Луна и Грош

УДК 372.8
ББК 81.2 Англ-93
          М74

© КАРО, 2004
ISBN 978-5-9925-0232-9

Моэм У. С.
М 74
Луна и грош: Книга для чтения на английском языке. — СПб.: КАРО, 2013. — 384 с. — (Серия «Classical
literature»).

ISBN 978-5-9925-0232-9

«Луна и грош» — одно из самых глубоких произведений
классика английской литературы Уильяма Сомерсета Моэма. В романе рассказывается драматическая история о человеке, который, в зрелом возрасте ощутив в себе дар художника, не побоялся круто изменить свою жизнь. Писатель не
становится ни на чью сторону, не морализирует, не осуждает
Чарльза Стрикленда, прототипом которого послужил Поль
Гоген, за жестокое обращение с близкими ему людьми, не
восхваляет его за решимость, а дает право читателю самостоятельно делать выводы.
В книге приводится неадаптированный текст на языке
оригинала, снабженный комментариями, заданиями и словарем.

УДК 372.8
ББК 81.2 Англ-93

Chapter I
Chapter I
Chapter I
Chapter I
Chapter I

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 pro-
portions. 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

WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM

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 pro

THE MOON AND SIXPENCE

pose 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 chequebook. 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 book1 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

1 “A Modern Artist: Notes on the Work of Charles Strickland,” by Edward
Leggatt, A.R.H.A. Martin Secker, 1917. (прим. авт.)

WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM

him in London, painters who had met him in the cafés 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 monograph1 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

1 “Karl Strickland: sein Leben und seine Kunst,” by Hugo Weitbrecht-Rotholz, Ph.D. Schwingel und Hanisch. Leipzig, 1914. (прим.
авт.)

THE MOON AND SIXPENCE

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 course1 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 biography2 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

1 in due course — мало-помалу
2 “Strickland: The Man and His Work,” by his son, Robert Strickland.
Wm. Heinemann, 1913. (прим. авт.)

WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM

already his muscular calves encased in the gaiters episcopal. It was a hazardous, though maybe a gallant thing to
do, since it is probable that the legend commonly received
has had no small share in the growth of Strickland’s reputation; for there are many who have been attracted to
his art by the detestation in which they held his character
or the compassion with which they regarded his death;
and the son’s well-meaning efforts threw a singular chill
upon the father’s admirers. It is due to no accident that
when one of his most important works, The Woman of
Samaria1, was sold at Christie’s shortly after the discussion which followed the publication of Mr. Strickland’s
biography, it fetched pounds 235 less than it had done
nine months before when it was bought by the distinguished collector whose sudden death had brought it once
more under the hammer. Perhaps Charles Strickland’s
power and originality would scarcely have sufficed to turn
the scale if the remarkable mythopoeic faculty of mankind had not brushed aside with impatience a story which
disappointed all its craving for the extraordinary. And
presently Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz produced the work
which finally set at rest the misgivings of all lovers of art.
Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz belongs to that school of historians which believes that human nature is not only about

1 This was described in Christie’s catalogue as follows: “A nude
woman, a native of the Society Islands, is lying on the ground beside
a brook. Behind is a tropical Landscape with palm-trees, bananas,
etc. 60 in. × 48 in.” (прим. авт.)
2 Christie’s — Кристи (всемирно известный аукцион)

THE MOON AND SIXPENCE

as bad as it can be, but a great deal worse; and certainly
the reader is safer of entertainment in their hands than
in those of the writers who take a malicious pleasure in
representing the great figures of romance as patterns of
the domestic virtues. For my part, I should be sorry to
think that there was nothing between Anthony and Cleopatra but an economic situation; and it will require a
great deal more evidence than is ever likely to be available, thank God, to persuade me that Tiberius was as
blameless a monarch as King George V. Dr. WeitbrechtRotholz has dealt in such terms with the Rev. Robert
Strickland’s innocent biography that it is difficult to
avoid feeling a certain sympathy for the unlucky parson. His decent reticence is branded as hypocrisy, his
circumlocutions are roundly called lies, and his silence
is vilified as treachery. And on the strength of peccadillos, reprehensible in an author, but excusable in a
son, the Anglo-Saxon race is accused of prudishness,
humbug, pretentiousness, deceit, cunning, and bad
cooking. Personally I think it was rash of Mr. Strickland, in refuting the account which had gained belief
of a certain “unpleasantness” between his father and
mother, to state that Charles Strickland in a letter written from Paris had described her as “an excellent woman,” since Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz was able to print the
letter in facsimile, and it appears that the passage referred to ran in fact as follows: God damn my wife. She is
an excellent woman. I wish she was in hell. It is not thus
that the Church in its great days dealt with evidence that
was unwelcome.

WILLIAM SOMERSET MAUGHAM

Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz was an enthusiastic admirer
of Charles Strickland, and there was no danger that he
would whitewash him. He had an unerring eye for the
despicable motive in actions that had all the appearance
of innocence. He was a psycho-pathologist, as well as a
student of art, and the subconscious had few secrets from
him. No mystic ever saw deeper meaning in common
things. The mystic sees the ineffable, and the psycho-pathologist the unspeakable. There is a singular fascination
in watching the eagerness with which the learned author
ferrets out every circumstance which may throw discredit
on his hero. His heart warms to him when he can bring
forward some example of cruelty or meanness, and he
exults like an inquisitor at the auto da fe1 of an heretic when
with some forgotten story he can confound the filial piety of the Rev. Robert Strickland. His industry has been
amazing. Nothing has been too small to escape him, and
you may be sure that if Charles Strickland left a laundry
bill unpaid it will be given you in extenso2, and if he forbore to return a borrowed half-crown no detail of the
transaction will be omitted.

1 auto da fe — букв. дело веры (исп.) — публичное сожжение
на костре
2 in extenso — полностью (лат.)