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 vowed9 they could not work unless all the conditions were to their liking10.
"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 originality11. 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 peculiar7 thrill which it is the property of art to give. The impression that Strickland's pictures gave me was disconcerting; and the fact remains12, 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 admiration13 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 Dejeuner 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 affected14 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 entirely15 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 perfectly16 bewildered. The colour seemed to me extraordinarily17 crude. It passed through my mind that the whole thing was a stupendous, incomprehensible farce18. 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 colossal19 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 momentous20 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 vaguely21 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 chaos22 of the universe a new pattern, and were attempting clumsily, with anguish23 of soul, to set it down. I saw a tormented24 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 astonishment25 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 passionately26 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 brass27, 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 condemned28 to the banalities of the conversation manual. Their brain is seething29 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 prodigious30 effort to express some state of the soul, and in this effort, I fancied, must be sought the explanation of what so utterly31 perplexed32 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 irrelevant33 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 compassion34.
"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 yearning35 possesses you, so that you are driven to a perilous36, lonely search for some goal where you expect to find a final release from the spirit that torments37 you. I see you as the eternal pilgrim to some shrine38 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.
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1
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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3
pretentiousness
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| n.矫饰；炫耀；自负；狂妄 | |
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4
vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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5
lathe
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| n.车床，陶器，镟床 | |
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6
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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7
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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8
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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9
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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10
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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11
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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12
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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13
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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14
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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15
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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16
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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17
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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18
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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19
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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20
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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21
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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22
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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23
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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24
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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27
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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29
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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30
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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31
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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32
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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33
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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34
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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35
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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36
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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37
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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38
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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