Dover Book

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    It is said that this story is based on the life of artist Paul Gauguin. I would hope that it is an exaggeration, and that someone whom history has deemed worthy of such success would not, even under the worst case of artistic temperament, behave with such cruel indifference to the world. But perhaps I am wrong. And though the narrator describes Strickland, the main character, as odious, he also recognizes that there is something—the expression of which can not be even put into words—an obsession, or even a demonic possession—that screams to be freed. And it is that, that compels him to forego all that others regard as important in the world and focus every drop of energy within to find an outlet to freedom. There are parts of this to which I can relate. I found the book mesmerizing, and Maugham's ability to describe this phenomenon nothing short of mastery.
    The story is told in its entirety by the narrator, whose name we never know, looking back over many years from the point in which he met Strickland to the time, years after Strickland's death, when he visited Tahiti and pieced together the final years of Strickland's life. Strickland was nothing short of an enigma, but perhaps the truth of him was revealed most on this remote island where he at last achieved a sense of peace.
    We meet the narrator when he is very young, living in London, and having written his first book. He wants to be part of important society and is befriended by another writer, Rose Waterford. During one of her tea parties, he is introduced to Mrs. Strickland, who has been raving about his book. As expected, he is invited to one of her luncheons where he meets other writers. Waterford informs him that Mrs. Strickland is an avid reader and simply enjoys gathering writers and artists around her in a social atmosphere. She and the narrator become friends, and he finds she is sympathetic to his challenges and frustrations. She is sweet and harmless. But he doesn't meet Mr. Strickland, and expresses that he should like to.
    Mrs. Strickland's dinners are not the gay social events that define her luncheons. In fact, her dinners are boring, due to the boring people that attend them—more social paybacks than actual gatherings with people in which she is interested. It happens, on a certain date, that one guest is not able to attend, so, reluctantly she invites the narrator, warning him in advance of its impending dullness. Still, he is anxious to meet Charles Strickland, and accepts readily.
    Strickland is a stockbroker in London—moderately successful. His appearance is not quite what the narrator expects, and after dinner when the ladies leave the men for their after-dinner drinks and smokes, not being too interested in the conversation, the narrator has time to observe Strickland at leisure:

"He was bigger than I expected: I do not know why I had imagined him slender and of insignificant appearance; in point of fact he was broad and heavy, with large hands and feet, and he wore his evening clothes clumsily. He gave you somewhat the idea of a coachman dressed up for the occasion. He was a man of forty, not good-looking, and yet not ugly, for his features were rather good; but they were all a little larger than life-size, and the effect was ungainly. He was clean-shaven, and his large face looked uncomfortably naked. His hair was reddish, cut very short, and his eyes were small, blue or grey. He looked commonplace."

    Shortly after, it was time for everyone to leave for the summer, and when the narrator returns, he is met by Rose with a bit of disturbing gossip: Charles Strickland had returned home before his wife and children, a son and daughter. When they do arrive home, Mrs. Strickland finds a note from Charles informing her that he has gone with no intention of returning. It was believed he had run off with another woman. Mrs. Strickland appeals to the narrator to go to Paris and beg Charles to return. She is certain that the affair will wear off, and she will be waiting to fully forgive him.
    The narrator reluctantly promises to help as he can, but when he gets to Paris, he is shocked to find the truth. There is no woman, no money, and Charles is barely surviving in squalid conditions. The reason he left? He wants to paint. He is a terrible painter, but changing his mind is not negotiable. As for his wife?" She can go to hell" is his reply. And it is at this point that we become fascinated and at the same time repulsed by this man—almost subhuman, primitive, possessed possibly, but not caring a whit about the physical world any more, someone driven by some force beyond comprehension, to paint. And to express what? Beauty, perhaps. We are confused, confounded, enraged. As the narrator tries to talk sense into him, pointing out to Charles that he isn't even particularly talented, he replies:

"I tell you, I've got to paint. I can't help myself. When a man falls into the water it doesn't matter how he swims, well or badly: he's got to get out or else he'll drown.

    The narrator returns to Mrs. Strickland, and she is livid. Running off with another woman would be forgivable; abandoning her for an idea is unforgivable. She ultimately takes charge of her life and starts a successful business, and we hear little of her until the very end of the book.
    After about five years, the narrator moves to Paris, bored with his own uneventfulness. He runs into an old friend, a Dutchman named Dirk Stroeve, a successful but bad painter. He is described as someone whom nature made a buffoon, fat, overly sentimental, and everyone's doormat. People laugh at him, abuse him, even his friends, and in spite of it, he keeps coming back for more. He is excited to tell the narrator that he has discovered an artist in Paris with extraordinary talent, and it is Charles Strickland, though no one else recognizes this. The narrator knows Dirk well enough to trust his opinion even when it goes against the grain of popular taste. The narrator is also surprised that Dirk has married a quiet attractive woman named Blanche. They seem happy, but there is also something not quite right.
    Strickland hasn't changed. He is skin and bones and barely surviving, yet doesn't even try to sell his works, and certainly doesn't care about anyone, or what anyone thinks of him. He is crude and rude when he does speak, which is rare.
    At one point Dirk and the narrator realize they haven't seen him in a while, and begin to inquire. The story is that he is very sick. They eventually find him, and he is near death. Dirk begs his wife to allow them to bring him home to care for him, but she pleads, implores him to not, because she is afraid of him and knows something bad will happen.
    She gives in, however, and they nurse him back to health. Strickland rewards them by developing a passing lust for Blanche. She now claims to be in love with him, and Dirk moves out, leaving them together in his apartment. Strickland paints her and uses her, then throws her away. She commits suicide.
    The narrator, now filled with repugnance more than ever, questions Strickland. He never promised Blanche anything, in fact told her point blank he would tire of her then abandon her. Love, women, even sex—he finds them all deplorable and wishes he could master physical urges. The narrator concludes that, though Strickland is detestable, he is also an extraordinary man.
    Some fifteen years now have passed—nine since Strickland's death on Tahiti, where he spent his remaining years. The narrator has an opportunity to travel there, and begins to unravel the enigma of Strickland through people who knew him. At this point, he has gained posthumous fame as an artist in a style called Primitivism. At last, we begin to catch glimpses into the mind and soul of this person who was driven by a force unseen, which never gave him a moment's rest. He died a horrible death from leprosy.

    As mentioned above, the story is loosely based on the life of Paul Gauguin, although the latter had bouts of suicidal tendencies, unlike Strickland, who didn't seem to have much connection with his physical life at all, therefore suicide would not have even figured into his thought process. While Strickland isolated himself from most of humanity, Gauguin did not, and had relationships with other artists, particularly with Van Gogh. Gauguin did, of course spend his last years on Tahiti and the Marquesas Islands, and is known for his primitive art, but also for other artistic styles. He suffered from syphilis and died of an overdose of morphine. Unlike Strickland, Gauguin was a heavy drinker. And, like the narrator, Somerset Maugham did indeed spend time on Tahiti.
    I cannot recommend this book highly enough! It is compelling reading from beginning to end. If you only read one book a year, please make it this one.

Dover Book

Dover Book

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