 CHAPTER XIII. I dare say it would have been more seemingly to decline this proposal. I think perhaps I should have made a show of the indignation I really felt, and I am sure that Colonel McAndrew at least would have thought well of me if I had been able to report my stout refusal to sit at the same table with a man of such character. But the fear of not being able to carry it through effectively has always made me shy of assuming the moral attitude, and in this case the certainty that my sentiments would be lost on Strickland made it particularly embarrassing to utter them. Only the poet or saint can water an asphalt pavement in the confident anticipation that Lilies will reward his labour. I paid for what we had drunk, and we made our way to a cheap restaurant, crowded and gay, where we dined with pleasure. I had the appetite of youth and he of a hardened conscience. Then we went to a tavern to have coffee and liqueurs. I had said all I had to say on the subject that had brought me to Paris, and though I felt it in a manner treacherous to Mrs. Strickland not to pursue it, I could not struggle against his indifference. It requires the feminine temperament to repeat the same thing three times with unabated zest. I solaced myself by thinking it would be useful for me to find out what I could about Strickland's state of mind. It also interested me much more. But this was not an easy thing to do. Mr. Strickland was not a fluent talker. He seemed to express himself with difficulty, as though words were not the medium with which his mind worked, and you had to guess the intentions of his soul by hackneyed phrases, slang and vague, unfinished gestures. But though he said nothing of any consequence, there was something in his personality which prevented him from being dull. Perhaps it was sincerity. He did not seem to care much about the Paris he was now seeing for the first time, I did not count the visit with his wife, and he accepted sights which must have been strange to him without any sense of astonishment. I have been to Paris a hundred times and it never fails to give me a thrill of excitement. I could never walk its streets without feeling myself on the verge of adventure. Strickland remained placid. Looking back, I think now that he was blind to everything but to some disturbing vision in his soul. One rather absurd incident took place. There were a number of harlots in the tavern. Some were sitting with men, others by themselves, and presently I noticed that one of these was looking at us. When she caught Strickland's eye, she smiled. I do not think he saw her. In a little while she went out, but in a minute returned, and passing our table, very politely asked us to buy her something to drink. She sat down and I began to chat with her, but it was plain that her interest was in Strickland. I explained that he knew no more than two words of French. She tried to talk to him partly by sign, partly in Pigeon French, which for some reason she thought would be more comprehensible to him, and she had half a dozen phrases of English. She made me translate what she could only express in her own tongue, and eagerly asked for the meaning of his replies. He was quite good-tempered, a little amused, but his indifference was obvious. I think you've made a conquest. I laughed. Hmm! I'm not flattered. In his place I should have been more embarrassed and less calm. She had laughing eyes and a most charming mouth. She was young. I wondered what she found so attractive in Strickland. She made no secret of her desires, and I was bidden to translate. She wants you to go home with her. I'm not taking any," he replied. I put his answer as pleasantly as I could. It seemed to me a little ungracious to decline an invitation of that sort, and I ascribed his refusal to lack of money. But I like him," she said, telling me it is for love. When I translated this, Strickland shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Tell her to go to hell," he said. His manner made his answer quite plain, and the girl threw back her head with a sudden gesture. Perhaps she reddened under her paint. She rose to her feet. M. Nipapouli, she said. She walked out of the inn. I was slightly vexed. There wasn't any need to insult her that I can see, I said. After all, it was rather a compliment she was paying you. That sort of thing makes me sick," he said, roughly. I looked at him curiously. There was a real distaste in his face, and yet it was the face of a coarse and sensual man. I suppose the girl had been attracted by a certain brutality in it. I got all the women I wanted in London. I didn't come here for that. CHAPTER XIV During the journey back to England I thought much of Strickland. I tried to set in order what I had to tell his wife. It was unsatisfactory, and I could not imagine that she would be content with me. I was not content with myself. Strickland perplexed me. I could not understand his motives. When I had asked him what first gave him the idea of being a painter, he was unable or unwilling to tell me. I could make nothing of it. I tried to persuade myself that an obscure feeling of revolt had been gradually coming to a head in his slow mind. But to challenge this was the undoubted fact that he had never shown any impatience with the monotony of his life. If seized by an intolerable boredom, he had determined to be a painter merely to break with irksome ties, it would have been comprehensible and commonplace. The commonplace is precisely what I felt he was not. At last, because I was romantic, I devised an explanation which I acknowledged to be far fetched, but which was the only one that in any way satisfied me. It