 chapters 28, 29 and 30 of THE MOON AND SIXPANCE. Chapter 28 The explanation came a week later. It was about ten o'clock at night. I had been dining by myself at a restaurant, and having returned to my small apartment, was sitting in my parlour reading. I heard the crack tinkling of the bell, and, going into the corridor, opened the door. Strover stood before me. "'Can I come in?' he asked. In the dimness of the landing I could not see him very well, but there was something in his voice that surprised me. I knew he was of abstemious habit, or I should have thought he had been drinking. I led the way into my sitting-room, and asked him to sit down. "'Thank God I had found you,' he said. "'What's the matter?' I asked in astonishment at his veermans. I was able now to see him. As a rule he was neat in his person, but now his clothes were in disorder. He looked suddenly bedraggled. I was convinced he had been drinking, and I smiled. I was on the point of chaffing him on his state. "'I didn't know where to go,' he burst out. "'I came here earlier, but you weren't in.' "'I dined late,' I said. I changed my mind. It was not liquor that had driven him to this obvious desperation. His face, usually so rosy, was now strangely mottled. His hands trembled. "'Has anything happened?' I asked. "'My wife has left me.' He could hardly get the words out. He gave a little gasp, and the tears began to trickle down his round cheeks. I did not know what to say. My first thought was that she had come to the end of her forbearance with his infatuation for Strickland, and goaded by the latter's cynical behaviour had insisted that he should be turned out. I knew her capable of temper for all the calmness of her manner, and if Strava still refused she might easily have flung out of the studio, with vows never to return. But the little man was so distressed that I could not smile. "'My dear fellow, don't be unhappy. She'll come back. You mustn't take very seriously what women say when they're in a passion. You don't understand. She's in love with Strickland. What?' I was startled at this. But the idea had no soon taken possession of me, than I saw it was absurd. How can you be so silly? You don't mean to say you're jealous of Strickland?' I almost laughed. You know very well that she can't bear the sight of him. "'You don't understand,' he moaned. "'You're an hysterical ass,' I said a little impatiently. "'Let me give you a whiskey and soda, and you'll feel better.' I suppose that for some reason or other, and heaven knows what ingenuity men exercise to torment themselves, Derek had got it into his head that his wife cared for Strickland. And with his genius for blundering, he might quite well have offended her so that to anger him perhaps she had taken pains to foster his suspicion. "'Look here,' I said, "'let's get back to your studio. If you've made a fool of yourself, you must eat humble pie. Your wife doesn't strike me as the sort of woman to bear malice. How can I go back to the studio?' He said, wearily, "'They're there. I've left it to them.'" "'And it's not your wife who's left you. It's you who've left your wife. For God's sake, don't talk to me like that.' Still I could not take him seriously. I did not for a moment believe what he had told me. But he was in very real distress. Well, you've come here to talk to me about it. You'd better tell me the whole story.' This afternoon I couldn't stand it any more. I went to Strickland and told him I thought he was quite well enough to go back to his own place. I wanted the studio myself. No one but Strickland would have needed telling, I said. What did he say? He laughed a little. You know how he laughs, not as though he were amused, but as though you were a damn fool, and said he'd go at once. He began to put his things together. You remember I fetched from his room what I thought he needed, and he asked Blanche for a piece of paper and some string to make a parcel. Strava stopped gasping, and I thought he was going to faint. This was not a tall story I'd expected him to tell me. She was very pale, but she bought the paper and the string. He didn't say anything. He made the parcel, and we saw the tune. He talked no notice of either of us. His eyes had an ironic smile in them. My heart was like lead. I was afraid something was going to happen, and I wished I hadn't spoken. He looked round for his hut. Then she spoke. I'm going with Strickland, Derek, she said. I can't live with you any more. I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Strickland didn't say anything. He went on whistling, as though it had nothing to do with him. Strava stopped again and mopped his face. I kept quite still. I believed him now, and I was astounded. But all the same, I could not understand. Then he told me, in a trembling voice, with the tears pouring down his cheeks, how he had gone up to her, trying to take her in his arms. But she had drawn away and begged him not to touch her. He implored her not to leave him. He told her how passionately he loved her, and reminded her of all the devotion he had lavished upon her. He spoke to her of the happiness of their life. He was not angry with her. He did not reproach her. Please let me go quietly, Derek, she said at last. Don't you understand that I love Strickland, where he goes, I shall go. But you mustn't know that he'll never make you happy. For your own sake, don't go. You can't know what you've got to look forward to. It's all false. You insisted on his coming here. He turned to Strickland. Have mercy on her. He implored him. You can't let her do anything so mad. She can do as she chooses, said Strickland. She's not forced to come. My choice is made, she said, in a dull voice. Strickland's injurious calm robbed Strava the rest of his self-control. Blind rage seized him. And without knowing what he was doing, he flung himself on Strickland. Strickland was taken by surprise, and he staggered. But he was very strong, even after his illness. And in a moment he did not exactly know how, Strava found himself on the floor. You funny little man, said Strickland. Strava picked himself up. He noticed that his wife had remained perfectly still, and to be made ridiculous before her increased his humiliation. His spectacles had tumbled off in the struggle, and he could not immediately see them. She picked them up, and silently handed them to him. He seemed suddenly to realize his unhappiness, and though he knew he was making himself still more absurd, he began to cry. He hid his face in his hands. The others watched him without a word. They did not move from where they stood. Oh, my dear, he groaned at last. How can you be so cruel? I can't help myself, Derek, she answered. I've worshipped you as no woman was ever worshipped before. If in anything I did, I displeased you, why didn't you tell me and I'd have changed? I'd have done everything I could for you. She did not answer. Her face was set, and he saw that he was only boring her. She put on a coat and her hat. She moved towards the door, and he saw that in a moment she would be gone. He went up to her quickly, and fell on his knees before her, seizing her hands. He abandoned all self-respect. Oh, don't go my darling. I can't live without you. I shall kill myself. If I've done anything to offend you, I beg you to forgive me. Give me another chance. I'll try harder still to make you happy. Get up, Derek. You're making yourself a perfect fool. He staggered to his feet, but still he would not let her go. Well, are you going? He said hastily, you don't know what Strickland's place is like. You can't live there. It would be awful. If I don't care, I don't see why you should. Stay a moment longer. I must speak. After all, you can't grudge me that. What's the good? I've made up my mind. Nothing that you can say will make me alter it. He gulped, and put his hand to his heart to ease its painful beating. I'm not going to ask you to change your mind, but I want you to listen to me for a minute. It's the last thing I shall ever ask you. Don't refuse me that. She paused, looking at him with those reflective eyes of hers, which were now so different to him. She came back into the studio and lent against the table. Well, Strava made a great effort to collect himself. You must be a little reasonable. You can't live on air, you know. Strickland hasn't got a penny. I know. You'd suffer the most awful privations. You know why he took so long to get well. He was half-starved. I can earn money for him. How? I don't know. I shall find a way. A horrible thought passed through the Dutchman's mind, and he shuddered. I think you must be mad. I don't know what's come over you. She shrugged her shoulders. Now can I go? Wait one second longer. He looked round his studio wearily. He had loved it because her presence had made it gay and home-like. He shut his eyes for an instant. Then he gave her a long look as though to impress upon his mind the picture of her. He got up and took his hat. No, I'll go. You? She was startled. She did not know what he meant. I can't bear to think of you living in that horrible filthy attic. After all, this is your home just as much as mine. You'll be comfortable here. You'll be spared at least the worst privations. He went to the drawer in which he kept his money and took out several banknotes. I would like to give you half what I've got here. He put them on the table. Neither Strickland nor his wife spoke. Then he recollected something else. Will you pack up my clothes and leave them with the concierge? I'll come and fetch them tomorrow. He tried to smile. Good-bye, my dear. I am grateful for all the happiness you gave me in the past. He walked out and closed the door behind him. With my mind's eye I saw Strickland throw his hat on the table and, sitting down, begin to smoke a cigarette. End of Chapter 28 Chapter 29 I kept silence for a little while, thinking of what Strava had told me. I could not stomach his weakness, and he saw my disapproval. You know as well as I do how Strickland lived, he said, tremulously. I couldn't let her live in those circumstances. I simply couldn't. That's your business, I answered. What would you have done? he asked. She went with her eyes open. If she had to put up with certain inconveniences, it was her own lookout. Yes, but, you see, you don't love her. Do you love her still? Oh, more than ever. Strickland isn't a man to make a woman happy. It can't last. I want her to know that I shall never fail her. Does that mean that you're prepared to take her back? I shouldn't hesitate. Why, she'll want me more than ever, then, when she's alone and humiliated and broken. It would be dreadful if she had nowhere to go. He seemed to bear no resentment. I suppose it was commonplace in me that I felt slightly outraged at his lack of spirit. Perhaps he guessed what was in my mind. But he said, I couldn't expect her to love me as I loved her. I'm a buffoon, and not the sort of man's of women love. I've always known that. I can't blame her. She's fallen in love with Strickland. You certainly have less vanity than any man I've ever known. I said, I love her so much better than myself. It seems to me that when vanity comes into love, it can only be because, really, you will love yourself best. After all, it constantly happens that a man, when