The Moon and Sixpence | Page 3

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The Moon and Sixpence
by W. Somerset Maugham
Author of "Of Human Bondage"
THE MOON AND SIXPENCE

The Moon and Sixpence

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 wrote that article in
the 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