleigh is more safely inshrined in thememory of mankind because he set his cloak for the Virgin Queen to walkon than because he carried the English name to undiscovered countries.Charles Strickland lived obscurely.He made enemies rather than friends.It is not strange,then,that those who wrote of him should have eked outtheir scanty recollections with a lively fancy,and it is evident that therewas enough in the little that was known of him to give opportunity to theromantic scribe;there was much in his life which was strange and terrible,in his character something outrageous,and in his fate not a little that waspathetic.In due course a legend arose of such circumstantiality that thewise historian would hesitate to attack it.But a wise historian is precisely what the Rev.Robert Strickland is not.He wrote his biography3 avowedly to remove certain misconceptionswhich had gained currency in regard to the later part of his fathers life,and which had caused considerable pain to persons still living.It isobvious that there was much in the commonly received account ofStricklands life to embarrass a respectable family.I have read this workwith a good deal of amusement,and upon this I congratulate myself,sinceThe Moon and Sixpence5it is colourless and dull.Mr.Strickland has drawn the portrait of anexcellent husband and father,a man of kindly temper,industrious habits,and moral disposition.The modern clergyman has acquired in his studyof the science which I believe is called exegesis an astonishing facility forexplaining things away,but the subtlety with which the Rev.RobertStrickland has interpreted all the facts in his fathers life which a dutifulson might find it inconvenient to remember must surely lead him in thefullness of time to the highest dignities of the Church.I see already hismuscular calves encased in the gaiters episcopal.It was a hazardous,though maybe a gallant thing to do,since it is probable that the legendcommonly received has had no small share in the growth of Stricklandsreputation;for there are many who have been attracted to his art by thedetestation in which they held his character or the compassion with whichthey regarded his death;and the sons well-meaning efforts threw asingular chill upon the fathers admirers.It is due to no accident thatwhen one of his most important works,4was sold at Christies shortly after the discussion which followed thepublication of Mr.Stricklands biography,it fetched POUNDS 235 lessthan it had done nine months before when it was bought by thedistinguished collector whose sudden death had brought it once moreunder the hammer.Perhaps Charles Stricklands power and originalitywould scarcely have sufficed to turn the scale if the remarkablemythopoeic faculty of mankind had not brushed aside with impatience astory which disappointed all its craving for the extraordinary.Andpresently Dr.Weitbrecht-Rotholz produced the work which finally set atrest the misgivings of all lovers of art.3 Strickland:The Man and His Work,by his son,RobertStrickland.Wm.Heinemann,1913.4 This was described in Christies catalogue as follows:A nudewoman,a native of the Society Islands,is lying on the ground beside abrook.Behind is a tropical Landscape with palm-trees,bananas,etc.60 in.x 48 in.The Moon and Sixpence6Dr.Weitbrecht-Rotholz belongs to that school of historians whichbelieves that human nature is not only about as bad as it can be,but a greatdeal worse;and certainly the reader is safer of entertainment in their handsthan in those of the writers who take a malicious pleasure in representingthe great figures of romance as patterns of the domestic virtues.For mypart,I should be sorry to think that there was nothing between Anthonyand Cleopatra but an economic situation;and it will require a great dealmore evidence than is ever likely to be available,thank God,to persuademe that Tiberius was as blameless a monarch as King George V.Dr.Weitbrecht-Rotholz has dealt in such terms with the Rev.RobertStricklands innocent biography that it is difficult to avoid feeling a certainsympathy for the unlucky parson.His decent reticence is branded ashypocrisy,his circumlocutions are roundly called lies,and his silence isvilified as treachery.And on the strength of peccadillos,reprehensible inan author,but excusable in a son,the Anglo-Saxon race is accused ofprudishness,humbug,pretentiousness,deceit,cunning,and bad cooking.Personally I think it was rash of Mr.Strickland,in refuting the accountwhich had gained belief of a certain unpleasantness between his fatherand mother,to state that Charles Strickland in a letter written from Parishad described her as an excellent woman,since Dr.Weitbrecht-Rotholzwas able to print the letter in facsimile,and it appears that the passagereferred to ran in fact as follows: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 hadan unerring eye for the despicable motive in actions that had all theappearance of innocence.He was a psycho-pathologist,as well as astudent of art,and the subconscious had few secrets from him.Nomystic ever saw deeper meaning in common things.The mystic sees theineffable,and the psycho-pathologist the unspeakable.There is a singularfascination in watching the eagerness with which the learned author ferretsout every circumstance which may throw discredit on his hero.His heartwarms to him when he can bring forward some example of cruelty orThe Moon and Sixpence7meanness,and he exults like an inquisitor at the of anheretic when with some forgotten story he can confound the filial piety ofthe Rev.Robert Strickland.His industry has been amazing.Nothing hasbeen too small to escape him,and you may be sure that if CharlesStrickland left a laundry bill unpaid it will be given you,and if he forebore to return a borrowed half-crown no detail of thetransaction will be omitted.The Moon and Sixpence8Chapter IIWhen so much has been written about Charles Strickland,it may seemunnecessary that I should write more.A painters monument is his work.It is true I knew him more intimately than most:I met him first beforeever he became a painter,and I saw him not infrequently during thedifficult years he spent in Paris;but I do not suppose I should ever haveset down my recollections if the hazards of the war had not taken me toTahiti.There,as is notorious,he spent the last years of his life;and thereI came across persons who were familiar with him.I find myself in aposition to throw light on just that part of his tragic career which hasremained most obscure.If they who believe in Stricklands greatness areright,the personal narratives of such as knew him in the flesh can hardlybe superfluous.What would we not give for the reminiscences ofsomeone who had been as intimately acquainted with El Greco as I waswith Strickland?But I seek refuge in no such excuses.I forget who it was thatrecommended men for their souls good to do each day two things theydisliked:it was a wise man,and it is a precept that I have followedscrupulously;for every day I have got up and I have gone to bed.Butthere is in my nature a strain of asceticism,and I have subjected my flesheach week to a more severe mortification.I have never failed to read theLiterary Supplement of.It is a salutary discipline toconsider the vast number of books that are written,the fair hopes withwhich their authors see them published,and the fate which awaits them.What chance is there that any book will make its way among thatmultitude?And the successful books are but the successes of a season.Heaven knows what pains the author has been at,what bitter experienceshe has endured and what heartache suffered,to give some chance reader afew hours relaxation or to while away the tedium of a journey.And if Imay judge from the reviews,many of these books are well and carefullywritten;much thought has gone to their composition;to some even hasbeen given the anxious labour of a lifetime.The moral I draw is that theThe Moon and Sixpence9writer should seek his reward in the pleasure of his work and in releasefrom the burden of his thought;and,indifferent to aught else,care nothingfor praise or censure,failure or success.Now the war has come,bringing with it a new attitude.Youth hasturned to gods we of an earlier day knew not,and it is possible to seealready the direction in which those who come after us will move.Theyounger generation,conscious of strength and tumultuous,have done withknocking at the door;they have burst in and seated themselves in our seats.The air is noisy with their shouts.Of their elders some,by imitating theantics of youth,strive to persuade themselves that their day is not yet over;they shout with the lustiest,but the war cry sounds hollow in their mouth;they are like poor wantons attempting with pencil,paint and powder,withshrill gaiety,to recover the illusion of their spring.The wiser go their waywith a decent grace.In their chastened smile is an indulgent mockery.They remember that they too trod down a sated generation,with just suchclamor and with just such scorn,and they foresee that these brave torch-bearers will presently yield their place also.There