I did not know why Strickland had suddenly offered to show them to me.
I welcomed the opportunity. A man’s work reveals him. In social
intercourse he gives you the surface that he wishes the world to
accept, and you can only gain a true knowledge of him by inferences
from little actions, of which he is unconscious, and from fleeting
expressions, which cross his face unknown to him. Sometimes people
carry to such perfection the mask they have assumed that in due course
they actually become the person they seem. But in his book or his
picture the real man delivers himself defenceless. His pretentiousness
will only expose his vacuity. The lathe painted to look like iron is
seen to be but a lathe. No affectation of peculiarity can conceal a
commonplace mind. To the acute observer no one can produce the most
casual work without disclosing the innermost secrets of his soul.
As I walked up the endless stairs of the house in which Strickland
lived, I confess that I was a little excited. It seemed to me that I
was on the threshold of a surprising adventure. I looked about the room
with curiosity. It was even smaller and more bare than I remembered it.
I wondered what those friends of mine would say who demanded vast
studios, and vowed they could not work unless all the conditions were
to their liking.
“You’d better stand there,” he said, pointing to a spot from which,
presumably, he fancied I could see to best advantage what he had to
show me.
“You don’t want me to talk, I suppose,” I said.
“No, blast you; I want you to hold your tongue.”
He placed a picture on the easel, and let me look at it for a minute or
two; then took it down and put another in its place. I think he showed
me about thirty canvases. It was the result of the six years during
which he had been painting. He had never sold a picture. The canvases
were of different sizes. The smaller were pictures of still-life and
the largest were landscapes. There were about half a dozen portraits.
“That is the lot,” he said at last.
I wish I could say that I recognised at once their beauty and their
great originality. Now that I have seen many of them again and the rest
are familiar to me in reproductions, I am astonished that at first
sight I was bitterly disappointed. I felt nothing of the peculiar
thrill which it is the property of art to give. The impression that
Strickland’s pictures gave me was disconcerting; and the fact remains,
always to reproach me, that I never even thought of buying any. I
missed a wonderful chance. Most of them have found their way into
museums, and the rest are the treasured possessions of wealthy
amateurs. I try to find excuses for myself. I think that my taste is
good, but I am conscious that it has no originality. I know very little
about painting, and I wander along trails that others have blazed for
me. At that time I had the greatest admiration for the impressionists.
I longed to possess a Sisley and a Degas, and I worshipped Manet. His
_Olympia_ seemed to me the greatest picture of modern times, and _Le
Déjeuner sur l’Herbe_ moved me profoundly. These works seemed to me the
last word in painting.
I will not describe the pictures that Strickland showed me.
Descriptions of pictures are always dull, and these, besides, are
familiar to all who take an interest in such things. Now that his
influence has so enormously affected modern painting, now that others
have charted the country which he was among the first to explore,
Strickland’s pictures, seen for the first time, would find the mind
more prepared for them; but it must be remembered that I had never seen
anything of the sort. First of all I was taken aback by what seemed to
me the clumsiness of his technique. Accustomed to the drawing of the
old masters, and convinced that Ingres was the greatest draughtsman of
recent times, I thought that Strickland drew very badly. I knew nothing
of the simplification at which he aimed. I remember a still-life of
oranges on a plate, and I was bothered because the plate was not round
and the oranges were lop-sided. The portraits were a little larger than
life-size, and this gave them an ungainly look. To my eyes the faces
looked like caricatures. They were painted in a way that was entirely
new to me. The landscapes puzzled me even more. There were two or three
pictures of the forest at Fontainebleau and several of streets in
Paris: my first feeling was that they might have been painted by a
drunken cabdriver. I was perfectly bewildered. The colour seemed to me
extraordinarily crude. It passed through my mind that the whole thing
was a stupendous, incomprehensible farce. Now that I look back I am
more than ever impressed by Stroeve’s acuteness. He saw from the first
that here was a revolution in art, and he recognised in its beginnings
the genius which now all the world allows.
But if I was puzzled and disconcerted, I was not unimpressed. Even I,
in my colossal ignorance, could not but feel that here, trying to
express itself, was real power. I was excited and interested. I felt
that these pictures had something to say to me that was very important
for me to know, but I could not tell what it was. They seemed to me
ugly, but they suggested without disclosing a secret of momentous
significance. They were strangely tantalising. They gave me an emotion
that I could not analyse. They said something that words were powerless
to utter. I fancy that Strickland saw vaguely some spiritual meaning in
material things that was so strange that he could only suggest it with
halting symbols. It was as though he found in the chaos of the universe
a new pattern, and were attempting clumsily, with anguish of soul, to
set it down. I saw a tormented spirit striving for the release of
expression.
I turned to him.
“I wonder if you haven’t mistaken your medium,” I said.
“What the hell do you mean?”
“I think you’re trying to say something, I don’t quite know what it is,
but I’m not sure that the best way of saying it is by means of
painting.”
When I imagined that on seeing his pictures I should get a clue to the
understanding of his strange character I was mistaken. They merely
increased the astonishment with which he filled me. I was more at sea
than ever. The only thing that seemed clear to me—and perhaps even this
was fanciful—was that he was passionately striving for liberation from
some power that held him. But what the power was and what line the
liberation would take remained obscure. Each one of us is alone in the
world. He is shut in a tower of brass, and can communicate with his
fellows only by signs, and the signs have no common value, so that
their sense is vague and uncertain. We seek pitifully to convey to
others the treasures of our heart, but they have not the power to
accept them, and so we go lonely, side by side but not together, unable
to know our fellows and unknown by them. We are like people living in a
country whose language they know so little that, with all manner of
beautiful and profound things to say, they are condemned to the
banalities of the conversation manual. Their brain is seething with
ideas, and they can only tell you that the umbrella of the gardener’s
aunt is in the house.
The final impression I received was of a prodigious effort to express
some state of the soul, and in this effort, I fancied, must be sought
the explanation of what so utterly perplexed me. It was evident that
colours and forms had a significance for Strickland that was peculiar
to himself. He was under an intolerable necessity to convey something
that he felt, and he created them with that intention alone. He did not
hesitate to simplify or to distort if he could get nearer to that
unknown thing he sought. Facts were nothing to him, for beneath the
mass of irrelevant incidents he looked for something significant to
himself. It was as though he had become aware of the soul of the
universe and were compelled to express it.
Though these pictures confused and puzzled me, I could not be unmoved
by the emotion that was patent in them; and, I knew not why, I felt in
myself a feeling that with regard to Strickland was the last I had ever
expected to experience. I felt an overwhelming compassion.
“I think I know now why you surrendered to your feeling for Blanche
Stroeve,” I said to him.
“Why?”
“I think your courage failed. The weakness of your body communicated
itself to your soul. I do not know what infinite yearning possesses
you, so that you are driven to a perilous, lonely search for some goal
where you expect to find a final release from the spirit that torments
you. I see you as the eternal pilgrim to some shrine that perhaps does
not exist. I do not know to what inscrutable Nirvana you aim. Do you
know yourself? Perhaps it is Truth and Freedom that you seek, and for a
moment you thought that you might find release in Love. I think your
tired soul sought rest in a woman’s arms, and when you found no rest
there you hated her. You had no pity for her, because you have no pity
for yourself. And you killed her out of fear, because you trembled
still at the danger you had barely escaped.”
He smiled dryly and pulled his beard.
“You are a dreadful sentimentalist, my poor friend.”
A week later I heard by chance that Strickland had gone to Marseilles.
I never saw him again.