“Well, how have you been?” he said at last, with a little smile.
“Oh, it’s all right. It was a false alarm.”
“Was it?”
“Aren’t you glad?”
An extraordinary sensation filled him. He had felt certain that Sally’s suspicion was well-founded; it had never occurred to him for an instant that there was a possibility of error. All his plans were suddenly overthrown, and the existence, so elaborately pictured, was no more than a dream which would never be realised. He was free once more. Free! He need give up none of his projects, and life still was in his hands for him to do what he liked with. He felt no exhilaration, but only dismay. His heart sank. The future stretched out before him in desolate emptiness. It was as though he had sailed for many years over a great waste of waters, with peril and privation, and at last had come upon a fair haven, but as he was about to enter, some contrary wind had arisen and drove him out again into the open sea; and because he had let his mind dwell on these soft meads and pleasant woods of the land, the vast deserts of the ocean filled him with anguish. He could not confront again the loneliness and the tempest. Sally looked at him with her clear eyes.
“Aren’t you glad?” she asked again. “I thought you’d be as pleased as
Punch.”
He met her gaze haggardly. “I’m not sure,” he muttered.
“You are funny. Most men would.”
He realised that he had deceived himself; it was no self-sacrifice that had driven him to think of marrying, but the desire for a wife and a home and love; and now that it all seemed to slip through his fingers he was seized with despair. He wanted all that more than anything in the world. What did he care for Spain and its cities, Cordova, Toledo, Leon; what to him were the pagodas of Burmah and the lagoons of South Sea Islands? America was here and now. It seemed to him that all his life he had followed the ideals that other people, by their words or their writings, had instilled into him, and never the desires of his own heart. Always his course had been swayed by what he thought he should do and never by what he wanted with his whole soul to do. He put all that aside now with a gesture of impatience. He had lived always in the future, and the present always, always had slipped through his fingers. His ideals? He thought of his desire to make a design, intricate and beautiful, out of the myriad, meaningless facts of life: had he not seen also that the simplest pattern, that in which a man was born, worked, married, had children, and died, was likewise the most perfect? It might be that to surrender to happiness was to accept defeat, but it was a defeat better than many victories.
He glanced quickly at Sally, he wondered what she was thinking, and then looked away again.
“I was going to ask you to marry me,” he said.
“I thought p’raps you might, but I shouldn’t have liked to stand in your way.”
“You wouldn’t have done that.”
“How about your travels, Spain and all that?”
“How d’you know I want to travel?”
“I ought to know something about it. I’ve heard you and Dad talk about it till you were blue in the face.”
“I don’t care a damn about all that.” He paused for an instant and then spoke in a low, hoarse whisper. “I don’t want to leave you! I can’t leave you.”
She did not answer. He could not tell what she thought.
“I wonder if you’ll marry me, Sally.”
She did not move and there was no flicker of emotion on her face, but she did not look at him when she answered.
“If you like.”
“Don’t you want to?”
“Oh, of course I’d like to have a house of my own, and it’s about time I was settling down.”
He smiled a little. He knew her pretty well by now, and her manner did not surprise him.
“But don’t you want to marry ME?”
“There’s no one else I would marry.”
“Then that settles it.”
“Mother and Dad will be surprised, won’t they?”
“I’m so happy.”
“I want my lunch,” she said.
“Dear!”
He smiled and took her hand and pressed it. They got up and walked out of the gallery. They stood for a moment at the balustrade and looked at Trafalgar Square. Cabs and omnibuses hurried to and fro, and crowds passed, hastening in every direction, and the sun was shining.