he's married, falls in love with somebody else. When he gets over it, he returns to his wife, and she takes him back, and everyone thinks he's very natural. Why should he be different with women? I dare say that's logical, I smiled. But most men are made differently, and they can't. But while I talked to Strava, I was puzzling over the suddenness of the whole affair. I could not imagine that he had had no warning. I remembered the curious look I had seen in Blanche Strava's eyes. Perhaps its explanation was that she was growing dimly conscious of a feeling in her heart that surprised and alarmed her. Did you have no suspicion before to-day that there was anything between them, I asked. He did not answer for a while. There was a pencil on the table, and unconsciously he drew a head on the blotting paper. But please say so if you hate by asking you questions, I said. It eases me to talk. Oh, if you had news of actual anguish in my heart. He threw the pencil down. Yes, I've known for a fortnight. I knew it before she did. Why on earth did you send Strickland packing? I couldn't believe it. It seemed so improbable. She couldn't bear the sight of him. It was more than improbable. It was incredible. I thought it was merely jealousy. You see, I've always been jealous, but I trained myself never to show it. I was jealous of every man she knew. I was jealous of you. I knew she didn't love me as I loved her. That was only natural, wasn't it? But she allowed me to love her, and that was enough to make me happy. I forced myself to go out for hours together in order to leave some by themselves. I wanted to punish myself for suspicions which were unworthy of me. Remember when I came back, I found they didn't want me. Not Strickland. He didn't care if I was there or not, but Blanche. She shouted when I went to kiss her. When at last I was certain I didn't know what to do. I knew they'd only laugh at me if I made a scene. I thought if I held my tongue and pretended not to see, everything would come all right. I made up my mind to get him away quietly without quarrelling. Oh, if you only knew what I'd suffered. Then he told me again of his asking Strickland to go. He chose his moment carefully, and tried to make his request sound casual. But he could not master the trembling of his voice, and he felt himself that into words that he wished to seem jovial and friendly, though crept the bitterness of his jealousy. He had not expected Strickland to take him up on the spot and make his preparations to go there and then. Above all, he had not expected his wife's decision to go with him. I saw that now he wished with all his heart that he had held his tongue. He preferred the anguish of jealousy to the anguish of separation. I wanted to kill him, and I only made a fool of myself. He was silent for a long time, and then he said what I knew was in his mind. If I'd only waited, perhaps it would have gone all right. I shouldn't have been so impatient. Oh, poor child, what have I driven her to? I shrugged my shoulders, but did not speak. I had no sympathy for Branch Trover, but knew that it would only pay in poor Derek if I told him exactly what I thought of her. He had reached that stage of exhaustion when he could not stop talking. He went over again every word of the scene. Now something occurred to him that he had not told me before. Now he discussed what he ought to have said instead of what he did say. Then he lamented his blindness. He regretted that he had done this, and blamed himself that he had omitted the other. He grew later and later, and at last I was as tired as he. What are you going to do now? I said finally. What can I do? I shall wait till she sends for me. Why don't you go away for a bit? No, no, I must be at hand when she wants me. For the present he seemed quite lost. He had made no plans. When I suggested that he should go to bed, he said that he could not sleep. He wanted to go out and walk about the streets till day. He was evidently in no state to be left alone. I persuaded him to stay the night with me, and I put him into my own bed. I had a divan in my sitting-room, and could very well sleep on that. He was by now so worn out that he could not resist my firmness. I gave him a sufficient dose of verinor to ensure his unconsciousness for several hours. I thought that was the best service I could render him. End of Chapter 29 Chapter 30 But the bed I made up for myself was sufficiently uncomfortable to give me a wakeful night, and I thought a good deal of what the unlucky Dutchman had told me. I was not so much puzzled by Blanche Strover's action, for I saw in that merely the result of her physical appeal. I do not suppose she had ever really cared for her husband, and what I had taken for love was no more than the feminine response to caresses and comfort, which in the minds of most women passes for it. It is a passive feeling, capable of being roused for any object as the vine can grow on any tree, and the wisdom of the world recognises its strength when it urges a girl to marry the man who wants her with the assurance that love will follow. It is an emotion made up of the satisfaction in security, pride of property, the pleasure of being desired, the gratification of a household, and it is only by an amiable vanity that women ascribe to its spiritual value. It is an emotion which is defenseless against passion. I suspected that Blanche Strover's violent dislike of Strickland had in it from the beginning a vague element of sexual attraction. Who am I that I should seek to unravel the mysterious intricacies of sex? Perhaps Strover's passion excited without satisfying that part of her nature, and she hated Strickland because she felt in him the power to give her what she needed. I think she was quite sincere when she struggled against her husband's desire to bring him into the studio. I think she was frightened of him, though she knew not why, and I remembered how she had foreseen disaster. I think in some curious way the horror which she felt for him was a transference of the horror which she felt for herself because he so strangely troubled her. His appearance was wild and uncouth. There was aloofness in his eyes and sensuality in his mouth. He was big and strong. He gave the impression of untamed passion, and perhaps she felt in him, too, that sinister element which had made me think of those wild beings of the world's early history, when matter, retaining its early connection with the earth, seemed to possess yet a spirit of its own. If he affected her at all, it was inevitable that she should love or hate him. She hated him. And then I fancy that the daily intimacy with the sick man moved her strangely. She raised his head to give him food, and it was heavy against her hand. When she had fed him she wiped his sensual mouth and his red beard. She washed his limbs. They were covered with thick hair, and when she dried his hands, even in his weakness they were strong and sinewy. His fingers were long, they were the capable fashioning fingers of the artist. And I knew not what troubling thoughts they excited in her. He slept very quietly without a movement, so that he might have been dead, and he was like some wild creature of the woods resting after a long chase, and she wondered what fancies passed through his dreams. Did he dream of the nymph flying through the woods of Greece with the satire in hot pursuit? She fled swift of foot and desperate, but he gained on her step by step, till she felt his hot breath on her neck, and still she fled silently, and silently he pursued, and when at last he seized her, was it terror that drilled her heart, or was it ecstasy? Blanche Strover was in the cruel grip of appetite. Perhaps she hated Strickland still, but she hungered for him, and everything that had made up her life till then became of no account. She ceased to be a woman, complex, kind, and petulant, considerate, and thoughtless. She was a mind-ad. She was desire. But perhaps this is very fanciful, and it may be that she was merely bored with her husband, and went to Strickland out of a callous curiosity. She may have had no particular feeling for him, but succumbed to his wish from propinquity or idleness, to find then that she was powerless in a snare of her own contriving. How did I know what were the thoughts and emotions behind that placid brow, and those cool grey eyes? But if one could be certain of nothing in dealing with creatures so incalculable as human beings, there were explanations of Blanche Strover's behaviour, which were, at all events, plausible. On the other hand, I did not understand Strickland at all. I wracked my brain, but could in no way account for an action so contrary to my conception of him. It was not strange that he should so heartlessly have betrayed his friend's confidence, nor that he hesitated not at all to gratify a whim at the cost of another's misery. That was in his character. He was a man without any conception of gratitude, he had no compassion. The emotions common to most of us simply did not exist in him. And it was as absurd to blame him for not feeling them, as for blaming the tiger, because he is fierce and cruel. But it was the whim, I could not understand. I could not believe that Strickland had fallen in love with Blanche Strover. I did not believe him capable of love. That is an emotion in which tenderness is an essential part. But Strickland had no tenderness either for himself or for others. There is in love a sense of weakness, a desire to protect, an eagerness to do good and to give pleasure. If not unselfishness, at all events a selfishness which marvelously conceals itself, it has in it a certain diffidence. These were not traits which I could imagine in Strickland. Love is absorbing. It takes the lover out of himself. The most clear-sighted, though he may know, cannot realize that his love will cease. It gives body to what he knows is illusion, and knowing it is nothing else, he loves it better than reality. It makes a man a little more than himself, and at the same time a little less. He ceases to be himself. He is no longer an individual but a thing, an instrument to some purpose foreign to his ego. Love is never quite devoid of sentimentality, and Strickland was the least inclined to that infirmity of any man I have known. I could not believe that he would ever suffer that possession of himself which love is. He could never endure a foreign yoke. I believed him capable of uprooting from his heart, though it might be with agony, so that he was left battered and then sang when anything that came between himself and that uncomprehended craving that urged him constantly to he knew not what. If I have succeeded at all in giving the complicated impression that Strickland made on me, it will not seem outrageous to say that I felt he was at once too great and too small for love. But I suppose that everyone's conception of the passion is formed on his own near the asyncrasies, and it is different with every different person. A man like Strickland would love in a manner peculiar to himself. It was vain to seek the analysis of his emotion. End of Chapter 30. Chapter 31, 32 and 33 of The Moon and Sixpence Chapter 31 Next day, though I pressed him to remain, Strover left me. I offered to fetch his things from the