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- Уильям Сомерсет Моэм
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- Луна и грош
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- Стр. 1/193
The moon and the penny
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
.
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
.
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
.