THE MOON AND SIXPENCE
The Moon and Sixpence was written during the summer of 1918 and published by Heinemann in April 1919; never the critic’s choice, it has always been popular with Maugham’s general readership. It was strongly inspired by the life of the artist Paul Gauguin, and the life of key character Paul Strickland mirrors that of Gauguin in significant ways. Maugham had rarely used the first person narrative up to this point in his career; the narrator is a young writer, who witnesses Strickland’s “mid life crisis” and abandonment of his family to paint pictures in the Polynesia, (which Maugham had visited the year before he wrote the novel). Although a rather shadowy character, the narrator is thought to be based on a young version of Maugham. Other portraits of people known to Maugham are included, such as Stroeve, who is based on fellow writer Hugh Walpole. The minor character of Captain Nichols surfaces again in Maugham’s later work The Narrow Corner (1932). Rose Waterford is based on fellow novelist Violet Hunt, who had had a short affair with Maugham and who remained his close friend for many years. Although sexually incompatible, the two writers had opposing characters that made for a perfect friendship, and Maugham had already dedicated his 1905 book The Land of the Blessed Virgin to her, which she reciprocated in 1908 by dedicating one of her novels to Maugham.
The opening paragraphs of the novel adopt a realistic approach, which might catch the unsuspecting reader unawares. We are given a résumé of how Charles Strickland, the artist, has come to be regarded as a genius, and a summary of his recognition comes complete with fictional references to non-existent books! The narrator then goes on to reveal how he met Strickland’s wife, who was an admirer of his first novel, and through her, he meets her husband. At that time, Charles Strickland is a stockbroker in London, and according to one of the narrator’s literary friends, “very dull... he’s not the least bit interested in literature or the arts.” Even his wife described him as “a perfect philistine”. When the narrator does finally meet his friend’s husband, he does indeed find Strickland an extremely dull, albeit decent and stolid fellow. The narrator concludes that he cannot conceive of having such a dull and unremarkable life as the Strickland family seemed to have.
Later that year, the narrator is stunned to hear that Charles Strickland has left his wife, abandoned his business partner (leaving them both financially disadvantaged), and run away to Paris, apparently with a young woman, who worked in a tea shop, and is living a luxurious and dissolute life.
Mrs Strickland is naturally devastated and wants her husband to return. She asks the narrator to travel to Paris to persuade her husband to come back, which the narrator agrees to do. He is shocked to find the former stockbroker living in near-squalor, alone, and with absolutely no intention of returning home. There never has been another woman. He tells the narrator in the most callous way that he could not care less what his wife or anyone else thinks and that all he wants to do is paint pictures. This news is received with fury and incredulity by his family, and finally accepting that she cannot compete with what was seen as a deranged choice of lifestyle, Mrs Strickland moves on with her life independently.
Five years pass and the narrator decides to live in Paris for a while himself, and once settled, he visits Dirk Stroeve, his artist friend. The narrator is astonished to hear his friend describe Strickland as a truly great artist. He meets the Englishman again and finds him just as irascible and unfeeling about people as before, but Strickland grudgingly accepts the narrator and Stroeve’s help (and that of Blanche, Stroeve’s wife) when he is seriously ill. Despite claiming that she cannot stand Strickland, Blanche
falls hopelessly in love with him and leaves her grief stricken husband; the narrator is baffled and the only explanation he can come to is that Blanche is in “the cruel grip of appetite.” This situation leads to great personal distress, and shortly afterwards, Strickland leaves France.
There cannot be a more striking, or less likeable, character in the oeuvre of Maugham, than Charles Strickland. It would be unfair to the reader to reveal too much detail of his character, but be prepared to be in turn shocked and amazed by the blaze of emotional colour that the artist is depicted in. You may not like him, in fact, you may detest him, but he is unforgettable, and bearing in mind that the entire cast of characters in this story is also well drawn, the story cannot disappoint. Little wonder that it was an instant success on publication, and is still so fresh and edgy today.
The first edition
CONTENTS
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Chapter XLI
Chapter XLII
Chapter XLIII
Chapter XLIV
Chapter XLV
Chapter XLVI
Chapter XLVII
Chapter XLVIII
Chapter XLIX
Chapter L
Chapter LI
Chapter LII
Chapter LIII
Chapter LIV
Chapter LV
Chapter LVI
Chapter LVII
Chapter LVIII
The first edition’s title page
Paul Gauguin, c. 1891
Sir Hugh Seymour Walpole, (1884–1941) was a best-selling author in the 1920’s and 1930’s and served as the basis for the character Stroeve.