studio, but he insisted on going himself. I think he hoped that they had not thought of getting them together, so that he would have an opportunity of seeing his wife again and perhaps inducing her to come back to him. But he found his traps waiting for him in the porter's lodge, and the concierge told him that Blanche had gone out. I do not think he resisted the temptation of giving her an account of his troubles. I found that he was telling them to everyone he knew. He expected sympathy, but only excited ridicule. He bore himself most unbecomingly. Knowing at what time his wife did her shopping, one day, unable any longer to bear not seeing her, he way-laid her in the street. She would not speak to him, but he insisted on speaking to her. He spluttered out words of apology for any wrong he had committed towards her. He told her he loved her devotedly, and begged her to return to him. She would not answer. She walked hurriedly with averted face. I imagined him with his fat little legs trying to keep up with her. Panting a little in his haste, he told her how miserable he was. He besought her to have mercy on him. He promised, if she would forgive him, to do everything she wanted. He offered to take her for a journey. He told her that Strickland would soon tire of her. When he repeated to me the whole sordid little scene I was outraged, he had shown neither sense nor dignity. He had omitted nothing that could make his wife despise him. There is no cruelty greater than a woman's to a man who loves her and whom she does not love. She has no kindness then, no tolerance even. She has only an insane irritation. Blanche Strover stopped suddenly, and as hard as she could, slapped her husband's face. She took advantage of his confusion to escape, and ran up the stairs to the studio. No word had passed her lips. When he told me this, he put his hand to his cheek, as though he still felt the smart of the blow, and in his eyes was a pain that was heart-rending and an amazement that was ludicrous. He looked like an overblown schoolboy, and though I felt so sorry for him, I could hardly help laughing. Then he took to walking along the street which he must pass through to get to the shops, and he would stand at the corner on the other side as she went along. He dared not speak to her again, but sought to put into his round eyes the appeal that was in his heart. I suppose he had some idea that the sight of his misery would touch her. She never made the smallest sign that she saw him. She never even changed the hour of her errands, or sought an alternative route. I have an idea that there was some cruelty in her indifference. Perhaps she got enjoyment out of the torture she inflicted. I wondered why she hated him so much. I begged Strover to behave more wisely. His want of spirit was exasperating. You're doing no good at all by going on like this, I said. I think you'd have been wiser if you'd hit her over the head with a stick. She wouldn't have despised you, as she does now. I suggested that he should go home for a while. He had often spoken to me of the silent town, somewhere up in the north of Holland, where his parents still lived. They were poor people. His father was a carpenter, and they dwelt in a little old red brick house, neat and clean, by the side of a sluggish canal. The streets were wide and empty. For two hundred years the place had been dying, but the houses had the homeless stateless of their time. Rich merchants, sending their wares to the distant indies, had lived in them calm and prosperous lives, and in their decent decay they kept still in the aroma of their splendid past. You could wander along the canal till you came to broad green fields, with windmills here and there, in which cattle, black and white, grazed lazily. I thought that among those surroundings, with their recollections of his boyhood, Derek Strover would forget his unhappiness. But he would not go. It must be here when she needs me. He repeated, it would be dreadful if something terrible happened and I were not at hand. What do you think is going to happen? I asked. I don't know, but I'm afraid. I shrugged my shoulders. For all his pain, Derek Strover remained a ridiculous object. He might have excited sympathy if he had grown worn and thin. He did nothing of the kind. He remained fat, and his round red cheeks shone like ripe apples. He had great neatness of person, and he continued to wear his spruce black coat and his bowler hat, always a little too small for him, in a dapper, jointy manner. He was getting something of a porch, and Sorrow had no effect on it. He looked more than ever like a prosperous bagman. It is hard that a man's exterior should tally so little sometimes with his soul. Derek Strover had the passion of Romeo in the body of Satobi Belch. He had a sweet and generous nature, and yet was always blundering. A real feeling for what was beautiful, and the capacity to create only what was common place. A peculiar delicacy of sentiment, and gross manners. He could exercise tact when dealing with the affairs of others, but none when dealing with his own. What a cruel, practical joke old nature played when she flung so many contradictory elements together, and left the man face to face with the perplexing callousness of the universe. End of Chapter 31 Chapter 32 I did not see Strickland for several weeks. I was disgusted with him, and if I had had an opportunity, should have been glad to tell him so. But I saw no object in seeking him out for the purpose. I am a little shy of any assumption of moral indignation. There is always in it an element of self-satisfaction, which makes it awkward to anyone who has a sense of humour. It requires a very lively passion to steal me to my own ridicule. There was a sardonic sincerity in Strickland, which made me sensitive to anything that might suggest a pose. But one evening, when I was passing along the avenue de Clichy, in front of the café which Strickland frequented, and which I now avoided, I ran straight into him. He was accompanied by a blanche-strover, and they were just going to Strickland's favourite corner. Where the devil have you been all this time? Said he. I thought you must be away. His cordiality was proof that he knew I had no wish to speak to him. He was not a man with whom it was worth while wasting politeness. No, I said I haven't been away. Why haven't you been here? There are more cafés in Paris than one at which to trifle away an eyelash. Blanche then held out her hand and bade me good evening. I don't know why I had expected her to be somehow changed. She wore the same grey dress that she wore so often, neat and becoming, and her brow was as candid, her eyes as untroubled, as when I had been used to see her occupied with her household duties in the studio. Come and have a game of chess, said Strickland. I do not know why, at the moment, I could think of no excuse. I followed them rather sulkily to the table at which Strickland always sat, and he called for the board and the chess-men. They both took the situation so much as a matter, of course, that I felt it absurd to do otherwise. Mrs. Strover watched the game with inscrutable face. She was silent, but she had always been silent. I looked at her mouth for an expression that could give me a clue as to what she felt. I watched her eyes for some tell-tale flash, some hint of dismay or bitterness. I scanned her brow for any passing line that might indicate a settling emotion. Her face was a mask that told nothing. Her hands lay on her lap motionless, one in the other loosely clasped. I knew from what I had heard that she was a woman of violent passions, and that injurious blow that she had given to Derek, the man who had loved her so devotedly, betrayed a sudden temper and a horrid cruelty. She had abandoned the safe shelter of her husband's protection and the comfortable ease of a well-provided establishment for what she could not but see was an extreme hazard. It showed an eagerness for adventure, a readiness for the hand-to-mouth, which the care she took of her home and her love of good-house wiffery made not a little remarkable. She must be a woman of complicated character, and there was something dramatic in the contrast of that with her demure appearance. I was excited by the encounter, and my fancy worked busily while I sought to concentrate myself on the game I was playing. I always tried my best to beat Strickland, because he was a player who despised the opponent he vanquished. His exultation in victory made defeat more difficult to bear. On the other hand, if he was beaten, he took it with complete good humour. He was a bad winner and a good loser. Those who think that a man betrays his character nowhere more clearly than when he is playing a game might on this draw subtle inferences. When he had finished, I called the waiter to pay for the drinks, and left them. The meeting had been devoid of incident. No word had been said to give me anything to think about, and any surmises I might make were unwarranted. I was intrigued. I could not tell how they were getting on. I would have given much to be a disembodied spirit, so that I could see them in the privacy of the studio, and hear what they talked about. I had not the smallest indication on which to let my imagination work. End of Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Two or three days later, Derek Strover called on me. I hear you've seen Blanche, he said. How on earth did you find out? I was told by someone who saw you sitting with them. Why didn't you tell me? I thought it would only pain you. What do I care if he does? You must know that I want to hear the smallest thing about her. I waited for him to ask me questions. What does she look like? He said. Absolutely unchanged. Does she seem happy? I shrugged my shoulders. How can I tell? We were in a cafe. We were playing chess. I had no opportunity to speak to her. Oh! but couldn't you tell by her face? I shook my head. I could only repeat that by no word, by no hinted gesture, had she given an indication of her feelings. He must know better than I how great were her powers of self-control. He clasped his hands emotionally. Oh! and so frightened! I know something is going to happen, something terrible, and I can do nothing to stop it. What sort of thing? I asked. Oh! I don't know! He moaned, seizing his head with his hands. I foresee some terrible catastrophe. Strover had always been excitable, but now he was beside himself. There was no reasoning with him. I thought it probable enough that large Strover would not continue to find life with stricter and tolerable, but one of the falsest of proverbs is that you must lie on the bed that you have made. The experience of life shows that people are constantly doing things which must lead to disaster, and yet by some chance managed to evade the result of their folly. When Blanche quarrelled with Strickland, she had only to leave him, and her husband was waiting humbly to forgive and forget. I was not prepared to feel any great sympathy for her. You see, you don't love her, said Strover. After all, there's nothing to prove that she's unhappy. For all we know they may have settled down into a most domestic couple. Strover gave me a look with his woeful eyes. Of course, it doesn't much matter to you, but