was this. I asked myself whether there was not in his soul some deep-rooted instinct of creation which the circumstances of his life had obscured, but which grew relentlessly as a cancer may grow in the living tissues till at last it took possession of his whole being and forced him irresistibly to action. The cuckoo lays its egg in the strange bird's nest, and when the young one is hatched, it shoulders its foster-brothers out and breaks at last the nest that has sheltered it. But how strange it was that the creative instinct should seize upon this dull stockbroker to his own ruin, perhaps, and to the misfortune of such as were dependent on him, and yet no stranger than the way in which the spirit of God has seized men, powerful and rich, pursuing them with stubborn vigilance till at last conquered they have abandoned the joy of the world and the love of women for the painful austerities of the cloister. Conversion may come under many shapes, and it may be brought about in many ways. With some men it needs a cataclysm, as a stone may be broken to fragments by the fury of a torrent, but with some it comes gradually, as a stone may be worn away by the ceaseless fall of a drop of water. Strickland had the directness of the fanatic and the ferocity of the apostle. But to my practical mind it remained to be seen whether the passion which obsessed him would be justified of its works. When I asked him what his brother's students at the night classes he had attended in London thought of his painting, he answered with a grin, he thought it was a joke. Have you begun to go to a studio here? Yes, the blighter came round this morning, the master, you know, when he saw my drawing he just raised his eyebrows and walked on. Strickland chuckled. He did not seem discouraged. He was independent of the opinion of his fellows. And it was just that which had most disconcerted me in my dealings with him. When people say they do not care what others think of them, for the most part they deceive themselves. Generally they mean only that they will do as they choose, in the confidence that no one will know their vagaries, and at the utmost only that they are willing to act contrary to the opinion of the majority, because they are supported by the approval of their neighbours. It is not difficult to be unconventional in the eyes of the world when your unconventionality is but the convention of your set. It affords you then an inordinate amount of self-esteem. You have the self-satisfaction of courage without the inconvenience of danger. But the desire for approbation is perhaps the most deeply seated instinct of civilised man. No one runs so hurriedly to the cover of respectability as the unconventional woman who has exposed herself to the slings and arrows of outraged propriety. I do not believe the people who tell me they do not care a row of pins for the opinion of their fellows. It is the bravado of ignorance. They mean only that they do not fear reproaches for peccadillos which they are convinced none will discover. But here was a man who sincerely did not mind what people thought of him, and so convention had no hold on him. He was like a wrestler whose body is oiled. You could not get a grip on him. He gave him a freedom which was an outrage. I remember saying to him, look here, if everyone acted like you, the world could not go on. Oh, that's a damn silly thing to say. Everyone does not want to act like me. The great majority are perfectly content to do the ordinary thing. At once I sought to be satirical. You evidently don't believe in the maxim, act so that every one of your actions is capable of being made into a universal rule. I never heard it before, but it's rotten nonsense. Well, it was Kant who said it, no one care, it's rotten nonsense. Nor with such a man could you expect the appeal to conscience to be effective. You might as well ask for a reflection without a mirror. I take it that conscience is the guardian in the individual of the rules which the community has evolved for its own preservation. It is the policeman in all our hearts set there to watch that we do not break its laws. It is the spy seated in the central stronghold of the ego. Man's desire for the approval of his fellows is so strong, his dread of their censure so violent, that he himself has brought his enemy within his gates, and he keeps watch over him, vigil and always, in the interests of its master, to crush any half-formed desire to break away from the herd. It will force him to place the good of society before his own. It is the very strong link that attaches the individual to the whole, and man, subservient to interests he has persuaded himself are greater than his own, makes himself a slave to his task-master. He sits him in a seat of honour. At last, like a courty of forning on the royal stick that is laid about his shoulders, he prides himself on the sensitiveness of his conscience. Then he has no words hard enough for the man who does not recognise its way. For a member of society now, he realises accurately enough that against him he is powerless. When I saw that Strickland was really indifferent to the blame his conduct must excite, I could only draw back in horror as from a monster of hardly human shape. The last words he said to me when I bat him good-night were, Tell Amy is no good coming after me. Anyhow, I shall change my hotel, so she wouldn't be able to find me. My own impression is that she's well rid of you, I said. My dear fellow, I only hope you'll be able to make her see it. But women are very unintelligent. End of Chapter 14 CHAPTER XV When I reached London, I found waiting for me an urgent request that I