moon and penny

W. Somerset Maugham

THE MOON AND SIXPENCE

Reprinted with permission from The Royal Literary Fund and AP Watt Limited and Synopsis literary agencies.

Series "Exclusive Classics"

Chapter first

When I met Charles Strickland, to tell the truth, it never occurred to me that he was some kind of extraordinary person. And now hardly anyone will deny his greatness. I do not mean the greatness of a successful politician or an illustrious general, for it refers rather to the place occupied by a person than to himself, and a change of circumstances often reduces this greatness to a very modest size. The prime minister, outside his ministry, is often a garrulous fanfare, and a general without an army is just a vulgar provincial lion. The greatness of Charles Strickland was real greatness. You may not like his art, but you will not remain indifferent to him. It amazes you, rivets you to itself. Gone are the days when it was an object of ridicule, and it is no longer considered a sign of eccentricity to defend it or perverseness to praise it. The shortcomings inherent in him are recognized as a necessary addition to his merits. True, there are still disputes about the place of this artist in art, and it is very likely that the praises of his admirers are just as unfounded as the disparaging reviews of detractors. One thing is certain - it is a work of genius. I think that the most interesting thing in art is the personality of the artist, and if it is original, then I am ready to forgive him thousands of mistakes. Velasquez as an artist was probably higher than El Greco, but you get used to him and no longer admire him so much, while the sensual and tragic Cretan reveals to us the eternal sacrifice of his soul. The actor, painter, poet or musician, by his art, sublime or beautiful, satisfies the aesthetic sense; but this is a barbaric satisfaction, it is akin to the sexual instinct, for it gives itself to you as well. Its mystery is as captivating as a detective novel. It is a riddle that cannot be solved, just like the riddle of the universe. The smallest of Strickland's works testifies to the artist's personality - peculiar, complex, martyred. This is what does not leave indifferent to his paintings even those who do not like them, and this also aroused such a keen interest in his life, in the peculiarities of his character.

Less than four years had passed since Strickland's death, when Maurice Guret published an article in the Mercure de France that saved this artist from oblivion. Along the path blazed by Hure, many well-known writers rushed with more or less zeal: for a long time no critic in France was so listened to, and, indeed, his arguments could not fail to impress; they seemed extravagant, but subsequent critical writings confirmed his opinion, and Charles Strickland's fame has since rested on the foundation laid by this Frenchman.

The way this glory dawned is perhaps one of the most romantic episodes in the history of art. But I am not going to deal with the art of Charles Strickland, or only insofar as it characterizes his personality. I cannot agree with the artists who arrogantly assert that the uninitiated necessarily do not understand anything about painting and should respond to it only with silence or a checkbook. It is a most absurd delusion to regard art as a craft, fully understandable only to a craftsman. Art is a manifestation of feelings, and feeling speaks common language. I agree only with the fact that criticism, devoid of a practical understanding of the technology of art, rarely makes any significant judgments, and my ignorance in painting is boundless. Fortunately, I do not need to embark on such an adventure, as my friend Mr. Edward Leggat, a talented writer and excellent artist, has exhaustively analyzed the work of Strickland in his little book, which I would call an example of an elegant style cultivated in France with much more success. than in England.

Maurice Guret, in his famous article, gave a life story of Strickland calculated to arouse interest and curiosity in the public. Obsessed with a disinterested passion for art, he sought to draw the attention of true connoisseurs to an unusually unique talent, but he was too good a journalist not to know that "purely human interest" contributes to the speedy achievement of this goal. And when those who once met Strickland - writers who knew him in London, artists who sat side by side with him in a cafe in Montmartre - discovered to their surprise that the one who lived among them and whom they took for pathetic loser - a true genius, a flood of articles poured into the journals of France and America. These recollections and praises, adding fuel to the fire, did not satisfy the curiosity of the public, but only kindled it even more. The subject was grateful, and the zealous Veitbrecht-Rothholtz, in his imposing monograph, gave a long list of statements about Strickland.

Man has the ability to create myths. Therefore, people, greedily absorbing into themselves stunning or mysterious stories about the life of those who stood out from among their own kind, create a legend and themselves are imbued with a fanatical faith in it. This is a rebellion of romance against the mediocrity of life.