to me it's so serious, so intensely serious. I was sorry if I had seemed impatient or flippant. Will you do something for me? asked Strover. Winningly, will you write to Blanche for me? Why can't you write yourself? I've written over and over again. I didn't expect her to answer. I don't think she reads the letters. You make no account of feminine curiosity. Do you think she could resist? She could, mine. I looked at him quickly. He lowered his eyes. That answer of his seemed to me strangely humiliating. He was conscious that she regarded him with an indifference, so profound that the sight of his handwriting would have not the slightest effect on her. Do you really believe that she'll ever come back to you? I asked. I want her to know that if the worst comes to the worst, she can count on me. That's what I wanted to tell her. I took a sheet of paper. What is it exactly you wish me to say? This is what I wrote. Dear Mrs. Strover, Derek wishes me to tell you that if at any time you want him, he will be grateful for the opportunity of being of service to you. He has no ill-feeling towards you on account of anything that has happened. His love for you is unaltered. You will always find him at the following address. End of Chapter 33 Chapters 34, 35 and 36 of The Moon and Sixpence This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Termin Diane The Moon and Sixpence by W. Somerset-Morm Chapter 34 But though I was no less convinced than Strover that the connection between Strickland and Blanche would end disastrously, I did not expect the issue to take the tragic form it did. The summer came, breathless and sultry, and even at night there was no coolness to rest one's jaded nerves. The sun-baked streets seemed to give back the heat that had beat down on them during the day, and the passers-by dragged their feet along them wearily. I had not seen Strickland for weeks. Occupied with other things, I had ceased to think of him and his affairs. Derek with his vain lamentations had begun to bore me, and I avoided his society. It was a sordid business, and I was not inclined to trouble myself with it further. One morning I was working. I sat in my pyjamas. My thoughts wandered, and I thought of the sunny beaches of Brittany and the freshness of the sea. By my side was the empty bowl in which the concierge had brought me my café au lait, and the fragment of croissant which I had not had appetite enough to eat. I heard the concierge in the next room emptying my bath. There was a tinkle at my bell, and I left her to open the door. In a moment I heard Strover's voice asking if I was in. Without moving I shouted to him to come. He entered the room quickly and came up to the table at which I sat. She's killed herself! he said hoarsely. What do you mean? I cried, startled. He made movement with his lips as though he was speaking, but no sound issued from them. He gibbered like an idiot. My heart thumped against my ribs, and I do not know why I flew into a temper. For God's sake, collect yourself, man! I said, what on earth are you talking about? He made despairing gestures with his hands. But still no words came from his mouth. He might have been struck dumb. I do not know what came over me. I took him by the shoulders and shook him. Looking back, I am vexed that I made such a fool of myself. I suppose the last restless night had shaken my nerves more than I knew. Let me sit down! he gasped at length. I filled a glass with sangalmerie and gave it to him to drink. I held it to his mouth as though he were a child. He gulped down a mouthful, and some of it was spilt on his shirt front. Who's killed herself? I don't know why I asked, for I knew whom he meant. He made an effort to connect himself. They had a foul last night. He went away. Is she dead? No, they've taken her to the hospital. Then what are you talking about? I cried impatiently. Why did you say she'd killed herself? Don't be cross with me. I can't tell you anything if you talk to me like that. I clenched my hands, seeking to control my irritation. I attempted a smile. I'm sorry. Take your time. Don't worry. There's a good fellow. His round blue eyes behind the spectacles were ghastly with terror. The magnifying glasses he wore distorted them. When the concierge went up this morning to take a letter, she could get no answer to her ring. She heard someone groaning. The door wasn't locked, and she went in. Blanche was lying on the bed. She'd been frightfully sick. There was a bottle of oxalic acid on the table. Strava hid his face in his hands, and swayed backwards and forwards, groaning. Was she conscious? Yes. Oh, if you knew how she's suffering, I can't bear it. I can't bear it. His voice rose to a shriek. Damn it all! You haven't got to bear it! I cried impatiently. She's got to bear it. How could you be so cruel? What have you done? They sent for a doctor, and for me, and they told the police. I'd given the concierge twenty francs, and told her to send for me if anything happened. He paused a minute, and I saw that what he had to tell me was very hard to say. When I went in, she wouldn't speak to me. She told them to send me away. I swore that I forgave her everything, but she wouldn't listen. She tried to beat her head against the wall. The doctor said to me that I mustn't remain with her. She kept on saying, send him away. I went and waited in the studio. And when their ambulance came, and they put on a stretcher, they made me go in the kitchen, so she shouldn't know I was there. While I dressed, for Strowover wished me to go at once with him to the hospital, he told me that he had arranged for his wife to have a private room, so that she might at least be spared the sordid promise-curity of a ward. On our way he explained to me why he desired my presence. If she still refused to see him, perhaps she would see me. He begged me to repeat to her that he loved her still. He would reproach her for nothing, but desired only to help her. He made no claim on her, and on her recovery would not seek to induce her to return to him. She would be perfectly free. But when we arrived at the hospital, a gaunt, cheerless building, the mere sight of which was enough to make one's heart sick, and after being directed from this official to that up endless stairs, and through long bare corridors, found the doctor in charge of the case, we were told that the patient was too ill to see anyone that day. The doctor was a little bearded man in white, with an offhand manner. He evidently looked upon a case as a case, and anxious relatives as a nuisance, which must be treated with firmness. Moreover to him the affair was commonplace. It was just a hysterical woman who had quarrelled with her lover and taken poison. It was constantly happening. At first he thought that Derek was the cause of the disaster, and he was needlessly bruised with him. When I explained that he was the husband, anxious to forgive, the doctor looked at him suddenly, with curious, searching eyes. I seemed to see in them a hint of mockery. It was true that Stover had the head of the husband who is deceived. The doctor faintly shrugged his shoulders. There is no immediate danger, he said, in answer to our questioning. One doesn't know how much she took, which may be that she will get off with the fright. We were not constantly trying to commit suicide for love, but generally they take care not to succeed. It's generally a gesture to a wild pity or terror in the lover. There was in his tone a frigid contempt. It was obvious that to him Blanche Trover was only a unit to be added to the statistical list of attempted suicides in the city of Paris during the current year. He was busy, and could waste no more time on us. He told us that if we came at a certain hour the next day, should Blanche be better, it might be possible for her husband to see her. End of Chapter 34 Chapter 35 I scarcely know how we got through that day. Stover could not bear to be alone, and I exhausted myself in efforts to distract him. I took him to the Louvre, and he pretended to look at pictures, but I saw that his thoughts were constantly with his wife. I forced him to eat, and after lunch I induced him to lie down, but he could not sleep. He accepted willingly my invitation to remain for a few days in my apartment. I gave him books to read, but after a page or two he would put the book down and stare miserably into space. During the evening we played innumerable games of piquet, and bravely, not to disappoint my efforts, he tried to appear interested. Finally I gave him a draft, and he sank into an easy slumber. When we went again to the hospital we saw a nursing sister. She told us that Blanche seemed a little better, and she went in to ask if she would see her husband. We heard voices in the room in which she lay, and presently the nurse returned to say that the patient refused to see anyone. We told her that if she refused to see Derek, the nurse was to ask if she would see me, but this she refused also. Derek's lips trembled. I did not insist, said the nurse. Is there anyone else she wants to see? asked Derek, in a voice so low it was almost a whisper. She said she only wants to be left in peace. Derek's hands moved strangely, as though they had nothing to do with his body, with the movement of their own. Will you tell her that if there is anyone else she wishes to see, I will bring him. I only want her to be happy. The nurse looked at him with her calm, kind eyes, which had seen all horror and pain of the world, and yet filled with the vision of a world without sin remained serene. I mean tell her when she is a little calmer. Derek filled with compassion begged her to take the message at once. He'd make sure I'd be seated to ask her now. With a faint smile of pity, the nurse went back into the room. We heard her low voice, and then, in a voice I did not recognise, the answer, no, no, no! The nurse came out again and shook her head. Was that she who spoke then? I asked. Her voice sounded so strange. It appears that her vocal cords have been burned by the acid. Derek gave a low cry of distress. I asked him to go on and wait for me at the entrance, for I wanted to say something to the nurse. He did not ask what it was, but went silently. He seemed to have lost all power of will. He was like an obedient child. As she told you why she did it, I asked. No, she won't speak. She lies on her back quietly. She doesn't move for hours at a time, but she cries always. There below is all wit. She's too weak to use anchorchief, and the tears just run down her face. It gave me a sudden range of the heartstrings. I could have killed Strickland then, and I knew that my voice was trembling when I bad the nurse goodbye. I found Derek waiting for me on the steps. He seemed to see nothing, and did not notice that I had joined him till I touched him on the arm. We walked along in silence. I tried to imagine what had happened to drive the poor creature to that dreadful step. I presumed that Strickland knew what had happened, for someone must have been to see him from the police, and he must have made his statement. I do not know where he was. I suppose that he had gone back to the shabbi attic, which served him as a studio. He was curious that she should not wish to see him. Perhaps she refused to have him sent