should go to Mrs. Strickland as soon after dinner as I could. I found her with Colonel McAndrew and his wife. Mrs. Strickland's sister was older than she, not unlike her, but more faded, and she had the efficient air, as though she carried the British Empire in her pocket, which the wives of senior officers acquire from the consciousness of belonging to a superior caste. Her manner was brisk, and her good-breeding scarcely concealed her conviction that if you were not a soldier, you might as well be a counter-jumper. She hated the guards whom she thought conceited, and she could not trust herself to speak of their ladies who were so remiss in calling. Her gown was dowdy and expensive. Mrs. Strickland was plainly nervous. Well, tell us your news, she said. I saw your husband. I am afraid he's quite made up his mind not to return. I paused a little. He wants to paint. What do you mean?" cried Mrs. Strickland, with the utmost astonishment. Did you never know that he was keen on that sort of thing? You must be as mad as a hatter! exclaimed the Colonel. Mrs. Strickland frowned a little. She was searching among her recollections. I remember before we were married he used to pot her about with a paint-box. But you never saw such daubes. We used to chaff him. He had absolutely no gift for anything like that. Of course it's only an excuse," said Mrs. McAndrew. Mrs. Strickland pondered deeply for some time. It was quite clear that she could not make head or tail above my announcement. She had put some order into the drawing-room by now, her house-wifely instincts having got the better of her dismay, and it no longer bore that deserted look, like a furnished house long to let, which I had noticed on my first visit after the catastrophe. But now that I had seen Strickland in Paris, it was difficult to imagine him in those surroundings. I thought it could hardly have failed to strike them that there was something incongruous in him. But if he wanted to be an artist, why didn't he say so? asked Mrs. Strickland at last, I should have thought I was the last person to be unsympathetic to aspirations of that kind. Mrs. McAndrew tightened her lips. I imagine she had never looked with approval on her sisters leaning towards persons who cultivated the arts. She spoke of culture derisively. Mrs. Strickland continued, after all, if he had any talent, I should be the first to encourage it. I wouldn't have minded sacrifices. I'd much rather be married to a painter than to a stockbroker. If it weren't for the children, I wouldn't mind anything. I could be just as happy in a shabby studio in Chelsea as in this flat. By dear, I have no patience with you, cried Mrs. McAndrew. You don't mean to say you believe a word of this nonsense. But I think it's true, I put in mildly. She looked at me with good-humoured contempt. A man doesn't throw up his business and leave his wife and children at the age of forty to become a painter, and this is a woman in it. I suppose he met one of your artistic friends, and she's turned his head. A spot of colour rose suddenly to Mrs. Strickland's pale cheeks. What is she like? I hesitated a little. I knew that I had a bombshell. There isn't a woman. The Colonel McAndrew and his wife uttered expressions of incredulity, and Mrs. Strickland sprang to her feet. Do you mean you never saw her? There's no one to see. He's quite alone. Let's riposte us, cried Mrs. McAndrew. I knew I ought to have gone over myself, said the Colonel. You can bet your boots I'd have routed her out fast enough. I wish you had gone over, I replied, somewhat tartly. You'd have seen that every one of your suppositions was wrong. He's not at a smart hotel. He's living in one tiny room in the most squalid way. If he's left his home, it's not to leave a gay life. He's got hardly any money. Do you think he's done something that we don't know about, and he's lying dog-o on account of the police? The suggestion sent a ray of hope in all their breasts, but I would have nothing to do with it. If that were so, he would hardly have been such a fool as to give his partner his address. I retorted acidly. Anyhow, there is one thing I am positive of. He didn't go away with anyone. He's not in love. Nothing is farther from his thoughts. There was a pause while they reflected over my words. Well, if what you say is true, said Mrs. McAndrew at last, things aren't so bad as I thought. Mrs. Strickland glanced at her, but said nothing. She was very pale now, and her fine brow was dark and lowering. I could not understand the expression of her face. Mrs. McAndrew continued, if it's just a whim, he'll get over it. Why don't you go over to him, Amy? Hasn't it, the Colonel, there's no reason why you shouldn't live with him in Paris for a year. We'll look after the children. My dear, say he's got stale. Sooner or later he'll be quite ready to come back to London, and no great harm will have been done. I wouldn't do that, said Mrs. McAndrew. I'd give him all the rope he wants. He'll come back with his tail between his legs and settle down again quite comfortably. Mrs. McAndrew looked at her sister coolly. Perhaps you weren't very wise with him sometimes. Men are queer creatures, and one has to know how to manage them. Mrs. McAndrew shared the common opinion of her sex, that a man is always a brute to leave a woman who is attached to him, but that a woman is much to blame, if he does. Le cœur assez raisant que la raison ne connaît pas. Mrs. Strickland looked slowly from one to another of us. He'll never come back, she said. Oh, my dear, remember what we've just heard. He's been used to comfort and having someone to look after him. How long do you think