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 Mercure de France 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 which is a charming example of a style, for the most part, less happily cultivated in England than in France.
“A Modern Artist: Notes on the Work of Charles Strickland,” by Edward Leggatt, A.R.H.A. Martin Secker, 1917.
Maurice Huret in his famous article gave an outline of Charles Strickland’s life which was well calculated to whet the appetites of the inquiring. With his disinterested passion for art, he had a real desire to call the attention of the wise to a talent which was in the highest degree original; but he was too good a journalist to be unaware that the “human interest” would enable him more easily to effect his purpose. And when such as had come in contact with Strickland in the past, writers who had known him in London, painters who had met him in the cafes of Montmartre, discovered to their amazement that where they had seen but an unsuccessful artist, like another, authentic genius had rubbed shoulders with them there began to appear in the magazines of France and America a succession of articles, the reminiscences of one, the appreciation of another, which added to Strickland’s notoriety, and fed without satisfying the curiosity of the public. The subject was grateful, and the industrious Weitbrecht-Rotholz in his imposing monograph has been able to give a remarkable list of authorities.
“Karl Strickland: sein Leben und seine Kunst,” by Hugo Weitbrecht-Rotholz, Ph.D. Schwingel und Hanisch. Leipzig, 1914.
The faculty for myth is innate in the human race. It seizes with avidity upon any incidents, surprising or mysterious, in the career of those who have at all distinguished themselves from their fellows, and invents a legend to which it then attaches a fanatical belief. It is the protest of romance against the commonplace of life. The incidents of the legend become the hero’s surest passport to immortality. The ironic philosopher reflects with a smile that Sir Walter Raleigh is
more safely inshrined in the memory of mankind because he set his cloak for the Virgin Queen to walk on than because he carried the English name to undiscovered countries. Charles Strickland lived obscurely. He made enemies rather than friends. It is not strange, then, that those who wrote of him should have eked out their scanty recollections with a lively fancy, and it is evident that there was enough in the little that was known of him to give opportunity to the romantic scribe; there was much in his life which was strange and terrible, in his character something outrageous, and in his fate not a little that was pathetic. In due course a legend arose of such circumstantiality that the wise historian would hesitate to attack it.
But a wise historian is precisely what the Rev. Robert Strickland is not. He wrote his biography avowedly to “remove certain misconceptions which had gained currency” in regard to the later part of his father’s life, and which had “caused considerable pain to persons still living.” It is obvious that there was much in the commonly received account of Strickland’s life to embarrass a respectable family. I have read this work with a good deal of amusement, and upon this I congratulate myself, since it is colourless and dull. Mr. Strickland has drawn the portrait of an excellent husband and father, a man of kindly temper, industrious habits, and moral disposition. The modern clergyman has acquired in his study of the science which I believe is called exegesis an astonishing facility for explaining things away, but the subtlety with which the Rev. Robert Strickland has “interpreted” all the facts in his father’s life which a dutiful son might find it inconvenient to remember must surely lead him in the fullness of time to the highest dignities of the Church. I see already his muscular calves encased in the gaiters episcopal. It was a hazardous, though maybe a gallant thing to do, since it is probable that the legend commonly received has had no small share in the growth of Strickland’s reputation; for there are many who have been attracted to his art by the detestation in which they held his character or the compassion with which they regarded his death; and the son’s well-meaning efforts threw a singular chill upon the father’s admirers. It is due to no accident that when one of his most important works, The Woman of Samaria, was sold at Christie’s shortly after the discussion which followed the publication of Mr. Strickland’s biography, it fetched POUNDS 235 less than it had done nine months before when it was bought by the distinguished collector whose sudden death had brought it once more under the hammer. Perhaps Charles Strickland’s power and originality would scarcely have sufficed to turn the scale if the remarkable 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.
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 233
