Chapter L

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Philip could not get the unhappy event out of his head. What troubled himmost was the uselessness of Fanny's effort. No one could have workedharder than she, nor with more sincerity; she believed in herself with allher heart; but it was plain that self-confidence meant very little, allhis friends had it, Miguel Ajuria among the rest; and Philip was shockedby the contrast between the Spaniard's heroic endeavour and the trivialityof the thing he attempted. The unhappiness of Philip's life at school hadcalled up in him the power of self-analysis; and this vice, as subtle asdrug-taking, had taken possession of him so that he had now a peculiarkeenness in the dissection of his feelings. He could not help seeing thatart affected him differently from others. A fine picture gave Lawson animmediate thrill. His appreciation was instinctive. Even Flanagan feltcertain things which Philip was obliged to think out. His own appreciationwas intellectual. He could not help thinking that if he had in him theartistic temperament (he hated the phrase, but could discover no other) hewould feel beauty in the emotional, unreasoning way in which they did. Hebegan to wonder whether he had anything more than a superficial clevernessof the hand which enabled him to copy objects with accuracy. That wasnothing. He had learned to despise technical dexterity. The importantthing was to feel in terms of paint. Lawson painted in a certain waybecause it was his nature to, and through the imitativeness of a studentsensitive to every influence, there pierced individuality. Philip lookedat his own portrait of Ruth Chalice, and now that three months had passedhe realised that it was no more than a servile copy of Lawson. He felthimself barren. He painted with the brain, and he could not help knowingthat the only painting worth anything was done with the heart.He had very little money, barely sixteen hundred pounds, and it would benecessary for him to practise the severest economy. He could not count onearning anything for ten years. The history of painting was full ofartists who had earned nothing at all. He must resign himself to penury;and it was worth while if he produced work which was immortal; but he hada terrible fear that he would never be more than second-rate. Was it worthwhile for that to give up one's youth, and the gaiety of life, and themanifold chances of being? He knew the existence of foreign painters inParis enough to see that the lives they led were narrowly provincial. Heknew some who had dragged along for twenty years in the pursuit of a famewhich always escaped them till they sunk into sordidness and alcoholism.Fanny's suicide had aroused memories, and Philip heard ghastly stories ofthe way in which one person or another had escaped from despair. Heremembered the scornful advice which the master had given poor Fanny: itwould have been well for her if she had taken it and given up an attemptwhich was hopeless.Philip finished his portrait of Miguel Ajuria and made up his mind to sendit to the Salon. Flanagan was sending two pictures, and he thought hecould paint as well as Flanagan. He had worked so hard on the portraitthat he could not help feeling it must have merit. It was true that whenhe looked at it he felt that there was something wrong, though he couldnot tell what; but when he was away from it his spirits went up and he wasnot dissatisfied. He sent it to the Salon and it was refused. He did notmind much, since he had done all he could to persuade himself that therewas little chance that it would be taken, till Flanagan a few days laterrushed in to tell Lawson and Philip that one of his pictures was accepted.With a blank face Philip offered his congratulations, and Flanagan was sobusy congratulating himself that he did not catch the note of irony whichPhilip could not prevent from coming into his voice. Lawson,quicker-witted, observed it and looked at Philip curiously. His ownpicture was all right, he knew that a day or two before, and he wasvaguely resentful of Philip's attitude. But he was surprised at the suddenquestion which Philip put him as soon as the American was gone."If you were in my place would you chuck the whole thing?""What do you mean?""I wonder if it's worth while being a second-rate painter. You see, inother things, if you're a doctor or if you're in business, it doesn'tmatter so much if you're mediocre. You make a living and you get along.But what is the good of turning out second-rate pictures?"Lawson was fond of Philip and, as soon as he thought he was seriouslydistressed by the refusal of his picture, he set himself to console him.It was notorious that the Salon had refused pictures which were afterwardsfamous; it was the first time Philip had sent, and he must expect arebuff; Flanagan's success was explicable, his picture was showy andsuperficial: it was just the sort of thing a languid jury would see meritin. Philip grew impatient; it was humiliating that Lawson should think himcapable of being seriously disturbed by so trivial a calamity and wouldnot realise that his dejection was due to a deep-seated distrust of hispowers.Of late Clutton had withdrawn himself