it'll be before he gets tired of a scrubby room in a scrubby hotel? Besides, he hasn't any money. He must come back. As long as I thought he'd run away with some woman, I thought there was a chance. I don't believe that sort of thing ever answers. He'd have got sick to death of her in three months. But if he hasn't gone because he's in love, then it's finished. Oh, I think that's awfully subtle," said the Colonel, putting into the word all the contempt he felt for a quality so alien to the traditions of his calling. Don't you believe it? He'll come back. And as Dorothy says, I dare say he'll be none the worse for having had a bit of a fling. But I don't want him back, she said. Amy! It was anger that had seized Mrs. Strickland, and her pallor was the pallor of a cold and sudden rage. She spoke quickly now with little gasps. I could have forgiven it if he'd fallen desperately in love with someone and gone off with her. I should have thought that was natural. I shouldn't really have blamed him. I should have thought he was led away. Men are so weak and women are so unscrupulous. But this is different. I hate him. I'd never forgive him now. Colonel McAndrew and his wife began to talk to her together. They were astonished. They told her she was mad. They could not understand. Mrs. Strickland turned desperately to me. Don't you see? She cried. I'm not sure. Do you mean that you could have forgiven him if he left you for a woman, but not if he's left you for an idea? You think you're a match for the one, but against the other, you're helpless. Mrs. Strickland gave me a look in which I read no great friendliness, but did not answer. Perhaps I had struck home. She went on in a low and trembling voice. I never knew it was possible to hate anyone as much as I hate him, but you know I've been comforting myself by thinking that however long it lasted he'd want me at the end. I knew when he was dying he'd send for me and I was ready to go. I'd have nursed him like a mother, and at the last I'd have told him that it didn't matter. I'd loved him always, and I gave him everything. I have always been a little disconcerted by the passion women have for behaving beautifully at the deathbed of those they love. Sometimes it seems as if they grudge the longevity which postpones their chance of an effective scene. But now it's finished. I'm as indifferent to him as if he were a stranger. I should like him to die miserable, poor and starving without a friend. I hope he'll rot with some loathsome disease. I'm done with him. I thought it was well then to say what Strickland had suggested. If you want to divorce him he is quite willing to do whatever is necessary to make it possible. Why should I give him his freedom? I don't think he wants it. He merely thought it might be more convenient to you. Mrs. Strickland shrugged her shoulders impatiently. I think I was a little disappointed in her. I expected then people to be more of a peace than I do now, and I was distressed to find so much vindictiveness in so charming a creature. I did not realise how motley are the qualities that go to make up a human being. Now I am well aware that pettiness and grandeur, malice and charity, hatred and love, can find place side by side in the same human heart. I wondered if there was anything I could say that would ease the sense of bitter humiliation which at present tormented Mrs. Strickland. I thought I would try. You know, I am not sure that your husband is quite responsible for his actions. I do not think he is himself. He seems to me to be possessed by some power which is using him for its own ends, and in whose hold he is as helpless as a fly in a spider's web. It's as though someone had cast a spell over him. I'm reminded of those strange stories one sometimes hears of another personality entering into a man and driving out the old one. The soul lives unsteadily in the body and is capable of mysterious transformations. In the old days they would say Charles Strickland had a devil. Mrs. McAndrew smoothed down the lap of her gown and gold bangles fell over her wrists. All that seems to me very far-fetched, she said acidly. I don't deny that perhaps Amy took her husband a little too much for granted. If she hadn't been so busy with her own affairs I can't believe that she wouldn't have suspected something was the matter. I don't think Alec could have something on his mind for a year or more without my having a pretty shrewd idea of it. The Colonel stared into vacancy, and I wondered whether anyone could be quite so innocent of Gile as he looked. The debt doesn't prevent the fact that Charles Strickland is a heartless beast. She looked at me severely. I can tell you why he left his wife for pure selfishness and nothing else whatever. That is certainly the simplest explanation, I said, but I thought it explained nothing. When, saying I was tired, I rose to go, Mrs. Strickland made no attempt to detain me. Chapter 16, 17 and 18 of The Moon and Sixpence This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Turmin Diane. The Moon and Sixpence. By W. Somerset-Morm. Chapter 16 What followed showed that Mrs. Strickland was a woman of character. Whatever anguish she suffered, she concealed. She saw shrewdly that the world is quickly bored by the recycle of misfortune, and willingly avoids the sight of distress. Whenever she went out, and compassion for her misadventure made her friends eager to entertain her, she bore a demeanour that was perfect. She was brave, but not too obviously, cheerful, but not brazenly, and she seemed more anxious to listen to the troubles of others than to discuss her own. Whenever she spoke of her husband, it