The person about whom the legend is composed receives a passport for immortality. The ironic philosopher chuckles at the thought that mankind reverently remembers Sir Walter Raleigh, who hoisted the English flag in hitherto unknown lands, not for this feat, but for throwing his cloak at the feet of the virgin queen. Charles Strickland lived in obscurity. He had more enemies than friends. Therefore, those who wrote about him tried with all sorts of conjectures to replenish their meager memories, although even in the little that was known about him, there would be enough material for a romantic narrative. Much in his life was strange and terrible, his nature was frantic, fate dealt with him mercilessly. And the legend about him gradually acquired such details that a reasonable historian would never dare to encroach on it.

But Reverend Robert Strickland was not an intelligent historian. He wrote a biography of his father, apparently, only in order to "clarify some of the inaccuracies that have received circulation" concerning the second half of his life and "causing a lot of grief to people who are still alive today." Of course, much of what was told about Strickland's life could not but shock the venerable family. I amused myself from the bottom of my heart reading the work of Strickland son, and it even pleased me, for it was extremely gray and boring. Robert Strickland painted a portrait of a caring husband and father, a good-natured fellow, a hard worker and a deeply moral person. The modern minister of the church has attained an astonishing dexterity in the science called, if I am not mistaken, exegesis (interpretation of the text), and the dexterity with which Pastor Strickland "interpreted" all the facts from the life of his father, which "does not suit" the respectful son, undoubtedly promises him future high position in the church hierarchy. In my mind I could already see the purple bishop's stockings on his muscular calves. It was a bold but risky undertaking. The legend contributed greatly to the growth of his father's fame, for some were drawn to the art of Strickland by the disgust they felt for him as a person, others by the compassion that his death inspired in them, and therefore the son's well-meaning efforts cooled the ardor of his father's admirers in a strange way. It is no coincidence that The Samaritan Woman, one of Strickland's most significant works, after the discussion caused by the publication of a new biography, cost 235 pounds less than nine months ago, when it was bought by a well-known collector who died suddenly, which is why the picture went under the hammer again.

Charles Strickland is a man who was seized by a passion for creativity, and who had the courage to leave his former "full" life for her sake.

Charles Strickland worked as a stockbroker. He didn't earn much, but he didn't need to either. His income was enough to provide an average income for his wife and children. He seemed like an ordinary boring person, until he suddenly did a very strange act (in the eyes of others).

Charles left his job and family and, having escaped from his former life in the literal sense of the word, settled in a cheap Parisian hotel, began to paint and drink absinthe. He suddenly turned into a crazy artist who was don't give a damn about anything but your pictures.

Strickland seemed to be mad. He was indifferent to what means his family would live on, how his friends and relatives would look at it. He didn't need money or fame. The only thing he gave meaning to was creativity. At the same time, it was not important for him whether the society would appreciate his paintings or not. He simply realized that he could not help but draw and completely devoted himself to art.

After the divorce, Charles Strickland began to live the life of a poor artist, that is, to improve his skills and live by odd jobs, often without dinner.

Artists did not see him as a master and the only person who saw his talent was Dirk Stroeve (a mediocre painter). When Strickland fell ill (from his way of life), Dirk took him in, despite the contempt that the sick man did not hesitate to express towards his savior.

The cynical Strickland, seeing that Dirk's wife, Blanche, bows before his personality, seduced her (for the sake of the portrait). After drawing Blange in the nude, the cured Strickland abandoned her. Blancn, out of desperation, committed suicide in a terrible way (drank acid), but the former broker did not express any regret (the world outside his work was so unimportant to him).

After that, Strickland continued the life of a tramp and, after a while, left for Haiti, where he married a native and continued to paint. There he contracted leprosy and died. But before his death, he created the main masterpiece of his life by painting the walls of the hut. After his death, the hut, according to his will, was burned.

Charles was not something like Andy Warhol with his pop art paintings, created to attract the attention of the general public. His works made it possible to see the world in a new, hitherto unseen perspective.

