the moon and sixpence(月球和六便士)-第34章
按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
the painted butterfly； hovering about the flowers； feels to the filthy
chrysalis from which it has triumphantly emerged。 I suppose that art is a
manifestation of the sexual instinct。 It is the same emotion which is
excited in the human heart by the sight of a lovely woman； the Bay of
Naples under the yellow moon； and the of Titian。 It is
possible that Strickland hated the normal release of sex because it seemed
to him brutal by comparison with the satisfaction of artistic creation。 It
seems strange even to myself； when I have described a man who was cruel；
selfish； brutal and sensual； to say that he was a great idealist。 The fact
remains。
He lived more poorly than an artisan。 He worked harder。 He cared
nothing for those things which with most people make life gracious and
beautiful。 He was indifferent to money。 He cared nothing about fame。
You cannot praise him because he resisted the temptation to make any of
those compromises with the 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 the deserts of Thebes。
He asked nothing his fellows except that they should leave him alone。
He was single…hearted in his aim； and to pursue it he was willing to
sacrifice not only himself many can do that but others。 He had a
vision。
Strickland was an odious man； but I still think be was a great one。
162
… Page 163…
The Moon and Sixpence
Chapter XLIV
A certain importance attaches to the views on art of painters； and this
is the natural place for me to set down what I know of Strickland's
opinions of the great artists of the past。 I am afraid I have very little worth
noting。 Strickland was not a conversationalist； and he had no gift for
putting what he had to say in the striking phrase that the listener
remembers。 He had no wit。 His humour； as will be seen if I have in any
way succeeded in reproducing the manner of his conversation； was
sardonic。 His repartee was rude。 He made one laugh sometimes by
speaking the truth； but this is a form of humour which gains its force only
by its unusualness； it would cease to amuse if it were commonly practised。
Strickland was not； I should say； a man of great intelligence； and his
views on painting were by no means out of the ordinary。 I never heard him
speak of those whose work had a certain analogy with his own of
Cezanne； for instance； or of Van Gogh； and I doubt very much if he had
ever seen their pictures。 He was not greatly interested in the Impressionists。
Their technique impressed him； but I fancy that he thought their attitude
commonplace。 When Stroeve was holding forth at length on the
excellence of Monet； he said： 〃I prefer Winterhalter。〃 But I dare say he
said it to annoy； and if he did he certainly succeeded。
I am disappointed that I cannot report any extravagances in his
opinions on the old masters。 There is so much in his character which is
strange that I feel it would complete the picture if his views were
outrageous。 I feel the need to ascribe to him fantastic theories about his
predecessors； and it is with a certain sense of disillusion that I confess he
thought about them pretty much as does everybody else。 I do not believe
he knew El Greco。 He had a great but somewhat impatient admiration
for Velasquez。 Chardin delighted him； and Rembrandt moved him to
ecstasy。 He described the impression that Rembrandt made on him with
a coarseness I cannot repeat。 The only painter that interested him who
was at all unexpected was Brueghel the Elder。 I knew very little about
him at that time； and Strickland had no power to explain himself。 I
remember what he said about him because it was so unsatisfactory。
163
… Page 164…
The Moon and Sixpence
〃He's all right；〃 said Strickland。 〃I bet he found it hell to paint。〃
When later； in Vienna； I saw several of Peter Brueghel's pictures； I
thought I understood why he had attracted Strickland's attention。 Here；
too； was a man with a vision of the world peculiar to himself。 I made
somewhat copious notes at the time； intending to write something about
him； but I have lost them； and have now only the recollection of an
emotion。 He seemed to see his fellow…creatures grotesquely； and he was
angry with them because they were grotesque； life was a confusion of
ridiculous； sordid happenings； a fit subject for laughter； and yet it made
him sorrowful to laugh。 Brueghel gave me the impression of a man
striving to express in one medium feelings more appropriate to expression
in another； and it may be that it was the obscure consciousness of this that
excited Strickland's sympathy。 Perhaps both were trying to put down in
paint ideas which were more suitable to literature。
Strickland at this time must have been nearly forty…seven。
164
… Page 165…
The Moon and Sixpence
Chapter XLV
I have said already that but for the hazard of a journey to Tahiti I
should doubtless never have written this book。 It is thither that after
many wanderings Charles Strickland came； and it is there that he painted
the pictures on which his fame most securely rests。 I suppose no artist
achieves completely the realisation of the dream that obsesses him； and
Strickland； harassed incessantly by his struggle with technique； managed；
perhaps； less than others to express the vision that he saw with his mind's
eye； but in Tahiti the circumstances were favourable to him； he found in
his surroundings the accidents necessary for his inspiration to become
effective； and his later pictures give at least a suggestion of what he sought。
They offer the imagination something new and strange。 It is as though in
this far country his spirit； that had wandered disembodied； seeking a
tenement； at last was able to clothe itself in flesh。 To use the hackneyed
phrase； here he found himself。
It would seem that my visit to this remote island should immediately
revive my interest in Strickland； but the work I was engaged in occupied
my attention to the exclusion of something that was irrelevant； and it was
not till I had been there some days that I even remembered his connection
with it。 After all； I had not seen him for fifteen years； and it was nine since
he died。 But I think my arrival at Tahiti would have driven out of my
head matters of much more immediate importance to me； and even after a
week I found it not easy to order myself soberly。 I remember that on my
first morning I awoke early； and when I came on to the terrace of the hotel
no one was stirring。 I wandered round to the kitchen； but it was locked；
and on a bench outside it a native boy was sleeping。 There seemed no
chance of breakfast for some time； so I sauntered down to the water…front。
The Chinamen were already busy in their shops。 The sky had still the
pallor of dawn； and there was a ghostly silence on the lagoon。 Ten miles
away the island of Murea； like some high fastness of the Holy Grail；
guarded its mystery。
I did not altogether believe my eyes。 The days that had passed since I
left Wellington seemed extraordinary and unusual。 Wellington is trim
165
… Page 166…
The Moon and Sixpence
and neat and English； it reminds you of a seaport town on the South Coast。
And for three days afterwards the sea was stormy。 Gray clouds chased
one another across the sky。 Then the wind dropped； and the sea was calm
and blue。 The Pacific is more desolate than other seas； its spaces seem
more vast； and the most ordinary journey upon it has somehow the feeling
of an adventure。 The air you breathe is an elixir which prepares you for
the unexpected。 Nor is it vouchsafed to man in the flesh to know aught
that more nearly suggests the approach to the golden realms of fancy than
the approach to Tahiti。 Murea； the sister isle； comes into view in rocky
splendour； rising from the desert sea mysteriously； like the unsubstantial
fabric of a magic wand。 With its jagged outline it is like a Monseratt of
the Pacific； and you may imagine that there Polynesian knights guard with
strange rites mysteries unholy for men to know。 The beauty of the island
is unveiled as diminishing distance shows you in distincter shape its lovely
peaks； but it keeps its secret as you sail by； and； darkly inviolable； seems
to fold itself together in a stony； inaccessible grimness。 It would not
surprise you if； as you came near seeking for an opening in the reef； it
vanished suddenly from your view； and nothing met your gaze but the blue
loneliness of the Pacific。
Tahiti is a lofty green island； with deep folds of a darker green； in
which you divine silent valleys； there is mystery in their sombre depths；
down which murmur and plash cool streams； and you feel that in those
umbrageous places life from immemorial times has been led according to
immemorial ways。 Even here is something sad and terrible。 But the
impression is fleeting； and ser
