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she knew was fatal。 She must have been very unhappy。 But the
blindness of love led her to believe what she wanted to be true； and her
love was so great that it seemed impossible to her that it should not in
return awake an equal love。
But my study of Strickland's character suffers from a greater defect
than my ignorance of many facts。 Because they were obvious and
striking； I have written of his relations to women； and yet they were but an
insignificant part of his life。 It is an irony that they should so tragically
have affected others。 His real life consisted of dreams and of
tremendously hard work。
Here lies the unreality of fiction。 For in men； as a rule； love is but an
episode which takes its place among the other affairs of the day； and the
emphasis laid on it in novels gives it an importance which is untrue to life。
There are few men to whom it is the most important thing in the world；
and they are not very interesting ones； even women； with whom the
subject is of paramount interest； have a contempt for them。 They are
flattered and excited by them； but have an uneasy feeling that they are
poor creatures。 But even during the brief intervals in which they are in
love； men do other things which distract their mind； the trades by which
they earn their living engage their attention； they are absorbed in sport；
they can interest themselves in art。 For the most part； they keep their
various activities in various compartments； and they can pursue one to the
temporary exclusion of the other。 They have a faculty of concentration on
that which occupies them at the moment； and it irks them if one
encroaches on the other。 As lovers； the difference between men and
women is that women can love all day long； but men only at times。
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With Strickland the sexual appetite took a very small place。 It was
unimportant。 It was irksome。 His soul aimed elsewhither。 He had
violent passions； and on occasion desire seized his body so that he was
driven to an orgy of lust； but he hated the instincts that robbed him of his
self…possession。 I think； even； he hated the inevitable partner in his
debauchery。 When he had regained command over himself； he shuddered
at the sight of the woman he had enjoyed。 His thoughts floated then
serenely in the empyrean； and he felt towards her the horror that perhaps
the painted butterfly； hovering about the flowers； feels to the filthy
chrysalis from which it has triumphantly emerged。 I suppose that art is a
manifestation of the sexual instinct。 It is the same emotion which is
excited in the human heart by the sight of a lovely woman； the Bay of
Naples under the yellow moon； and the of Titian。 It is
possible that Strickland hated the normal release of sex because it seemed
to him brutal by comparison with the satisfaction of artistic creation。 It
seems strange even to myself； when I have described a man who was cruel；
selfish； brutal and sensual； to say that he was a great idealist。 The fact
remains。
He lived more poorly than an artisan。 He worked harder。 He cared
nothing for those things which with most people make life gracious and
beautiful。 He was indifferent to money。 He cared nothing about fame。
You cannot praise him because he resisted the temptation to make any of
those compromises with the world which most of us yield to。 He had no
such temptation。 It never entered his head that compromise was possible。
He lived in Paris more lonely than an anchorite in the deserts of Thebes。
He asked nothing his fellows except that they should leave him alone。
He was single…hearted in his aim； and to pursue it he was willing to
sacrifice not only himself many can do that but others。 He had a
vision。
Strickland was an odious man； but I still think be was a great one。
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Chapter XLIV
A certain importance attaches to the views on art of painters； and this
is the natural place for me to set down what I know of Strickland's
opinions of the great artists of the past。 I am afraid I have very little worth
noting。 Strickland was not a conversationalist； and he had no gift for
putting what he had to say in the striking phrase that the listener
remembers。 He had no wit。 His humour； as will be seen if I have in any
way succeeded in reproducing the manner of his conversation； was
sardonic。 His repartee was rude。 He made one laugh sometimes by
speaking the truth； but this is a form of humour which gains its force only
by its unusualness； it would cease to amuse if it were commonly practised。
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。
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〃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。
Strickla