somewhat from the group who tooktheir meals at Gravier's, and lived very much by himself. Flanagan said hewas in love with a girl, but Clutton's austere countenance did not suggestpassion; and Philip thought it more probable that he separated himselffrom his friends so that he might grow clear with the new ideas which werein him. But that evening, when the others had left the restaurant to go toa play and Philip was sitting alone, Clutton came in and ordered dinner.They began to talk, and finding Clutton more loquacious and less sardonicthan usual, Philip determined to take advantage of his good humour."I say I wish you'd come and look at my picture," he said. "I'd like toknow what you think of it.""No, I won't do that.""Why not?" asked Philip, reddening.The request was one which they all made of one another, and no one everthought of refusing. Clutton shrugged his shoulders."People ask you for criticism, but they only want praise. Besides, what'sthe good of criticism? What does it matter if your picture is good orbad?""It matters to me.""No. The only reason that one paints is that one can't help it. It's afunction like any of the other functions of the body, only comparativelyfew people have got it. One paints for oneself: otherwise one would commitsuicide. Just think of it, you spend God knows how long trying to getsomething on to canvas, putting the sweat of your soul into it, and whatis the result? Ten to one it will be refused at the Salon; if it'saccepted, people glance at it for ten seconds as they pass; if you'relucky some ignorant fool will buy it and put it on his walls and look atit as little as he looks at his dining-room table. Criticism has nothingto do with the artist. It judges objectively, but the objective doesn'tconcern the artist."Clutton put his hands over his eyes so that he might concentrate his mindon what he wanted to say."The artist gets a peculiar sensation from something he sees, and isimpelled to express it and, he doesn't know why, he can only express hisfeeling by lines and colours. It's like a musician; he'll read a line ortwo, and a certain combination of notes presents itself to him: he doesn'tknow why such and such words call forth in him such and such notes; theyjust do. And I'll tell you another reason why criticism is meaningless: agreat painter forces the world to see nature as he sees it; but in thenext generation another painter sees the world in another way, and thenthe public judges him not by himself but by his predecessor. So theBarbizon people taught our fathers to look at trees in a certain manner,and when Monet came along and painted differently, people said: But treesaren't like that. It never struck them that trees are exactly how apainter chooses to see them. We paint from within outwards--if we forceour vision on the world it calls us great painters; if we don't it ignoresus; but we are the same. We don't attach any meaning to greatness or tosmallness. What happens to our work afterwards is unimportant; we have gotall we could out of it while we were doing it."There was a pause while Clutton with voracious appetite devoured the foodthat was set before him. Philip, smoking a cheap cigar, observed himclosely. The ruggedness of the head, which looked as though it were carvedfrom a stone refractory to the sculptor's chisel, the rough mane of darkhair, the great nose, and the massive bones of the jaw, suggested a man ofstrength; and yet Philip wondered whether perhaps the mask concealed astrange weakness. Clutton's refusal to show his work might be sheervanity: he could not bear the thought of anyone's criticism, and he wouldnot expose himself to the chance of a refusal from the Salon; he wanted tobe received as a master and would not risk comparisons with other workwhich might force him to diminish his own opinion of himself. During theeighteen months Philip had known him Clutton had grown more harsh andbitter; though he would not come out into the open and compete with hisfellows, he was indignant with the facile success of those who did. He hadno patience with Lawson, and the pair were no longer on the intimate termsupon which they had been when Philip first knew them."Lawson's all right," he said contemptuously, "he'll go back to England,become a fashionable portrait painter, earn ten thousand a year and be anA. R. A. before he's forty. Portraits done by hand for the nobility andgentry!"Philip, too, looked into the future, and he saw Clutton in twenty years,bitter, lonely, savage, and unknown; still in Paris, for the life therehad got into his bones, ruling a small cenacle with a savage tongue, atwar with himself and the world, producing little in his increasing passionfor a perfection he could not reach; and perhaps sinking at last intodrunkenness. Of late Philip had been captivated by an idea that since onehad only one life it was important to make a success of it, but he did notcount success by the acquiring of money or the achieving of fame; he didnot quite know yet what he meant by it, perhaps variety of experience andthe making the most of his abilities. It was plain anyway that the lifewhich Clutton seemed destined to was failure. Its only justification wouldbe the painting