was with pity. Her attitude towards him at first perplexed me. One day she said to me, you know, I'm convinced you were mistaken about Charles being alone. From what I've been able to gather from certain sources that I can't tell you, I know that he didn't leave England by himself. In that case he has a positive genius for covering up his tracks. She looked away, and slightly coloured. What I mean is, if any one talks to you about it, please don't contradict it if they say he eloped with someone. Of course not. She changed the conversation as though it were a matter to which she attached no importance. I discovered presently that a peculiar story was circulating among her friends. They said that Charles Strickland had become infatuated with a French dancer whom he had first seen in the ballet of the Empire, and had accompanied her to Paris. I could not find out how this had arisen, but singularly enough it created much sympathy for Mrs. Strickland, and at the same time gave her not a little prestige. This was not without its use in the calling which she had decided to follow. Colonel McCandrew had not exaggerated when he said that she would be penniless, and it was necessary for her to earn her own living as quickly as she could. She made up her mind to profit by her acquaintance with so many writers, and without loss of time began to learn shorthand and typewriting. Her education made it likely that she would be a typist more efficient than the average, and her story made her claims appealing. Her friends promised to send her work, and took care to recommend her to all theirs. The McCandrews, who were childless and in easy circumstances, managed to undertake the care of the children, and Mrs. Strickland had only herself to provide for. She let her flat and sold her furniture. She settled in two tiny rooms in Westminster, and faced the world anew. She was so efficient that it was certain she would make a success of the adventure. CHAPTER 17 It was about five years after this that I decided to live in Paris for a while. I was growing stale in London. I was tired of doing much the same thing every day. My friends pursued their course with uneventfulness. They had no longer any surprises for me, and when I met them I knew pretty well what they would say. Even their love affairs had a tedious banality. We were like tram cars running on their lines from terminus to terminus, and it was possible to calculate within small limits the number of passengers they would carry. Life was ordered too pleasantly. I was seized with panic. I gave up my small apartment, sold my few belongings, and resolved to start afresh. I called on Mrs. Strickland before I left. I had not seen her for some time, and I noticed changes in her. It was not only that she was older, thinner, and more lined. I think her character had altered. She had made a success of her business, and now had an office in Chancery Lane. She did little typing herself, but spent her time correcting the work of the four girls she employed. She had had the idea of giving it a certain daintiness, and she made much use of blue and red inks. She bound the copy in coarse paper that looked vaguely like watered silk in various pale colors, and she had acquired a reputation for neatness and accuracy. She was making money, but she could not get over the idea that to earn her living was somewhat undignified, and she was inclined to remind you that she was a lady by birth. She could not help bringing into her conversation the names of people she knew which would satisfy you she had not sunk in the social scale. She was a little ashamed of her courage and business capacity, but was delighted that she was going to die in the next night with a K.C. who lived in South Kensington. She was pleased to be able to tell you that her son was at Cambridge, and it was with a little laugh that she spoke with the rush of dances to which her daughter, just out, was invited. I suppose I said a very stupid thing. Is she going into your business? I asked. Oh, no, I wouldn't let her do that. Mrs. Strickland answered. She's so pretty. I'm sure she'll marry well. I should have thought it would be a help to you. Several people have suggested she should go on the stage, but of course I couldn't consent to that. I know all the chief dramatists, and I could get her apart tomorrow, but I shouldn't like her to mix with all sorts of people. I was a little chilled by Mrs. Strickland's exclusiveness. Do you ever hear of your husband? No, I haven't heard a word. He may be dead for all I know. I may run across him in Paris. Would you like me to let you know about him? She hesitated a minute. If he's in any real want, I'm prepared to help him a little. I'd send you a certain sum of money, and you could give it him gradually as he needed it. That's very good of you," I said. But I knew it was not kindness that prompted the offer. It is not true that suffering ennobles the character. Happiness does that sometimes, but suffering, for the most part, makes men petty and vindictive. CHAPTER XVIII In point of fact I met Strickland before I had been a fortnight in Paris. I quickly found myself a tiny apartment on the fifth floor of a house in the Roudedame, and for a couple of hundred francs bought at a second-hand dealer's enough furniture to make it habitable. I arranged with the concierge to make my coffee in the morning and to keep the place clean. Then I went to see my friend, Derek Strover. Derek Strover was one of those persons whom, according to your character, you cannot think of without derisive laughter or an embarrassed shrug of the shoulders. Nature had made him a buffoon. He was a painter, but