The Moon and Sixpence(月球和六便士)
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2024-12-25
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The Moon and Sixpence
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The Moon and Sixpence
by W. Somerset Maugham
Author of "Of Human Bondage"
The Moon and Sixpence
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Chapter I
I confess that when first I made acquaintance with Charles Strickland
I never for a moment discerned that there was in him anything out of the
ordinary. Yet now few will be found to deny his greatness. I do not
speak of that greatness which is achieved by the fortunate politician or the
successful soldier; that is a quality which belongs to the place he occupies
rather than to the man; and a change of circumstances reduces it to very
discreet proportions. The Prime Minister out of office is seen, too often,
to have been but a pompous rhetorician, and the General without an army
is but the tame hero of a market town. The greatness of Charles
Strickland was authentic. It may be that you do not like his art, but at all
events you can hardly refuse it the tribute of your interest. He disturbs
and arrests. The time has passed when he was an object of ridicule, and
it is no longer a mark of eccentricity 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 the adulation of his admirers
is perhaps no less capricious than the disparagement of his detractors; but
one thing can never be doubtful, and that is that he had genius. To my
mind the most interesting thing in art is the personality of the artist; and if
that is singular, I am willing to excuse a thousand faults. I suppose
Velasquez was a better painter than El Greco, but custom stales one's
admiration for him: the Cretan, sensual and tragic, proffers the mystery of
his soul like a standing sacrifice. The artist, painter, poet, or musician, by
his decoration, sublime or beautiful, satisfies the aesthetic sense; but that
is akin to the sexual instinct, and shares its barbarity: he lays before you
also the greater gift of himself. To pursue his secret has something of the
fascination of a detective story. It is a riddle which shares with the
universe the merit of having no answer. The most insignificant of
Strickland's works suggests a personality which is strange, tormented, and
complex; and it is this surely which prevents even those who do not like
his pictures from being indifferent to them; it is this which has excited so
curious an interest in his life and character.
It was not till four years after Strickland's death that Maurice Huret
The Moon and Sixpence
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wrote that article in the <i Mercure de France> which rescued the
unknown painter from oblivion and blazed the trail which succeeding
writers, with more or less docility, have followed. For a long time no
critic has enjoyed in France a more incontestable authority, and it was
impossible not to be impressed by the claims he made; they seemed
extravagant; but later judgments have confirmed his estimate, and the
reputation of Charles Strickland is now firmly established on the lines
which he laid down. The rise of this reputation is one of the most
romantic incidents in the history of art. But I do not propose to deal with
Charles Strickland's work except in so far as it touches upon his character.
I cannot agree with the painters who claim superciliously that the layman
can understand nothing of painting, and that he can best show his
appreciation of their works by silence and a cheque-book. It is a
grotesque misapprehension which sees in art no more than a craft
comprehensible perfectly only to the craftsman: art is a manifestation of
emotion, and emotion speaks a language that all may understand. But I
will allow that the critic who has not a practical knowledge of technique is
seldom able to say anything on the subject of real value, and my ignorance
of painting is extreme. Fortunately, there is no need for me to risk the
adventure, since my friend, Mr. Edward Leggatt, an able writer as well as
an admirable painter, has exhaustively discussed Charles Strickland's work
in a little book[1] 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 Charles
Strickland's life which was well calculated to whet the appetites of the
inquiring. With his disinterested passion for art, he had a real desire to
call the attention of the wise to a talent which was in the highest degree
original; but he was too good a journalist to be unaware that the "human
interest" would enable him more easily to effect his purpose. And when
such as had come in contact with Strickland in the past, writers who had
known him in London, painters who had met him in the cafes of
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Montmartre, discovered to their amazement that where they had seen but
an unsuccessful artist, like another, authentic genius had rubbed shoulders
with them there began to appear in the magazines of France and America a
succession of articles, the reminiscences of one, the appreciation of
another, which added to Strickland's notoriety, and fed without satisfying
the curiosity of the public. The subject was grateful, and the industrious
Weitbrecht-Rotholz in his imposing monograph[2] has been able to give a
remarkable list of authorities.
[2] "Karl Strickland: sein Leben und seine Kunst," by Hugo
Weitbrecht-Rotholz, Ph.D. Schwingel und Hanisch. Leipzig, 1914.
