the moon and sixpence(月球和六便士)-第2章
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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： 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 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 ；
and if he forebore to return a borrowed half…crown no detail of the
transaction will be omitted。
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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 。 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