for, because she knew that he would refuse to come. I wondered what an abyss of cruelty she must have looked into, that in horror she refused to live. End of Chapter 35 Chapter 36 The next week was dreadful. Strava went twice a day to the hospital to inquire after his wife, who still declined to see him, and came away at first relieved and hopeful, because he was told that she seemed to be growing better, and then in despair, because the complication which the doctor had feared, having ensued, recovery was impossible. The nurse was pitiful to his distress, but she had little to say that could console him. The poor woman lay quite still, refusing to speak, with her eyes intent, as though she watched for the coming of death. It could now be only the question of a day or two. And when, late one evening, Strava came to see me, I knew it was to tell me she was dead. He was absolutely exhausted. His volubility had left him at last, and he sank down weirdly on my sofa. I felt that no words of condolence availed, and I let him lie there quietly. I feared he would think it heartless if I read, so I sat by the window, smoking a pipe, till he felt inclined to speak. Oh, you've been very kind to me, he said at last. Everyone's been very kind. Nonsense, I said, a little embarrassed. At the hospital they told me I might wait. They gave me a chair and I sat outside the door. When she became unconscious they said I might go in. Her mouth and chin were all burnt by the acid. It was awful to see her lovely skin all wounded. She died very peacefully, so I didn't know she was dead, till the sister told me. He was too tired to weep. He lay on his back limply, as though all the strength had gone out of his limbs, and presently I saw that he had fallen asleep. It was the first natural sleep he had had for a week. Nature, sometimes so cruel, is sometimes merciful. I covered him and turned down the light. In the morning when I awoke he was still asleep. He had not moved. His golden spectacles were still on his nose. End of Chapter 36 Chapters 37, 38 and 39 of The Moon and Sixpence This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Termin Diane The Moon and Sixpence by W. Somerset-Morm Chapter 37 The circumstances of Blanche-Strover's death necessitated all manner of dreadful formalities, but at last we were allowed to bury her. Derek and I alone followed the hearse to the cemetery. We went at a foot pace, but on the way back we trotted, and there was something to my mind singularly horrible in the way the driver of the hearse whipped up his horses. It seemed to dismiss the dead with a shrug of the shoulders. Down then I caught sight of the swaying hearse in front of us, and our own driver urged his pair so that we might not remain behind. I felt in myself, too, the desire to get the whole thing out of my mind. I was beginning to be bored with a tragedy that did not really concern me, and pretending to myself that I spoke in order to distract Strover, I turned with relief to other subjects. Don't you think you'd better go away for a bit? I said, there can be no object in your staying in Paris now. He did not answer. But I went on ruthlessly. Have you made any plans for the immediate future? No. You must try and gather together the threads again. Why don't you go down to Italy and start working? Again he made no reply, but the driver of our carriage came to my rescue. Slackening his pace for a moment he lent over and spoke. I could not hear what he said, so I put my head out of the window. He wanted to know where we wished to be set down. I told him to wait a minute. You'd better come and have lunch with me, I said to Derek. I'll tell him to drop us in the Place Pigalle. I had dropped on Arte. I want to go to the studio. I hesitated a moment. Would you like me to come with you? I asked then. No, I should prefer to be alone. All right. I gave the driver the necessary direction, and in renewed silence we drove on. Derek had not been to the studio since the wretched morning on which they had taken Blanche to the hospital. I was glad he did not want me to accompany him. And when I left him at the door, I walked away with relief. I took a new pleasure in the streets of Paris, and I looked with smiling eyes at the people who hurried to and fro. The day was fine and sunny, and I felt in myself a more acute delight in life. I could not help it. I put Stover and his sorrows out of my mind. I wanted to enjoy. End of Chapter 37 Chapter 38 I did not see him again for nearly a week. Then he fetched me, soon after seven one evening, and took me out to dinner. He was dressed in the deepest morning, and on his bowler was a broad black band. He had even a black border to his handkerchief. His garb of woe suggested that he had lost in one catastrophe every relation he had in the world, even to cousins by marriage twice removed. His plumpness and his red fat cheeks made his morning not a little incongruous. It was cruel that his extreme unhappiness should have in it something of buffoonery. He told me he had made up his mind to go away, though not to Italy as I had suggested, but to Holland. I'm starting to moral. This is perhaps the last time we shall ever meet. I made an appropriate rejoinder, and he smiled only. I haven't been home for five years. I think I'd forgotten it all. I seem to have come so far away from my father's house that I was shy at the idea of revisiting it, but now I feel it's my only refuge. He was sore and bruised, and his thoughts went back to the tenderness of his mother's love. The ridicule he had endured for years seemed now to weigh him down, and the final blow of Blanche's treachery had robbed him of the resiliency which made him take it so gaily. He could no longer laugh with those who laughed at him. He was an outcast. He told me of his childhood in the tidy brick house and of his mother's passionate orderliness. Her kitchen was a miracle of clean brightness. Everything was always in its place, and nowhere could you see a speck of dust. Cleanliness, indeed, was a mania with her. I saw a neat little old woman with cheeks like apples toiling away from morning till night through the long years to keep her house trim and spruce. His father was a spare old man, his hands gnarled after the work of a lifetime, silent and upright. In the evening he read the paper aloud, while his wife and daughter, now married to the captain of a fishing-smack, unwilling to lose a moment bent over their sewing. Nothing ever happened in that little town, left behind by the advance of civilisation, and one year followed the next till death came, like a friend, to give rest to those who had laboured so diligently. My father risked me to become a carpenter like himself, for five generations we've counted on the same trade from father to son. Perhaps that is the wisdom of life, to trade in your father's scepts, and look neither to the left nor the right. When I was a little boy I said I would marry the daughter of the harness-maker who lived next door. She was a little girl with blue eyes and a flaxen pigtail. She would have kept my house like a new pin, and I should have had a son to carry on in a business after me. Strobe aside a little, and was silent. His thoughts dwelt among pictures of what might have been, and the safety of the life he had refused, filled him with longing. The world is hard and cruel. We are here, none knows why, and we go, none knows whither. We must be very humble. We must see the beauty of quietness. We must go through life so inconspicuously that fate does not notice us. And let us seek the love of simple ignorant people. Their ignorance is better than all our knowledge. Let us be silent, content in our little corner, meek and gentle like them. That is the wisdom of life. To me it was his broken spirit that expressed itself, and I rebelled against his renunciation. But I kept my own counsel. What made you think of being a painter? I asked. He shrugged his shoulders. It happened that I had a knack for drawing. I got prices for it at school. My poor mother was very proud of my gift, and she gave me a box of watercolours as a present. She showed my sketches to the pastor and the doctor and the judge, and they sent me to Amsterdam to try for a scholarship when I won it. Poor soul, she was so proud, and though it nearly broke her heart apart from me, she smiled and would not show her grief. She was pleased that her son should be an artist. They pinched and saved so that I should have enough to live on. Then when my first picture was exhibited, they came to Amsterdam to see it. My father, mother, my sister, and my mother cried when she looked at it. His kind eyes glistened, and now on every wall of the old house there is one of my pictures in a beautiful gold frame. He glowed with happy pride. I thought of those cold scenes of his, with their picturesque peasants and cypresses and olive trees. They must look queer in their garish frames on the walls of the peasant house. The dear soul saw she was doing a wonderful thing for me when she made me an artist, but perhaps, after all, it would have been better for me if my father's will had prevailed, and I were now but an honest carpenter. Now you know what art can offer. Would you change your life? Would you have missed all the delight it has given you? Art is the greatest thing in the world. He answered after a pause. He looked at me for a minute, reflectively. He seemed to hesitate. Then he said, Did you know I had been to see Strickland? You? I was astonished. I should have thought he could not bear to set eyes on him. Stroh was smiled faintly. You know already that I have no proper pride. What do you mean by that? He told me a singular story. End of Chapter 38 Chapter 39 When I left him, after we had buried poor Blanche, Stroh were walked into the house with a heavy heart. Something impelled him to go to the studio. Some obscure desire for self-torture, and yet he dreaded the anguish that he foresaw. He dragged himself up the stairs. His feet seemed unwilling to carry him, and outside the door he lingered for a long time, trying to summon up courage to go in. He felt horribly sick. He had an impulse to run down the stairs after me and beg me to go in with him. He had a feeling that there was somebody in the studio. He remembered how often he had waited for a minute or two on the landing to get his breath after the ascent, and how absurdly his impatience to see Blanche had taken it away again. To see her was a delight that never staled, and even though he had not been out an hour, he was as excited at the prospect as if they had been parted for a month. Suddenly he could not believe that she was dead. What had happened could only be a dream, a frightful dream, and when he turned the key and opened the door he would see her, bending slightly over the table in the gracious attitude of the woman in Chardin's benedicité, which always seemed to him so exquisite. Hurriedly he took the key out of his pocket, opened and walked in. The apartment had no look of desertion. His wife's tidiness was one of the traits which had so much pleased him. His own upbringing had given him a tender sympathy for the delight in orderliness, and when he had seen her instinctive desire to put each thing in its appointed place, it had given him a little warm feeling