The faculty for myth is innate in the human race. It seizes with
avidity upon any incidents, surprising or mysterious, in the career of those
who have at all distinguished themselves from their fellows, and invents a
legend to which it then attaches a fanatical belief. It is the protest of
romance against the commonplace of life. The incidents of the legend
become the hero's surest passport to immortality. The ironic philosopher
reflects with a smile that Sir Walter Raleigh is more safely inshrined in the
memory of mankind because he set his cloak for the Virgin Queen to walk
on 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 out
their scanty recollections with a lively fancy, and it is evident that there
was enough in the little that was known of him to give opportunity to the
romantic 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 was
pathetic. In due course a legend arose of such circumstantiality that the
wise historian would hesitate to attack it.
But a wise historian is precisely what the Rev. Robert Strickland is not.
He wrote his biography[3] avowedly to "remove certain misconceptions
which had gained currency" in regard to the later part of his father's life,
and which had "caused considerable pain to persons still living." It is
obvious that there was much in the commonly received account of
Strickland's life to embarrass a respectable family. I have read this work
with a good deal of amusement, and upon this I congratulate myself, since
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it is colourless and dull. Mr. Strickland has drawn the portrait of an
excellent husband and father, a man of kindly temper, industrious habits,
and moral disposition. The modern clergyman has acquired in his study
of the science which I believe is called exegesis an astonishing facility for
explaining things away, but the subtlety with which the Rev. Robert
Strickland has "interpreted" all the facts in his father's life which a dutiful
son might find it inconvenient to remember must surely lead him in the
fullness of time to the highest dignities of the Church. I see already his
muscular calves encased in the gaiters episcopal. It was a hazardous,
though maybe a gallant thing to do, since it is probable that the legend
commonly received has had no small share in the growth of Strickland's
reputation; for there are many who have been attracted to his art by the
detestation in which they held his character or the compassion with which
they regarded his death; and the son's well-meaning efforts threw a
singular chill upon the father's admirers. It is due to no accident that
when one of his most important works, <i The Woman of Samaria>,[4]
was sold at Christie's shortly after the discussion which followed the
publication of Mr. Strickland's biography, it fetched POUNDS 235 less
than it had done nine months before when it was bought by the
distinguished collector whose sudden death had brought it once more
under the hammer. Perhaps Charles Strickland's power and originality
would scarcely have sufficed to turn the scale if the remarkable
mythopoeic faculty of mankind had not brushed aside with impatience a
story which disappointed all its craving for the extraordinary. And
presently Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz produced the work which finally set at
rest the misgivings of all lovers of art.
[3] "Strickland: The Man and His Work," by his son, Robert
Strickland. Wm. Heinemann, 1913.
[4] This was described in Christie's catalogue as follows: "A nude
woman, a native of the Society Islands, is lying on the ground beside a
brook. Behind is a tropical Landscape with palm-trees, bananas, etc.
60 in. x 48 in."
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Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz belongs to that school of historians which
believes that human nature is not only about as bad as it can be, but a great
deal worse; and certainly the reader is safer of entertainment in their hands
than in those of the writers who take a malicious pleasure in representing
the great figures of romance as patterns of the domestic virtues. For my
part, I should be sorry to think that there was nothing between Anthony
and Cleopatra but an economic situation; and it will require a great deal
more evidence than is ever likely to be available, thank God, to persuade
me that Tiberius was as blameless a monarch as King George V. Dr.
Weitbrecht-Rotholz has dealt in such terms with the Rev. Robert
Strickland's innocent biography that it is difficult to avoid feeling a certain
sympathy for the unlucky parson. His decent reticence is branded as
hypocrisy, his circumlocutions are roundly called lies, and his silence is
vilified as treachery. And on the strength of peccadillos, reprehensible in
an author, but excusable in a son, the Anglo-Saxon race is accused of
prudishness, humbug, pretentiousness, deceit, cunning, and bad cooking.
Personally I think it was rash of Mr. Strickland, in refuting the account
which had gained belief of a certain "unpleasantness" between his father
and mother, to state that Charles Strickland in a letter written from Paris
had described her as "an excellent woman," since Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz
was able to print the letter in facsimile, and it appears that the passage
referred to ran in fact as follows: <i God damn my wife. She is an
excellent woman. I wish she was in hell.> It is not thus that the Church
in its great days dealt with evidence that was unwelcome.
Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz was an enthusiastic admirer of Charles
Strickland, and there was no danger that he would whitewash him. He had
an unerring eye for the despicable motive in actions that had all the
appearance of innocence. He was a psycho-pathologist, as well as a
student of art, and the subconscious had few secrets from him. No
mystic ever saw deeper meaning in common things. The mystic sees the
ineffable, and the psycho-pathologist the unspeakable. There is a singular
fascination in watching the eagerness with which the learned author ferrets
out every circumstance which may throw discredit on his hero. His heart
warms to him when he can bring forward some example of cruelty or
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meanness, and he exults like an inquisitor at the <i auto da fe> of an
heretic when with some forgotten story he can confound the filial piety of
the Rev. Robert Strickland. His industry has been amazing. Nothing has
been too small to escape him, and you may be sure that if Charles
Strickland left a laundry bill unpaid it will be given you <i in extenso>,
and if he forebore to return a borrowed half-crown no detail of the
transaction will be omitted.