of imperishable masterpieces. He recollected Cronshaw'swhimsical metaphor of the Persian carpet; he had thought of it often; butCronshaw with his faun-like humour had refused to make his meaning clear:he repeated that it had none unless one discovered it for oneself. It wasthis desire to make a success of life which was at the bottom of Philip'suncertainty about continuing his artistic career. But Clutton began totalk again."D'you remember my telling you about that chap I met in Brittany? I sawhim the other day here. He's just off to Tahiti. He was broke to theworld. He was a brasseur d'affaires, a stockbroker I suppose you call itin English; and he had a wife and family, and he was earning a largeincome. He chucked it all to become a painter. He just went off andsettled down in Brittany and began to paint. He hadn't got any money anddid the next best thing to starving.""And what about his wife and family?" asked Philip."Oh, he dropped them. He left them to starve on their own account.""It sounds a pretty low-down thing to do.""Oh, my dear fellow, if you want to be a gentleman you must give up beingan artist. They've got nothing to do with one another. You hear of menpainting pot-boilers to keep an aged mother--well, it shows they'reexcellent sons, but it's no excuse for bad work. They're only tradesmen.An artist would let his mother go to the workhouse. There's a writer Iknow over here who told me that his wife died in childbirth. He was inlove with her and he was mad with grief, but as he sat at the bedsidewatching her die he found himself making mental notes of how she lookedand what she said and the things he was feeling. Gentlemanly, wasn't it?""But is your friend a good painter?" asked Philip."No, not yet, he paints just like Pissarro. He hasn't found himself, buthe's got a sense of colour and a sense of decoration. But that isn't thequestion. it's the feeling, and that he's got. He's behaved like a perfectcad to his wife and children, he's always behaving like a perfect cad; theway he treats the people who've helped him--and sometimes he's been savedfrom starvation merely by the kindness of his friends--is simply beastly.He just happens to be a great artist."Philip pondered over the man who was willing to sacrifice everything,comfort, home, money, love, honour, duty, for the sake of getting on tocanvas with paint the emotion which the world gave him. it wasmagnificent, and yet his courage failed him.Thinking of Cronshaw recalled to him the fact that he had not seen him fora week, and so, when Clutton left him, he wandered along to the cafe inwhich he was certain to find the writer. During the first few months ofhis stay in Paris Philip had accepted as gospel all that Cronshaw said,but Philip had a practical outlook and he grew impatient with the theorieswhich resulted in no action. Cronshaw's slim bundle of poetry did not seema substantial result for a life which was sordid. Philip could not wrenchout of his nature the instincts of the middle-class from which he came;and the penury, the hack work which Cronshaw did to keep body and soultogether, the monotony of existence between the slovenly attic and thecafe table, jarred with his respectability. Cronshaw was astute enough toknow that the young man disapproved of him, and he attacked hisphilistinism with an irony which was sometimes playful but often verykeen."You're a tradesman," he told Philip, "you want to invest life in consolsso that it shall bring you in a safe three per cent. I'm a spendthrift, Irun through my capital. I shall spend my last penny with my lastheartbeat."The metaphor irritated Philip, because it assumed for the speaker aromantic attitude and cast a slur upon the position which Philipinstinctively felt had more to say for it than he could think of at themoment.But this evening Philip, undecided, wanted to talk about himself.Fortunately it was late already and Cronshaw's pile of saucers on thetable, each indicating a drink, suggested that he was prepared to take anindependent view of things in general."I wonder if you'd give me some advice," said Philip suddenly. "You won't take it, will you?" Philip shrugged his shoulders impatiently."I don't believe I shall ever do much good as a painter. I don't see anyuse in being second-rate. I'm thinking of chucking it.""Why shouldn't you?"Philip hesitated for an instant."I suppose I like the life."A change came over Cronshaw's placid, round face. The corners of the mouthwere suddenly depressed, the eyes sunk dully in their orbits; he seemed tobecome strangely bowed and old."This?" he cried, looking round the cafe in which they sat. His voicereally trembled a little."If you can get out of it, do while there's time."Philip stared at him with astonishment, but the sight of emotion alwaysmade him feel shy, and he dropped his eyes. He knew that he was lookingupon the tragedy of failure. There was silence. Philip thought thatCronshaw was looking upon his own life; and perhaps he considered hisyouth with its bright hopes and the disappointments which wore out theradiancy; the wretched monotony of pleasure, and the black future.Philip's eyes rested on the little pile of saucers, and he knew thatCronshaw's were on them too.