a very bad one, whom I had met in Rome, and I still remembered his pictures. He had a genuine enthusiasm for the commonplace. His soul palpitating with love of art, he painted the models who hung about the stairway of Bernini in the piazza de Spagna, and daunted by their obvious picturesqueness, and his studio was full of canvases on which were portrayed mustachioed, large-eyed peasants in peaked hats, urchins in becoming rags, and women in bright petticoats. Sometimes they lounged at the steps of a church, and sometimes dallied among cypresses against a cloudless sky. Sometimes they made love by a renaissance well-head, and sometimes they wandered through the campagne by the side of an ox-wagon. They were carefully drawn and carefully painted. A photograph could not have been more exact. One of the painters at the Villa Medici had called him L'Amètre de la Boite au Chocolat. To look at his pictures you would have thought that Monet, Manet and the rest of the impressionists had never been. I don't pretend to be a great painter, he said, not of Michelangelo, no, but I have something. I sell, I bring romance into the homes of all sorts of people. Do you know they buy my pictures, not only in Holland, but in Norway, and Sweden, and Denmark? It's mostly merchants who buy them and rich tradesmen. You can't imagine what the winters are like in those countries, so long and dark and cold. They like to think that Italy is like my pictures. That's what they expect. That's what I expected Italy to be before I came here. And I think that was the vision that had remained with him always, dazzling his eyes so that he could not see the truth, and not withstanding the brutality of fact, he continued to see, with the eyes of the spirit, an Italy of romantic brigands and picturesque ruins. It was an ideal that he painted, a poor one, common and shop-soiled, but still it was an ideal. And it gave his character a peculiar charm. It was because I felt this that Derek Strover was not, to me, as to others, merely an object of ridicule. His fellow-painters made no secret of their contempt for his work, but he earned a fair amount of money, and they did not hesitate to make free use of his purse. He was generous, and the needy, laughing at him because he believed so naively their stories of distress, borrowed from him with effrontery. He was very emotional, yet his feeling so easily aroused had in it something absurd, so that you accepted his kindness, but felt no gratitude. To take money from him was like robbing a child, and you despised him because he was so foolish. I imagine that a pick-pocket, proud of his light fingers, must feel a sort of indignation with the careless woman who leaves in a cab a vanity-bag with all her jewels in it. Strover had made him a butt, but had denied him insensibility. He writhed under the jokes practical and otherwise, which were perpetually made at his expense, and yet never ceased, it seemed willfully, to expose himself to them. He was constantly wounded, and yet his good nature was such that he could not bear malice. The viper might sting him, but he never learnt by experience, and had no sooner recovered from his pain than he tenderly placed it once more in his bosom. His life was a tragedy written in the terms of knock-about-fast. Because I did not laugh at him, he was grateful to me, and he used to pour into my sympathetic ear the long list of his troubles. The saddest thing about them was that they were grotesque, and the more pathetic they were, the more you wanted to laugh. But though so bad a painter, he had a very delicate feeling for art, and to go with him to picture-galleries was a rare treat. His enthusiasm was sincere, and his criticism acute. He was Catholic. He had not only a true appreciation of the old masters, but sympathy with the moderns. He was quick to discover talent, and his praise was generous. I think I have never known a man whose judgment was sureer, and he was better educated than most painters. He was not, like most of them, ignorant of kindred arts, but his taste for music and literature gave depth and variety to his comprehension of painting. To a young man like myself, his advice and guidance were of incomparable value. When I left Rome I corresponded with him, and about once in two months received from him long letters in queer English, which brought before me vividly his spluttering, enthusiastic, gesticulating conversation. Some time before I went to Paris he had married an Englishwoman, and was now settled in a studio in Montmartre. I had not seen him for four years, and had never met his wife. End of Chapter 18, Chapter 19, 20, and 21 of The Moon and Sixpence. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Reading by Termin Diane. The Moon and Sixpence. I had not announced my arrival to Strava, and when I rang the bell of his studio, on opening the door himself for a moment he did not know me. Then he gave a cry of a delighted surprise, and drew me in. It was charming to be welcomed with so much eagerness. His wife was seated near the stove at her sewing, and she rose as I came in. He introduced me. Don't you remember? He said to her, I've talked to you about him often. And then to me, but why didn't you let me know you were coming? How long have you been here? How long are you going to stay? Why didn't you come an hour earlier, and we would have dined together? He bombarded me with questions. He sat me down in a chair, patting me as though I were a cushion, pressed cigars upon me, cakes, wine. He could not let me alone. He was heartbroken, because he had no whiskey, wanted to make coffee for me, racked his brains for something he