in his heart. The bedroom looked as though she had just left it. The brushes were neatly placed on the toilet table, one on each side of the comb. Someone had smoothed down the bed on which she had spent her last night in the studio, and her night-dress in a little case lay on the pillow. It was impossible to believe that she would never come into that room again. But he felt thirsty and went into the kitchen to get himself some water. Here, too, was order. On a rack were the plates that she had used for dinner on the night of her quarrel with Strickland, and they had been carefully washed. The knives and forks were put away in a drawer. Under a cover were the remains of a piece of cheese, and in a tin box was a crust of bread. She had done her marketing from day to day, buying only what was strictly needful so that nothing was left over from one day to the next. Strava knew from the inquiries made by the police that Strickland had walked out of the house immediately after dinner, and the fact that Blanche had washed up the things as usual gave him a little thrill of horror. Her methodicalness made her suicide more deliberate. Her self-possession was frightening. A sudden pang seized him, and his knees felt so weak that he almost fell. He went back into the bedroom and threw himself on the bed. He cried out her name, Blanche! Blanche! The thought of her suffering was intolerable. He had a sudden vision of her standing in the kitchen, it was hardly larger than a cupboard, washing the plates and glasses, the forks and spoons, giving the knives a rapid polish on the knife board, and then putting everything away, giving the sink a scrub, and hanging the dishcloth up to dry. It was there still, a grey torn rag. Then, looking round to see that everything was clean and nice, he saw her roll down her sleeves and remove her apron. The apron hung on the peg behind the door, and take the bottle of oxalic acid and go with it into the bedroom. The agony of it drove him up from the bed and out of the room. He went into the studio. It was dark, for the curtains had been drawn over the great window, and he pulled them quickly back. But a sob broke from him, as with the rapid glance, he took in the place where he had been so happy. Nothing was changed here, either. Strickland was indifferent to his surroundings, and he had lived in the other studio without thinking of altering a thing. It was deliberately artistic. It represented Strava's idea of the proper environment for an artist. There were bits of old brocade on the walls, and the piano was covered with a piece of silk, beautiful and tarnished. In one corner was a copy of the Venus of Milo, and in another the Venus of the Medici. Here and there was an Italian cabinet, surmounted with delft. Here and there a bas-relief. In a handsome gold frame was a copy of Velasquez's innocent tenth, that Strava had made in Rome. And placed so as to make the most of their decorative effect were a number of Strava's pictures, all in splendid frames. Strava had always been very proud of his taste. He had never lost his appreciation for the romantic atmosphere of a studio, and though now the sight of it was like a stab in his heart. Without thinking what he was at, he changed slightly the position of a Louis XV table, which was one of his treasures. Suddenly he caught sight of a canvas with its face to the wall. It was a much larger one than he himself was in the habit of using, and he wondered what it did there. He went over to it, and lent it towards him so that he could see the painting. It was a nude. His heart began to beat quickly, for he guessed at once that it was one of Strickland's pictures. He flung it back against the wall angrily, what did he mean by leaving it there? But his movement caused it to fall, face downwards on the ground. No matter who's the picture, he could not leave it there in the dust, and he raised it. But then curiosity got the better of him. He thought he would like to have a proper look at it, so he brought it along and set it on the easel. Then he stood back in order to see it at his ease. He gave a gasp. It was the picture of a woman lying on a sofa, with one arm behind her head, and the other along her body. One knee was raised, and the other leg was stretched out. The pose was classic. The strove's head swam. It was blanche. Grief and jealousy and rage seized him, and he cried out hoarsely. He was inarticulate. He clenched his fists, and raised them threateningly at an invisible enemy. He screamed at the top of his voice. He was beside himself. He could not bear it, and that was too much. He looked around wildly for some instrument. He wanted to hack the picture to pieces. It should not exist another minute. He could see nothing that would serve his purpose. He rummaged about his painting things. Somehow he could not find a thing. He was frantic. At last he came upon what he sought, a large scraper, and he pounced on it with a cry of triumph. He seized it as though it were a dagger, and ran to the picture. The strove had told me this. He became as excited as when the incident occurred, and he took hold of a dinner knife on the table between us and brandished it. He lifted his arm as though to strike. And then, opening his hand, let it fall with a clatter to the ground. He looked at me with a tremulous smile. He did not speak. Far away, I said. I don't know what happened to me. I was just going to make a great hole in the picture. I had my arm all ready for the blow, and suddenly I seemed to see it. See what? The picture. It was a work of art. I couldn't touch it. I was afraid. The strove was silent again, and he stared at me with his mouth open, and his round blue eyes, starting out of his head. It was a great, a wonderful picture. I was seized with awe. I had nearly committed a dreadful crime. I moved a little to see it better, and my foot knocked against the scraper. I shuddered. I really felt something of the emotion that had caught him. I was strangely impressed. It was as though I was suddenly transported into a world in which the values were changed. I stood by at a loss like a stranger in a land where the reactions of man to familiar things are all different from those he has known. Strava tried to talk to me about the picture, but he was incoherent, and I had to guess at what he meant. Strickland had burst the bonds that hitherto had held him. He had found, not himself, as the phrase goes, but a new soul with unsuspected powers. It was not only the bold simplification of the drawing, which showed so rich and so singular a personality. It was not only the painting, though the flesh was painted with a passionate sensuality which had in it something miraculous. It was not only the solidity, so that you felt extraordinarily the weight of the body. There was also a spirituality, troubling and new, which led the imagination along unsuspected ways, and suggested dim, empty spaces, lit only by the eternal stars, where the soul, all naked, adventured fearful to the discovery of new mysteries. If I am rhetorical, it was because Strava was rhetorical. Do we not know that man in moments of emotion expresses himself naturally in the terms of a novelette? Strava was trying to express a feeling which he had never known before, and he did not know how to put it into common terms. He was like the mystic, seeking to describe the ineffable, but one fact he made clear to me. People talk of beauty lightly, and having no feeling for words, they use that one carelessly, so that it loses its force, and the thing it stands for, sharing its name with a hundred trivial objects, is deprived of dignity. They call beautiful a dress, a dog, a sermon, and when they are face to face with beauty, cannot recognize it. The false emphasis, with which they try to deck their worthless thoughts, blunts their susceptibilities, like the charlatan, who counterfeits a spiritual force he has sometimes felt, they lose the power they have abused. But Strava, the unconquerable buffoon, had a love and an understanding of beauty, which were as honest and sincere as was his own, sincere and honest soul. It meant to him what God means to the believer, and when he saw it, he was afraid. What did you say to Strickland when you saw him? I asked him to come with me to Holland. I was dumbfounded. I could only look at Strava in stupid amazement. We both loved Blanche. There would have been room for him in my mother's house. I think the company of poor, simple people would have done his soul a great good. I think he would have learnt from then something that would be very useful to him. What did he say? He smiled a little. I suppose he taught me very silly. He said he had other fish to fry. I could have wished that Strickland had used some other phrase to indicate his refusal. He gave me the picture of Blanche. I wondered why Strickland had done that, but I made no remark, and for some time we kept silence. What have you done with all your things? I said at last. I got a dew-in, and he gave me around some for the lot, and taken my pictures home with me. Besides them I own nothing in the world now, but a box of clothes and a few books. I'm glad you're going home, I said. I felt that his chance was to put all the past behind him. I hoped that the grief which now seemed intolerable would be softened by the lapse of time, and a merciful forgetfulness would help him to take up once more the burden of life. He was young still, and in a few years he would look back on all his misery with a sadness in which there would be something not unpleasurable. Sooner or later he would marry some honest soul in Holland, and I felt sure he would be happy. I smiled at the thought of the vast number of bad pictures he would paint before he died. Next day I saw him off for Amsterdam. End of Chapter 39 Chapters 40, 41 and 42 of The Moon and Sixpence This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Termin Diane The Moon and Sixpence by W. Somerset-Morm Chapter 40 For the next month, occupied with my own affairs, I saw no one connected with this lamentable business, and my mind ceased to be occupied with it. But one day, when I was walking along, bent on Samarand, I passed Charles Strickland. The sight of him brought back to me all the horror which I was not unwilling to forget, and I felt in me a sudden repulsion for the cause of it. Notting, for it would have been childish to cut him, I walked on quickly, but in a minute I felt a hand on my shoulder. "'You're in a great hurry,' he said cordially. It was characteristic of him to display geniality with anyone who showed a disinclination to meet him, and the coolness of my greeting can have left him in little doubt of that. "'I am,' I answered briefly. "'I'll walk along with you,' he said. "'Why?' I asked, for the pleasure of your society.' I did not answer, and he walked by my side silently. We continued thus for perhaps a quarter of a mile. I began to feel a little ridiculous. At last we passed the stationers, and it occurred to me that I might as well buy some paper. It would be an excuse to be rid of him. "'I'm going in here,' I said. "'Good-bye.' "'I'll wait for you.' I shrugged my shoulders and went into the shop. I reflected that French paper was bad, and that foiled of my purpose, I need not burden myself with the