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.
“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.
Strickland at this time must have been nearly forty-seven.