The Moon and Sixpence
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Chapter II
When so much has been written about Charles Strickland, it may seem
unnecessary that I should write more. A painter's monument is his work.
It is true I knew him more intimately than most: I met him first before
ever he became a painter, and I saw him not infrequently during the
difficult years he spent in Paris; but I do not suppose I should ever have
set down my recollections if the hazards of the war had not taken me to
Tahiti. There, as is notorious, he spent the last years of his life; and there
I came across persons who were familiar with him. I find myself in a
position to throw light on just that 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 the flesh can hardly
be superfluous. What would we not give for the reminiscences of
someone who had been as intimately acquainted with El Greco as I was
with Strickland?
But I seek refuge in no such excuses. I forget who it was that
recommended men for their soul's good to do each day two things they
disliked: it was a wise man, and it is a precept that I have followed
scrupulously; for every day I have got up and I have gone to bed. But
there is in my nature a strain of asceticism, and I have subjected my flesh
each week to a more severe mortification. I have never failed to read the
Literary Supplement of <i The Times>. It is a salutary discipline to
consider the vast number of books that are written, the fair hopes with
which their authors see them published, and the fate which awaits them.
What chance is there that any book will make its way among that
multitude? And the successful books are but the successes of a season.
Heaven knows what pains the author has been at, what bitter experiences
he has endured and what heartache suffered, to give some chance reader a
few hours' relaxation or to while away the tedium of a journey. And if I
may judge from the reviews, many of these books are well and carefully
written; much thought has gone to their composition; to some even has
been given the anxious labour of a lifetime. The moral I draw is that the
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writer should seek his reward in the pleasure of his work and in release
from the burden of his thought; and, indifferent to aught else, 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 it is possible to see
already the direction in which those who come after us will move. The
younger generation, conscious of strength 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, by imitating the
antics 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, with
shrill gaiety, to recover the illusion of their spring. The wiser go their way
with a decent grace. In their chastened smile is an indulgent mockery.
They remember that they too trod down a sated generation, with just such
clamor and with just such scorn, and they foresee that these brave torch-
bearers will presently yield their place also. There is no last word. The
new evangel was old when Nineveh reared her greatness to the sky.
These gallant words which seem so novel to those that speak them were
said in accents scarcely changed a hundred times before. The pendulum
swings backwards and forwards. The circle is ever travelled anew.
Sometimes a man survives a considerable time from an era in which
he had his place into one which is strange to him, and then the curious are
offered one of the most singular spectacles in the human comedy. Who
now, for example, thinks of George Crabbe? He was a famous poet in
his day, and the world recognised his genius with a unanimity which the
greater complexity of modern life has rendered infrequent. He had learnt
his craft at the school of Alexander Pope, and he wrote moral stories in
rhymed couplets. Then came the French Revolution 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
young men who were making so great a stir in the world, and I fancy he
found it poor stuff. Of course, much of it was. But the odes of Keats
and of Wordsworth, a poem or two by Coleridge, a few more by Shelley,
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discovered vast realms of the spirit that none 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
more ethereal Shelley, has already published numbers the world will
willingly remember. I cannot tell. I admire their polish -- their youth is
already so accomplished that it seems absurd to speak of promise -- I
marvel at the felicity of their style; but with all their copiousness (their
vocabulary suggests that they fingered Roget's <i Thesaurus> in their
cradles) they say nothing to me: to my mind they know too much and
feel too obviously; I cannot stomach the heartiness with which they slap
me on the back or the emotion with which they hurl themselves on my
bosom; their passion seems to me a little anaemic and their dreams a trifle
dull. I do not like them. I am on the shelf. I will continue to write
moral stories in rhymed couplets. But I should be thrice a fool if I did it
for aught but my own entertainment.
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TheMoonandSixpence1TheMoonandSixpencebyW.SomersetMaughamAuthorof"OfHumanBondage"TheMoonandSixpence2ChapterIIconfessthatwhenfirstImadeacquaintancewithCharlesStricklandIneverforamomentdiscernedthattherewasinhimanythingoutoftheordinary.Yetnowfewwillbefoundtodenyhisgreatness.Idonotspeakofthatgreatnesswh...
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时间：2024-12-25
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