...From floor to ceiling, the walls were covered with a strange and complex painting. She was indescribably wonderful and mysterious. The doctor's breath was taken away. The feelings that rose in his heart defied either understanding or analysis. Reverent delight filled his soul, the delight of a man who sees the creation of the world. It was something great, sensual and passionate; and at the same time it was scary, he was even frightened. It seemed that this was done by the hands of a man who penetrated the hidden depths of nature and discovered secrets there - beautiful and frightening. By the hands of a man who knows what a man is not allowed to know. It was something primal and terrible. Moreover - inhuman ...

As it has already become clear, the prototype of Charles Strickland was Paul Gauguin.

Charles would have remained an unknown person, but the famous critic Maurice Guret wrote an article about him, which glorified his work. His paintings opened almost a new direction in art and led many followers.

When I met Charles Strickland, to tell the truth, it never occurred to me that he was some kind of extraordinary person. And now hardly anyone will deny his greatness. I do not mean the greatness of a successful politician or an illustrious general, for it refers rather to the place occupied by a person than to himself, and a change of circumstances often reduces this greatness to a very modest size. The prime minister, outside his ministry, is often a garrulous fanfare, and a general without an army is just a vulgar provincial lion. The greatness of Charles Strickland was real greatness. You may not like his art, but you will not remain indifferent to him. It amazes you, rivets you to itself. Gone are the days when it was an object of ridicule, and it is no longer considered a sign of eccentricity to defend it or perverseness to praise it. The shortcomings inherent in him are recognized as a necessary addition to his merits. True, there are still disputes about the place of this artist in art, and it is very likely that the praises of his admirers are just as unfounded as the disparaging reviews of detractors. One thing is for sure - these are the creations of a genius. I think that the most interesting thing in art is the personality of the artist, and if it is original, then I am ready to forgive him thousands of mistakes. Velazquez as an artist was probably higher than El Greco, but you get used to him and no longer admire him so much, while the sensual and tragic Cretan reveals to us the eternal sacrifice of his soul. The actor, painter, poet or musician, by his art, sublime or beautiful, satisfies the aesthetic sense; but this is a barbaric satisfaction, it is akin to the sexual instinct, for it gives itself to you as well. Its mystery is as captivating as a detective novel. It is a riddle that cannot be solved, just like the riddle of the universe. The smallest of Strickland's works testifies to the artist's personality - peculiar, complex, martyred. This is what does not leave indifferent to his paintings even those who do not like them, and this also aroused such a keen interest in his life, in the peculiarities of his character.

The way this glory dawned is perhaps one of the most romantic episodes in the history of art. But I am not going to deal with the art of Charles Strickland, or only insofar as it characterizes his personality. I cannot agree with the artists who arrogantly assert that the uninitiated necessarily do not understand anything about painting and should respond to it only with silence or a checkbook. It is a most absurd delusion to regard art as a craft, fully understandable only to a craftsman. Art is a manifestation of feelings, and feeling speaks common language. I agree only with the fact that criticism, devoid of a practical understanding of the technology of art, rarely makes any significant judgments, and my ignorance in painting is boundless. Fortunately, I do not need to embark on such an adventure, since my Friend Mr. Edward Leggat, a talented writer and excellent artist, has exhaustively analyzed the work of Strickland in his little book, which I would call an example of an elegant style cultivated in France with much more success, than in England.

Maurice Guret, in his famous article, gave a life story of Strickland calculated to arouse interest and curiosity in the public. Obsessed with a disinterested passion for art, he sought to draw the attention of true connoisseurs to an unusually unique talent, but he was too good a journalist not to know that "purely human interest" contributes to the speedy achievement of this goal. And when those who once met Strickland - writers who knew him in London, artists who sat side by side with him in a cafe in Montmartre - discovered to their surprise that the one who lived among them and whom they took for a miserable loser , - a true Genius, a stream of articles poured into the journals of France and America. These recollections and praises, adding fuel to the fire, did not satisfy the curiosity of the public, but only kindled it even more. The subject was grateful, and the zealous Veitbrecht-Rothholtz, in his imposing monograph, gave a long list of statements about Strickland.