could possibly do for me, and beamed and laughed, and in the exuberance of his delight, sweated at every paw. You haven't changed, I said, smiling as I looked at him. He had the same absurd appearance that I remembered. He was a fat little man with short legs, young still. He could not have been more than thirty, but prematurely bald. His face was perfectly round, and he had a very high colour, a white skin, red cheeks, and red lips. His eyes were blue and round, too. He wore large, gold-rimmed spectacles, and his eyebrows were so fair that you could not see them. He reminded you of those jolly fat merchants that Rubens painted. When I told him that I meant to live in Paris for a while, and had taken an apartment, he reproached me bitterly for not having let him know. He would have found me an apartment himself, and let me furniture. Did I really mean that I had gone to the expense of buying it? And he would have helped me to move in. He really looked upon it as unfriendly that I had not given him the opportunity of making himself useful to me. Meanwhile Mrs. Strover sat quietly mending her stockings without talking, and she listened to all he said with a quiet smile on her lips. So you see, I had married, he said suddenly, what do you think of my wife? He beamed at her, and settled his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. The sweat made them constantly slip down. What on earth do you expect me to say to that? I laughed. Really, Dirk? put in Mrs. Strover, smiling. But isn't she wonderful? I tell you, my boy, lose no time. Get married as soon as ever you can. I am the happiest man alive. Look at her sitting there. Doesn't she make a picture? Shall I? I have seen all the most beautiful women in the world. I have never seen any one more beautiful than Madame Dirk Strover. If you don't be quiet, Dirk, I shall go away. More pretty shoe, he said. She flushed a little, embarrassed by the passion in his tone. His letters had told me that he was very much in love with his wife, and I could see that he could hardly take his eyes off her. I could not tell if she loved him. Poor Panteloun, he was not an object to excite love. But the smile in her eyes was affectionate, and it was possible that her reserve concealed a very deep feeling. She was not the ravishing creature that his love-stick fancy saw, but she had a grave comeliness. She was rather tall, and her gray dress, simple, and quite well cut, did not hide the fact that her figure was beautiful. It was a figure that might have appealed more to the sculptor than to the costumier. Her hair, brown, and abundant was plainly done. Her face was very pale, and her features were good without being distinguished. She had quiet gray eyes. She just missed being beautiful, and in missing it was not even pretty. But when Strover spoke of Shadda it was not without reason, and she reminded me curiously of that pleasant housewife in her mob-cap and apron whom the great painter has immortalized. I could imagine her sedately busy among her pots and pans, making a ritual of her household duties so that they acquired a moral significance. I did not suppose that she was clever or could ever be amusing, but there was something in her grave intentness which excited my interest. Her reserve was not without mystery. I wondered why she had married Derek Strover. Though she was English I could not exactly place her, and it was not obvious from what rank in society she sprang what had been her upbringing or how she had lived before her marriage. She was very silent, but when she spoke it was with a pleasant voice and her manners were natural. I asked Strover if he was working, working and painting better than I ever painted before. We sat in the studio, and he waved his hand to an unfinished picture on an easel. I gave a little start. He was painting a group of Italian peasants in the costume of the campagne lounging on the steps of a Roman church. Is that what you're doing now? I asked. Yes, I can get my models here just as well as in role. Don't you think it's very beautiful? said Mrs. Strover. This foolish wife of mine thinks I'm a great artist. Said he. His apologetic laugh did not disguise the pleasure that he felt. His eyes lingered on his picture. It was strange that his critical sense, so accurate and unconventional when he dealt with the work of others, should be satisfied in himself with what was hackneyed and vulgar beyond belief. Show him some more of your pictures, she said. Shall I? Though he had suffered so much from the ridicule of his friends, no extraver eager for praise and naively self-satisfied could never resist displaying his work. He brought out a picture of two curly-headed Italian urchins playing marble. Aren't they sweet? said Mrs. Strover. And then he showed me more. I discovered that in Paris he had been painting just the same stale, obviously picturesque things that he had painted for years in Rome. It was all false, insincere, shoddy, and yet no one was more honest, sincere and frank than Derrick Strover. Who could resolve the contradictions? I do not know what put it in my head to ask. I say, have you by any chance run across a painter called Charles Strickland? You don't mean to say you know him? cried Strover. Beast! said his wife. Strover laughed. Ha-ha-ha! My poor sherry! He went over to her and kissed both her hands. She doesn't like him. How strange that you should know Strickland. I don't like bad manners, said Mrs. Strover. Derrick, laughing still, turned to me to explain. You see, I asked him to come here one day and look at my pictures. Well, he came, and I shot him everything I had. Strover hesitated a moment with