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- Уильям Сомерсет Моэм
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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
.
"
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
.
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
.