But Reverend Robert Strickland was not an intelligent historian. He wrote a biography of his father, apparently, only in order to "clarify some of the inaccuracies that have received circulation" concerning the second half of his life and "causing a lot of grief to people who are still alive today." Of course, much of what was told about Strickland's life could not but shock the venerable family. I amused myself from the bottom of my heart reading the work of Strickland son, and it even pleased me, for it was extremely gray and boring. Robert Strickland painted a portrait of a caring husband and father, a good-natured fellow, a hard worker and a deeply moral person. The modern minister of the church has attained an astonishing dexterity in the science called, if I am not mistaken, exogesis (interpretation of the text), and the dexterity with which Pastor Strickland "interpreted" all the facts from his father's life, which "did not suit" the respectful son, undoubtedly promises him future high position in the church hierarchy. In my mind I could already see the purple bishop's stockings on his muscular calves. It was a bold but risky undertaking. The legend contributed greatly to the growth of his father's fame, for some were attracted to the art of Strickland by the disgust they felt for him as a person, others

- the compassion that his death inspired in them, and therefore the well-meaning efforts of the son in a strange way cooled the ardor of the father's admirers. It is no coincidence that The Samaritan Woman, one of Strickland's most significant works, after the discussion caused by the publication of a new biography, cost 235 pounds less than nine months ago, when it was bought by a well-known collector who died suddenly, which is why the picture went under the hammer again.

W. Somerset Maugham

THE MOON AND SIXPENCE

Reprinted with permission from The Royal Literary Fund and AP Watt Limited and Synopsis literary agencies.

Series "Exclusive Classics"

* * *

Chapter first

Less than four years had passed since Strickland's death, when Maurice Guret published an article in the Mercure de France that saved this artist from oblivion. Along the path blazed by Hure, many well-known writers rushed with more or less zeal: for a long time no critic in France was so listened to, yes, indeed, his arguments could not help but impress; they seemed extravagant, but subsequent critical writings confirmed his opinion, and Charles Strickland's fame has since rested on the foundation laid by this Frenchman.

The way this glory dawned is perhaps one of the most romantic episodes in the history of art.

But I am not going to deal with the art of Charles Strickland, or only insofar as it characterizes his personality. I cannot agree with the artists who arrogantly assert that the uninitiated necessarily do not understand anything about painting and should respond to it only with silence or a checkbook. It is a most absurd delusion to regard art as a craft, fully understandable only to a craftsman. Art is a manifestation of feelings, and feeling speaks common language. I agree only with the fact that criticism, devoid of a practical understanding of the technology of art, rarely makes any significant judgments, and my ignorance in painting is boundless. Fortunately, I do not need to embark on such an adventure, since my friend Mr. Edward Leggat, a talented writer and excellent artist, has exhaustively analyzed Strickland's work in his little book. 1
Leggat, Edward. Contemporary artist. Notes on the work of Charles Strickland. Publishing house of Martin Zecker, 1917. - Note. ed.

Which I would call an example of an elegant style cultivated in France with much more success than in England.

Maurice Guret, in his famous article, gave a life story of Strickland calculated to arouse interest and curiosity in the public. Obsessed with a disinterested passion for art, he sought to draw the attention of true connoisseurs to an unusually unique talent, but he was too good a journalist not to know that "purely human interest" contributes to the speedy achievement of this goal. And when those who once met Strickland - writers who knew him in London, artists who sat side by side with him in a cafe in Montmartre - discovered to their surprise that the one who lived among them and whom they took for pathetic loser - a true genius, a flood of articles poured into the journals of France and America. These recollections and praises, adding fuel to the fire, did not satisfy the curiosity of the public, but only kindled it even more. The topic was grateful, and the zealous Veitbrecht-Rothholtz in his impressive monograph 2
Weitbrecht-Rothholtz, Hugo, Ph.D. Carl Strickland. His life and art. Schwingel and Ganish, Leipzig, 1914. - Note. ed.

I have already given a long list of sayings about Strickland.

But Reverend Robert Strickland was not an intelligent historian. He wrote a biography of his father 3
Strickland Robert. Strickland. Man and his work. William Hyneman, 1913. - Note. ed.