purchase that I did not need. I asked for something I knew could not be provided, and in a minute came out onto the street. "'Did you get what you wanted?' he asked. "'No.' We walked on in silence, and then came to a place where several streets met. I stopped at the curb. "'Which way do you go?' I inquired. "'Your way,' he smiled. "'I'm going home. I'll come along with you and smoke a pipe.' "'You might wait for an invitation,' I retorted frigidly. "'I would, if I thought there was any chance of getting one.' "'Do you see that wall in front of you?' I said, pointing. "'Yes.' "'In that case I should have thought you could see also that I don't want your company.' I vaguely suspected it, I confess. I could not help a chuckle. It is one of the defects of my character that I cannot altogether dislike anyone who makes me laugh. But I pulled myself together. I think you're detestable. You're the most loathsome beast that it's ever been my misfortune to meet. Why do you seek the society of someone who hates and despises you?' "'My dear fellow, what the hell do you suppose I care what you think of me?' "'Damn it all,' I said, more violently, because I had an inkling my motive was not too creditable. I don't want to know you. "'Are you afraid I shall corrupt you?' His tone made me feel not a little ridiculous. I knew that he was looking at me sideways with a sardonic smile. "'I suppose you're hard up,' I remarked insolently. "'I should be a damn fool if I thought I had any chance of borrowing money from you. You've come down in the world if you can bring yourself to flatter.' He grinned. "'You'll never really dislike me so long as I give you the opportunity to get off a good thing now and then.' I had to bite my lip to prevent myself from laughing. What he said had a hateful truth in it, and another defect of my character is that I enjoy the company of those however depraved who can give me a role in for my Oliver. I began to feel that my abhorrence for Strickland could only be sustained by an effort on my part. I recognized my moral weakness, but saw that my disapprobation had in it something of a pose, and I knew that if I felt it, his own keen instinct had discovered it too. He was certainly laughing at me up his sleeve. I left him the last word and sought refuge in a shrug of the shoulders and tass eternity. End of Chapter 40 Chapter 41 We arrived at the house in which I lived. I would not ask him to come in with me, but walked up the stairs without a word. He followed me, and entered the apartment on my heels. He had not been in it before, but he never gave a glance at the room I had been at pains to make pleasing to the eye. There was a tin of tobacco on the table, and taking out his pipe, he filled it. He sat down on the only chair that had no arms, and tilted himself on the back legs. If you're going to make yourself at home, why don't you sit in an armchair? I asked irritably. Why are you concerned about my comfort? I'm not. I retorted, but only about my own. It makes me uncomfortable to see someone sit on an uncomfortable chair. He chuckled, but did not move. He smoked on in silence, taking no further notice of me, and apparently was absorbed in thought. I wondered why he had come. Until long habit has blunted the sensibility, there is something disconcerting to the writer in the instinct which causes him to take an interest in the singularities of human nature, so absorbing that his moral sense is powerless against it. He recognizes in himself an artistic satisfaction in the contemplation of evil which a little startles him, but sincerity forces him to confess that the disapproval he feels for certain actions is not nearly so strong as his curiosity and their reasons. The character of a scoundrel, logical and complete, has a fascination for his creator which is an outrage to law and order. I expect that Shakespeare devised the Argo with a gusto which he never knew when weaving moonbeams with his fancy he imagined as Desdemona. It may be that in his rogues the writer gratifies instincts deep rooted in him, which the manners and customs of a civilized world have forced back to the mysterious recesses of the subconscious. In giving to the character of his invention flesh and bones, he is giving life to that part of himself which finds no other means of expression. His satisfaction is a sense of liberation. The writer is more concerned to know than to judge. Though was in my soul a perfectly genuine horror of Strickland, and side by side with it a cold curiosity to discover his motives. I was puzzled by him, and I was eager to see how he regarded the tragedy he had caused in the lives of people who had used him with so much kindness. I applied the scalpel boldly. Strover told me that the picture you painted of his wife was the best thing you've ever done. Strickland took his pipe out of his mouth and a smile lit up his eyes. It was great fun to do. Why did you give it him? I'd finished it. It wasn't any good to me. Do you know that Strover nearly destroyed it? It wasn't altogether satisfactory. He was quiet for a moment or two. Then he took his pipe out of his mouth again and chuckled. Do you know that the little man came to see me? Won't you rather touch by what he had to say? No, I thought he damned silly and sentimental. I suppose it escaped your memory that you'd ruined his life, I remarked. He rubbed his bearded chin reflectively. He's a very bad painter. But a very good man. And an excellent cork, Strickland added derisively. His callousness was inhuman, and in my indignation I was not inclined to mince my words. As a mere matter of curiosity, I wish you'd tell me, have you felt the smallest twinge of remorse for Blanche Strover's death? I watched his face for some change of expression, but it remained impassive. Why should I? he asked. Let me put the facts before you. You were dying, and Derrick Strover took you into his own house. He nursed you like a mother. He sacrificed his time and his comfort and his money for you. He snatched you from the jaws of death. Strickland shrugged his shoulders. The absurd little man enjoys doing things for other people. That's his life. Granted that you owed him no gratitude, were you obliged to go out of your way to take his wife from him? Until you came on the scene they were happy. Why couldn't you leave them alone? What makes you think they were happy? It was evident. You're a discerning fellow. Do you think she could ever have forgiven him for what he did for her? What do you mean by that? Don't you know why he married her? I shook my head. She was a governess in the family of some Roman prince and the son of the house seduced her. She thought he was going to marry her. They turned her out into the street neck and crop. She was going to have a baby, and she tried to commit suicide. Strover found her and married her. It was just like him. I never knew anyone with so compassionate a heart. I had often wondered why that ill-assorted pair had married. But just that explanation had never occurred to me. That was, perhaps, the cause of the peculiar quality of Derek's love for his wife. I had noticed in it something more than passion. I remembered also how I had always fancied that her reserve concealed I knew not what, but now I saw in it more than the desire to hide a shameful secret. Her tranquility was like the sullen calm that broods over an island which has been swept by a hurricane. Her cheerfulness was the cheerfulness of despair. Strickland interrupted my reflections with an observation the profound cynicism of which startled me. A woman can forgive a man for the harm he does her, he said, but she can never forgive him for the sacrifices he makes on her account. It must be reassuring to you to know that you certainly run no risk of incurring the resentment of the women you come in contact with, I retorted. A slight smile broke on his lips. You're always prepared to sacrifice your principles for repartee, he answered. What happened to the child? No, it was stillborn. Three or four months after they were married. Then I came to the question which had seemed to me most puzzling. Will you tell me why you bothered about Blanche Throver at all? He did not answer for so long that I nearly repeated it. How do I know? He said at last she couldn't bear the sight of me. It amused me. I see. He gave a sudden flash of anger. Damn it all! I wanted her. But he recovered his temper immediately and looked at me with a smile. At first she was horrified. Did you tell her? There wasn't any need. She knew I never said a word. She was frightened. At last I took her. I do not know what there was in the way he told me this, that extraordinarily suggested the violence of his desire. It was disconcerting and rather horrible. His life was strangely divorced from material things, and it was as though his body at times reached a fearful revenge on his spirit. The satire in him suddenly took possession, and he was powerless in the grip of an instinct which had all the strength of the primitive forces of nature. It was an obsession so complete that there was no room in his soul for prudence or gratitude. But why did you want to take her away with you? I asked. I didn't. He answered, frowning. When she said she was coming I was nearly as surprised as strove. I told her that when I'd had enough of her she'd have to go, and she said she'd risk that. He paused a little. She had a wonderful body, and I wanted to paint a nude. When I'd finished my picture I took no more interest in her. And she loved you with all her heart. He sprang to his feet and walked up and down the small room. I don't want love. I haven't time for it. It's a weakness. I'm a man, and sometimes I want a woman. When I've satisfied my passion I'm ready for other things. I can't overcome my desire, but I hate it. It imprisoned my spirit. I look forward to the time when I should be free from all desire, and can give myself without hindrance to my work. Because women can do nothing except love, they've given it a ridiculous importance. They want to persuade us that it's the whole of life. It's an insignificant part. I know lust that's normal and healthy. Love is a disease. Women are the instruments of my pleasure. I have no patience with their claim to be healthmates, partners, companions. I had never heard Strickland speak so much at one time. He spoke with a passion of indignation. But neither here nor elsewhere do I pretend to give his exact words. His vocabulary was small, and he had no gift for framing sentences, so that one had to piece his meaning together out of interjections, the expression of his face, gestures, and hackneyed phrases. You should have lived at a time when women were chattels and men the masters of slaves, I said. It just happens that I am a completely normal man. I could not help laughing at this remark, made in all seriousness. But he went on, walking up and down the room like a caged beast, intent on expressing what he felt, but found such difficulty in putting coherently. When a woman loves you, she's not satisfied until she possesses your soul. Because she's weak, she has a rage for domination, and nothing less will satisfy her. She has a small mind, and she resents the abstract which she is unable to grasp. She is occupied with material things, and she is