I did not know why Strickland had suddenly offered to show them to me.I welcomed the opportunity.A man's work reveals him.In social intercourse he gives you the surface that he wishes the world to accept, and you can only gain a true knowledge of him by inferences from little actions, of which he is unconscious, and from fleeting expressions, which cross his face unknown to him.Sometimes people carry to such perfection the mask they have assumed that in due course they actually become the person they seem.But in his book or his picture the real man delivers himself defenceless.His pretentiousness will only expose his vacuity.The lathe painted to look like iron is seen to be but a lathe.No affectation of peculiarity can conceal a commonplace mind.To the acute observer no one can produce the most casual work without disclosing the innermost secrets of his soul.
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 vowed they could not work unless all the conditions were to their liking.
"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 originality.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 peculiar thrill which it is the property of art to give.The impression that Strickland's pictures gave me was disconcerting; and the fact remains, 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 admiration for the impressionists.I longed to possess a Sisley and a Degas, and I worshipped Manet.His <i Olympia> seemed to me the greatest picture of modern times, and <i Le Dejeuner sur l'Herbe> moved me profoundly.These works seemed to me the last word in painting.