Apparently, only in order to "explain some inaccuracies that have received circulation" concerning the second half of his life and "causing a lot of grief to people who are still alive." Of course, much of what was told about Strickland's life could not but shock the venerable family. I amused myself from the bottom of my heart reading the work of Strickland son, and it even pleased me, for it was extremely gray and boring. Robert Strickland painted a portrait of a caring husband and father, a good-natured fellow, a hard worker and a deeply moral person. The modern minister of the church has attained an astonishing dexterity in the science called, if I am not mistaken, exegesis (interpretation of the text), and the dexterity with which Pastor Strickland "interpreted" all the facts from the life of his father, which "does not suit" the respectful son, undoubtedly promises him future high position in the church hierarchy. In my mind I could already see the purple bishop's stockings on his muscular calves. It was a bold but risky undertaking. The legend contributed greatly to the growth of his father's fame, for some were drawn to the art of Strickland by the disgust they felt for him as a person, others by the compassion that his death inspired in them, and therefore the son's well-meaning efforts cooled the ardor of his father's admirers in a strange way. It is no coincidence that the Samaritan Woman 4
This painting is described in the Christie catalog as follows: "Nude woman, native of the Fellowship Islands, lying on the bank of a stream in a tropical landscape with palms, bananas, etc."; 60 inches 48 inches. - Note. ed.

One of Strickland's most significant works, after the discussion caused by the publication of a new biography, cost 235 pounds less than nine months ago, when it was bought by a well-known collector who died suddenly, which is why the picture went under the hammer again.

It is possible that Strickland's art would not have lacked the originality and powerful attraction to recover from such a blow, if mankind, devoted to myth, had not angrily discarded a version that encroached on our predilection for the unusual, especially since the work of Dr. Veitbrecht soon appeared. -Rotgolts, dispelling all the woeful doubts of art lovers.

Dr. Weitbrecht-Rothholtz belongs to the school of historians, which not only accepts on faith that human nature is thoroughly vicious, but tries to denigrate it even more. And of course, the representatives of this school give much more pleasure to readers than the cunning historians who prefer to bring out remarkable people, covered in a haze of romance, as examples of family virtue. For example, I would be very upset by the thought that Antony and Cleopatra were connected by nothing but economic interests. And indeed, it would take extraordinarily convincing evidence to make me believe that Tiberius was no less a well-meaning monarch than King George V.

Dr. Weitbrecht-Rothholtz dealt with the most virtuous biography that came out from the pen of his Reverend Robert Strickland in such terms that, really, one felt sorry for the ill-fated pastor. His delicacy was declared hypocrisy, his evasive verbosity a complete lie, his reticence a betrayal. On the basis of petty errors against the truth, reprehensible by the writer, but quite excusable by the son, the entire Anglo-Saxon race was blasted to smithereens for hypocrisy, stupidity, pretentiousness, deceit and fraudulent tricks. I personally think that Mr. Strickland acted recklessly when, in order to refute the rumors about "discord" between his father and mother, he referred to a letter from Charles Strickland from Paris, in which he called her a "worthy woman", because Dr. Veitbrecht-Rothholtz obtained and published a facsimile this letter, which read in black and white: “Damn my wife. She is a decent woman. But I'd rather she was already in hell." It must be said that the church, in the time of its greatness, dealt differently with evidence that was objectionable to it.

Dr. Weitbrecht-Rothholtz was an ardent admirer of Charles Strickland, and the reader was in no danger of whitewashing him in every way. In addition, Weitbrecht-Rothholtz was able to accurately notice the low motives of outwardly decent actions. A psychopathologist as much as an art historian, he was well versed in the world of the subconscious. No mystic has been better able to see the hidden meaning in the ordinary. The mystic sees the unspeakable, the psychopathologist sees the unspoken. It was an exciting experience to follow the zeal with which the learned author sought out the slightest details that could disgrace his hero. He choked with delight when he managed to bring into the light of God another example of cruelty or baseness, and exulted like an inquisitor who sent a heretic to the stake when some long-forgotten story undermined the filial piety of his Reverend Robert Strickland. His diligence is admirable. Not a single detail escaped him, and we may be sure that if Charles Strickland has ever failed to pay a laundry bill, that bill will be given in extenso. 5
Fully (lat.).

And if he happened not to return the half-crown he had borrowed, then not a single detail of this criminal offense would be missed.