jealous of the ideal. The soul of man wanders through the uttermost regions of the universe, and she seeks to imprison it in the circle of her account book. Do you remember my wife? I saw Blanche little by little trying all her tricks. With infinite patience she prepared to snare me and bind me. She wanted to bring me down to her level. She cared nothing for me. She only wanted me to be hers. She was willing to do everything in the world for me, except the one thing I wanted, to leave me alone. I was silent for a while. What did you expect her to do when you left her? She could have gone back to Strover, he said irritably. He was ready to take her. You're inhuman, I answered. It's as useless to talk to you about these things as to describe colours to a man who was born blind. He stopped in front of my chair, and stood looking down at me with an expression in which I read a contemptuous amazement. Do you really care a tupony dam if Blanche Strover is alive or dead? I thought over his question, for I wanted to answer it truthfully at all events to my soul. It may be a lack of sympathy in myself if it does not make any great difference to me that she is dead. Life had a great deal to offer her. I think it's terrible that she should have been deprived of it in that cruel way. And I'm ashamed because I do not really care. You have not the courage of your convictions. Life has no value. Blanche Strover didn't commit suicide because I left her, but because she was a foolish and unbalanced woman. But if we've talked about her quite enough, she was an entirely unimportant person. Come, and I'll show you my pictures. He spoke as though I were a child that needed to be distracted. I was sore, but not with him so much as with myself. I thought of the happy life that pair had led in the cosy studio in Montmartre. Strover and his wife, their simplicity, kindness, and hospitality, it seemed to me cruel that it should have been broken to pieces by a ruthless chance. But the cruelest thing of all was that in fact it made no great difference. The world went on, and no one was a penny the worse for all that wretchedness. I had an idea that Derek, a man of greater emotional reactions and depth of feeling, would soon forget, and Blanche's life, begun with who knows what bright hopes and what dreams might just as well have never been lived. It all seemed useless and inane. Strickland had found his hat and stood looking at me. Are you coming? Why do you seek my acquaintance? I asked him. You know that I hate and despise you. He chuckled good-humidly. Your only quarrel with me really is that I don't care a tough any damn what you think about me. I felt my cheeks grow red with sudden anger. It was impossible to make him understand that one might be outraged by his callous selfishness. I longed to pierce his armour of complete indifference. I knew also that in the end there was truth in what he said. Unconsciously, perhaps, we treasure the power we have over people by their regard for our opinion of them, and we hate those upon whom we have no such influence. I suppose it is the bitterest wound to human pride, but I would not let him see that I was put out. Is it possible for any man to disregard others entirely, I said, though more to myself than him? You're dependent on others for everything in existence. It's a preposterous attempt to try and live only for yourself and by yourself. Sooner or later you'll be ill and tired and old, and then you'll crawl back into the herd. Won't you be ashamed when you feel in your heart the desire for comfort and sympathy? You're trying an impossible thing. Sooner or later the human being in you will yearn for the common bonds of humanity. Come and look at my pictures. Have you ever thought of death? Why should I? It doesn't matter. I stared at him. He stood before me, motionless, with a mocking smile in his eyes. But for all that, for a moment I had an inkling of a fiery, tortured spirit, aiming at something greater than could be conceived by anything that was bound up with the flesh. I had a fleeting glimpse of a pursuit of the ineffable. I looked at the man before me in his shabby clothes, with his great nose and shining eyes, his red beard and untidy hair. And I had a strange sensation that it was only an envelope, and that I was in the presence of a disembodied spirit. Let us go and look at your pictures, I said. End of Chapter 41 Chapter 42 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 masks 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 peculiarity. 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 confessed 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 fancies 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's a lot, he said at last. I wish I could say that I recognized at once their beauty and their great originality. Now that I've seen many of them again, and the rest are familiar to me in reproductions, I'm 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 scissor and a dagger, and I worshipped Manet. His Olympia seemed to me the greatest picture of modern times, and Le Déjeuner du Lebes moved me for a pound. These works seem to me the last word in painting. I will not describe the pictures that Strickland showed me. Descriptions of pictures are always dull, and these, besides, are familiar to all who take an interest in such things. Now that his influence has so enormously affected modern painting, now that others have charted the country which he was amongst the first to explore, Strickland's pictures, seen for the first time, would find the world more prepared for them. But it must be remembered that I had never seen anything of the sort. First of all I was taken aback by what seemed to me the clumsiness of his technique. I accustomed to the drawings of the old masters, and convinced that Angre was the greatest draftsman of recent times. I thought that Strickland drew very badly. I knew nothing of the simplification at which he aimed. I remember still life of oranges on a plate. And I was bothered because the plate was not round and the oranges were lopsided. The portraits were a little larger than life's size, and this gave them an ungainly look. To my eyes the faces looked like caricatures. They were painted in a way that was entirely new to me. The landscapes puzzled me even more. There were two or three pictures of the forest at Fontainebleau, and several of streets in Paris. My first feeling was that they might have been painted by a drunken cab driver. I was perfectly bewildered. The colours seemed to me extraordinarily crude. It passed through my mind that the whole thing was a stupendous incomprehensible farce. Now that I look back, I am more than ever impressed by Strover's acuteness. He saw from the first that here was a revolution in art, and he recognised in its beginnings the genius which now all the world allows. But if I was puzzled and disconcerted, I was not unimpressed. Even I, in my colossal ignorance, could not but feel that here, trying to express itself was real power. I was excited and interested. I felt that these pictures had something to say to me that was very important for me to know, but I could not tell what it was. They seemed to me ugly, but they suggested, without disclosing a secret of momentous significance. They were strangely tantalising. They gave me an emotion that I could not analyse. They said something that words were powerless to utter. I fancy that Strickland saw vaguely some spiritual meaning in material things that were so strange that he could only suggest it with halting symbols. It was as though he found in the chaos of the universe a new pattern, and were attempting clumsily, with anguish of soul, to set it down. I saw a tormented spirit striving for the release of expression. I turned to him. I wonder if you haven't mistaken your medium. I said, What the hell do you mean? I think you're trying to say something. I don't know quite what it is, but I'm not sure that the best way of saying it is by means of painting. When I imagined that on seeing his pictures, I should get a clue to the understanding of his strange character, I was mistaken. They merely increased the astonishment with which he filled me. I was more at sea than ever. The only thing that seemed clear to me, and perhaps even this was fanciful, was that he was passionate this striving for liberation from some power that held him. But what the power was, and what line the liberation would take, remained obscure. Each one of us is alone in the world. He is shut in the tower of brass, and can communicate with his fellows only by signs. And the signs have no common value, so that their sense is vague and uncertain. We seek pitifully to convey to others the treasures of our heart, but they have not the power to accept them. And so we go lonely, side by side, but not together, unable to know our fellows, and unknown by them. We are like people living in a country whose language they know so little that, with all manner of beautiful and profound things to say, they're condemned to the banalities of the conversation manual. Their brain is seething with ideas, and they can only tell you that the umbrella of the gardener's aunt is in the house. The final impression I received was of a prodigious effort to express some state of the soul, and in this effort, I fancied, must be sought the explanation of what so utterly perplexed me. It was evident that colors and forms had a significant for Strickland that was peculiar to himself. He was under an intolerable necessity to convey something that he felt, and he created them with that intention alone. He did not hesitate to simplify or to distort if he could get nearer to that unknown thing he sought. Facts were nothing to him, for beneath the mass of irrelevant incidents, he looked for something significant to himself. It was as though he had become aware of the soul of the universe, and were compelled to express it. Though these pictures confused and puzzled me, I could not be unmoved by the emotion that was patent in them, and I knew not why I felt in myself a feeling that, with regard to Strickland, was the last I had ever expected to experience. I felt an overwhelming compassion. I think I know now why you surrendered to your feeling for Branch Strover, I said to him. Why? I think your courage failed. The weakness of your body communicated itself to your soul. I do not know what infinite yearning possesses you so that you are driven to a perilous lonely search for some goal where you expect to find a final release from the spirit that torments you. I see you as the eternal pilgrim to some shrine that perhaps does not exist. I do not know to what inscrutable nirvana you aim. Do you know yourself? Perhaps it's truth and freedom that you seek, and for a moment you thought you might find release in love. I think your tired soul sought rest in a woman's arms, and when you found no rest there you hated her, you had no pity for her, because you have no pity for yourself, and you killed her out of fear, because you trembled still at the danger you had barely escaped. He smiled dryly and pulled his beard. You're a dreadful sentimentalist, my poor friend. A week later I heard by chance that Strickland had gone to Marseille. I never saw him again. End of Chapter 42