Chapter Two

Since so much has been written about Charles Strickland, should I also write about him? Monument to the artist - his creations. True, I knew him better than many others: I first met him before he became an artist, and often saw him in Paris, where he lived so hard. And yet I would never have written my memoirs about him if the accidents of the war had not thrown me to Tahiti. As is known, he spent his last years there, and there I met people who knew him intimately. Thus I have had the opportunity to shed light on that period of his tragic life, which remained comparatively obscure. If Strickland, as many believe, is indeed a great artist, then, of course, it is interesting to listen to the stories of those who met him day after day. What wouldn't we give now for the recollections of a man who knew El Greco as well as I knew Charles Strickland?

However, I am not sure that all these reservations are so necessary. I don’t remember which sage advised people, in the name of peace of mind, to do twice a day what is unpleasant for them; I personally follow this prescription exactly, for every day I get up and every day I go to bed. But, being by nature prone to asceticism, I weekly wear down my flesh in an even more cruel way, namely, by reading the literary supplement to The Times.

Truly, it is a soul-saving penance to reflect on the huge number of books that have been published, on the sweet hopes that the authors place on them, and on the fate that awaits these books. Is there much chance for a single book to make its way in this turmoil? And even if she is destined for success, then not for long. God alone knows what suffering the author endured, what bitter experience remained behind him, what heartaches tormented him, and all so that his book would entertain the casual reader for an hour or two or help him disperse the boredom of the road. But, judging by the reviews, many of these books are excellently written, the authors put a lot of thought into them, and some are the fruit of the tireless work of a lifetime. From all this, I conclude that the writer should seek satisfaction only in the work itself and in liberation from the burden of his thoughts, remaining indifferent to everything that comes - to blasphemy and praise, to success and failure.

But with the war came a new attitude towards things. The youth bowed to the gods, unknown in our time, and now it is already clearly visible the direction in which those who will live after us will move. The younger generation, restless and conscious of its strength, no longer knocks on the door - it burst in and sat down in our seats. The air shakes with their screams. The elders imitate the habits of the youth and try to convince themselves that their time has not yet passed. They make noise along with the youths, but not a war cry escapes from their mouths, but a plaintive squeak; they look like old whores, with the help of rouge and powder, trying to regain their former youth. The wiser go their own way with dignity. There is a condescending sneer in their restrained smile. They remember that at one time they crowded out the previous, already tired generation just as noisily and contemptuously, and they foresee that the current brisk torchbearers will soon also have to give up their place. The last word does not exist. The New Testament was already old when Nineveh raised her majesty to heaven. Bold words that seem so new to the one who utters them have been, and with almost the same intonations, spoken hundreds of times. The pendulum swings back and forth. The movement is invariably in a circle.

It happens that a person has lived on and from the time in which he belonged to a certain place, he ended up in someone else's time - then this is one of the funniest scenes in a human comedy. Well, who, for example, remembers now about George Crabb? And he was a famous poet in his time, and mankind recognized his genius with unanimity, in our more difficult time already unthinkable. He was a student of Alexander Pop and wrote moralizing stories in rhymed couplets. But the French Revolution broke out, then the Napoleonic Wars, and the poets sang new songs. Crabbe continued to write moralizing stories in rhyming couplets. One must think that he read the poems of the youths who caused such a commotion in the world, and considered them nonsense. Of course, much in these verses was nonsense. But the odes of Keats and Wordsworth, several of Coleridge's poems, and even more so of Shelley, opened up to humanity previously unknown and vast areas of the spirit. Mr. Crabbe was stupid as a sheep: he continued to write moral stories in rhymed couplets. I sometimes read what young people write. Perhaps the more ardent Keats and the more exalted Shelley have already released new creations that grateful humanity will forever remember. Don't know. I admire the thoroughness with which they finish what comes out of their pen - this youth is so complete that, of course, it is no longer necessary to talk about promises. I marvel at the perfection of their style; but all their verbal riches (it is immediately evident that in their childhood they looked into Roger's Dictionary) tell me nothing. In my opinion, they know too much and feel too superficially; I can't stand the warmth with which they pat me on the back, and the excitement with which they throw themselves on my chest. Their passion seems meager, their dreams dull. I do not like them. I'm stuck in another time. I will still write moralizing stories in rhyming couplets. But I would be thrice a fool if I didn't do it just for my own amusement.

Chapter Three

But all this by the way.

I was very young when I wrote my first book. By a lucky chance, she attracted attention, and various people began to seek acquaintance with me.

It is not without melancholy that I reminisce about the literary world of London at the time when I, timid and agitated, stepped into it. I have not been to London for a long time, and if the novels accurately describe its characteristic features, then it means that much has changed there. And the quarters in which literary life mainly takes place are now different. Hampstead, Notting Hill Gate, Guy Street and Kensington gave way to Chelsea and Bloomsbury. In those days, a writer under forty years of age attracted attention; now writers over twenty-five years old are comic figures. Then we were embarrassed by our feelings, and the fear of seeming ridiculous softened the manifestations of arrogance. I do not think that the bohemia of that time cared very much about the severity of morals, but I do not remember such promiscuity, which, apparently, flourishes now. We did not consider ourselves hypocrites if a cloak of silence covered our recklessness. We did not consider it necessary to call a spade a spade, and women at that time had not yet learned independence.

I lived near Victoria Station and made long journeys in an omnibus, going to visit hospitable writers. Before plucking up the courage to ring the bell, I walked up and down the street for a long time, and then, trembling with fear, entered a stuffy room packed with people. I was introduced to one celebrity after another, and I blushed to the roots of my hair, listening to kind words about my book. I felt that witty remarks were expected of me, but such retorts came to my mind only after the end of the evening. To hide my timidity, I diligently passed tea and badly cut sandwiches to my neighbors. I wanted to remain unnoticed so that I could calmly observe these great people, calmly listen to their clever speeches.

I remember portly, prim ladies, big-nosed, with greedy eyes, on which dresses looked like armor, and slender, like mice, old maids with a meek voice and a prickly look. I watched, as if fascinated, with what persistence with which they, without taking off their gloves, devoured toasted bread and then carelessly wiped their fingers on the chairs, imagining that no one noticed this. For furniture, this, of course, was bad, but the hostess, one must think, took revenge on the chairs of her friends when, in turn, she was visiting them. Some of these ladies dressed in fashion and assured that they did not want to go around stuffed just because they write novels: if you have a graceful figure, then try to emphasize it, and beautiful shoes with a small foot have not prevented any publisher from buying yours from you " products." Others, on the contrary, considering such a point of view frivolous, dressed up in factory-made dresses and put on truly barbaric jewelry. Men, as a rule, had a completely correct appearance. They wanted to look like society people and, on occasion, they could really pass for senior clerks in a respectable firm. They always looked tired. I had never seen writers before, and they seemed to me somewhat strange and even somehow unreal.

I found their conversation brilliant and listened with amazement as they slandered any fellow writer as soon as he turned his back on them. The advantage of people of an artistic disposition lies in the fact that friends give them a reason for ridicule, not only by their appearance or character, but also by their labors. I was convinced that I would never learn to express my thoughts as gracefully and easily as they did. In those days, conversation was considered an art; a well-aimed, resourceful answer was valued above latent profundity, and the epigram, which had not yet become a mechanical device for melting stupidity into wit, enlivened salon chatter. Unfortunately, I cannot recall any of these verbal fireworks. But I think that the conversations became most lively when they touched on the purely commercial side of our profession. After discussing the merits of the new book, we naturally began to talk about how many copies it had sold, how much advance the author received, and how much more income it would bring him. Then the conversation invariably turned to publishers, the generosity of one opposed to the pettiness of the other; we discussed which one is better to deal with: one who does not skimp on royalties, or one who knows how to "push" any book. Some were able to advertise the author, others could not. One publisher had a nose for modernity, another distinguished old-fashioned. Then the conversation turned to commission agents, to the commissions they got for us, to newspaper editors, to the nature of the articles they wanted, to how much they paid per thousand words, and whether they paid neatly or delayed the fee. It all seemed very romantic to me. I felt like a member of some secret brotherhood.

1

When I met Charles Strickland, to tell the truth, it never occurred to me that he was some kind of extraordinary person. And now hardly anyone will deny his greatness. I do not mean the greatness of a successful politician or an illustrious general, for it refers rather to the place occupied by a person than to himself, and a change of circumstances often reduces this greatness to a very modest size. The prime minister, outside his ministry, is often a garrulous fanfare, and a general without an army is just a vulgar provincial lion. The greatness of Charles Strickland was real greatness. You may not like his art, but you will not remain indifferent to him. It amazes you, rivets you to itself. Gone are the days when it was an object of ridicule, and it is no longer considered a sign of eccentricity to defend it or perverseness to praise it. The shortcomings inherent in him are recognized as a necessary addition to his merits. True, there are still disputes about the place of this artist in art, and it is very likely that the praises of his admirers are just as unfounded as the disparaging reviews of detractors. One thing is for sure - these are the creations of a genius. I think that the most interesting thing in art is the personality of the artist, and if it is original, then I am ready to forgive him thousands of mistakes. Velazquez as an artist was probably higher than El Greco, but you get used to him and no longer admire him so much, while the sensual and tragic Cretan reveals to us the eternal sacrifice of his soul. The actor, painter, poet or musician, by his art, sublime or beautiful, satisfies the aesthetic sense; but this is a barbaric satisfaction, it is akin to the sexual instinct, for it gives itself to you as well. Its mystery is as captivating as a detective novel. It is a riddle that cannot be solved, just like the riddle of the universe. The smallest of Strickland's works testifies to the artist's personality - peculiar, complex, martyred. This is what does not leave indifferent to his paintings even those who do not like them, and this also aroused such a keen interest in his life, in the peculiarities of his character.

The way this glory dawned is perhaps one of the most romantic episodes in the history of art. But I am not going to deal with the art of Charles Strickland, or only insofar as it characterizes his personality. I cannot agree with the artists who arrogantly assert that the uninitiated necessarily do not understand anything about painting and should respond to it only with silence or a checkbook. It is a most absurd delusion to regard art as a craft, fully understandable only to a craftsman. Art is a manifestation of feelings, and feeling speaks common language. I agree only with the fact that criticism, devoid of a practical understanding of the technology of art, rarely makes any significant judgments, and my ignorance in painting is boundless. Fortunately, I do not need to embark on such an adventure, since my Friend Mr. Edward Leggat, a talented writer and excellent artist, has exhaustively analyzed the work of Strickland in his little book, which I would call an example of an elegant style cultivated in France with much more success. than in England.

Maurice Guret, in his famous article, gave a life story of Strickland calculated to arouse interest and curiosity in the public. Obsessed with a disinterested passion for art, he sought to draw the attention of true connoisseurs to an unusually unique talent, but he was too good a journalist not to know that "purely human interest" contributes to the speedy achievement of this goal. And when those who once met Strickland - writers who knew him in London, artists who sat side by side with him in a cafe in Montmartre - discovered to their surprise that the one who lived among them and whom they took for a miserable loser , - a true Genius, a stream of articles poured into the journals of France and America. These recollections and praises, adding fuel to the fire, did not satisfy the curiosity of the public, but only kindled it even more. The subject was grateful, and the zealous Veitbrecht-Rothholtz, in his imposing monograph, gave a long list of statements about Strickland.

But Reverend Robert Strickland was not an intelligent historian. He wrote a biography of his father, apparently, only to "clarify some of the current inaccuracies" concerning the second half of his life and "caused a lot of grief to people who are still alive." Of course, much of what was told about Strickland's life could not but shock the venerable family. I amused myself from the bottom of my heart reading the work of Strickland son, and it even pleased me, for it was extremely gray and boring. Robert Strickland painted a portrait of a caring husband and father, a good-natured fellow, a hard worker and a deeply moral person. The modern minister of the church has attained an astonishing dexterity in the science called, if I am not mistaken, exogesis (interpretation of the text), and the dexterity with which Pastor Strickland "interpreted" all the facts from his father's life, which "did not suit" the respectful son, undoubtedly promises him future high position in the church hierarchy. In my mind I could already see the purple bishop's stockings on his muscular calves. It was a bold but risky undertaking. The legend contributed greatly to the growth of his father's fame, for some were attracted to the art of Strickland by the disgust they felt for him as a person, others