embarrassment. I do not know why he had begun the story against himself. He felt an awkwardness in finishing it. He looked at my pictures and he didn't say anything. I thought he was reserving his judgment till the end, and at last I said, there, that's the lot. He said, I came to ask you to lend me twenty francs. And Derrick actually gave it to him, said his wife indignantly. I was so taken aback I didn't like to diffuse. He put the money in his pocket, just knotted, and said thanks and walked out. Mr. Strover, telling the story, had such a look of blank astonishment on his round, foolish face that it was almost impossible not to laugh. I shouldn't have minded if he'd said my pictures were bad, but he said nothing, nothing. And you will tell the story, Derrick, said his wife. It was lamentable that one was more amused by the ridiculous figure cut by the Dutchman than outraged by Strickland's brutal treatment of him. I hope I shall never see him again, said Mrs. Strover. Strover smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He had already recovered his good humour. The fact remains he's a great artist, a very great artist. Strickland, I explained, can't be the same man. A big fellow is a red beard, Charles Strickland, an Englishman. He had no beard when I knew him, but if he has grown one it might well be red. The man I'm thinking of only began painting five years ago. That's it. He's a great artist. Impossible. Have I ever been mistaken? Derrick asked me. I tell you, he has genius. I'm convinced of it. In a hundred years, if you and I are remembered at all, it will be cause we knew Charles Strickland. I was astonished, and at the same time I was very much excited. I remembered suddenly my last talk with him. Where can one see his work? I asked. Is he having any success? Where is he living? Well, no, he'll have no success. I don't think he's ever sold a picture. When you speak to men about him they only laugh. But I know he's a great artist. After all, they laughed at my name. Coro never sold a picture. I don't know where he lives, but I can take you to see him. He goes to a cafe in the avenue to cliché at seven o'clock every evening. If you like, we'll go there to borrow. I'm not sure if he'll wish to see me. I think I may remind him of a time he prefers to forget. But I'll come all the same. Is there any chance of seeing any of his pictures? Not from him. He won't show you a thing. There's a little dealer I know who has two or three. But you mustn't go without me. You wouldn't understand. I must show them to you myself. I think you make me impatient," said Mrs. Stover. How can you talk like that about his pictures when he treated you as he did? She turned to me. Do you know, when some Dutch people came here to buy their pictures, he tried to persuade them to buy Strickland's. He insisted on bringing them here to show. What did you think of them? I asked her, smiling. They were awful. Ah, sweet heart, you don't understand. Well, your Dutch people were furious with you. They thought you were having a joke with them. Derek Stover took off his spectacles and wiped them. His flushed face was shining with excitement. Why should you think the beauty, which is the most precious thing in the world, lies like a stone on the beach for the careless passer-by to pick up idly? Beauty is something wonderful and strange that the artist fashions out of the chaos of the world in the torment of his soul. Even when he has made it, it is not given to all to know it. To recognize it, you must repeat the adventure of the artist. It is a melody that he sings to you, and to hear it again in your own heart, you want knowledge and sensitiveness and imagination. Why did I always think your pictures beautiful, Derek? I admired them the very first time I saw them. Stover's lips trembled a little. Go to bed, my precious. I will walk a few steps with our friend, and then I will come back. End of Chapter 19, Chapter 20 Derek Stover agreed to fetch me on the following evening, and take me to the cafe at which Strickland was most likely to be found. I was interested to learn that it was the same as that at which Strickland and I had drunk Abes South when I had gone over to Paris to see him. The fact that he had never changed suggested a sluggishness of habit, which seemed to me characteristic. There he is, said Stover, as we reached the cafe. Though it was October, the evening was warm, and the tables on the pavement were crowded. I ran my eyes over them, but did not see Strickland. Look! Over there, in the corner, he's playing chess. I noticed a man bending over a chessboard, but could only see a large felt hat and a red beard. We threaded our way among the tables till we came to him. Strickland! He looked up. Ah! Hello, Fatty! What do you want? I've brought an old friend to see you. Strickland gave me a glance, and evidently did not recognize me. He resumed his scrutiny of the chessboard. Hmm! Sit down and don't make a noise, he said. He moved a piece, and straightaway became absorbed in the game. Poor Stover gave me a troubled look, but I was not disconcerted by so little. I ordered something to drink, and waited quietly until Strickland had finished. I welcomed the opportunity to examine him at my ease. I certainly should never have known him. In the first place his red beard, ragged and untrimmed, hid much of his face, and his hair was long. But the most surprising change in him was his extreme thinness. It made his great nose protrude more arrogantly. It emphasized his cheekbones. It made his eyes seem larger, there were deep hollows at his temples. His body was cadaverous. He wore the same suit that I had seen him in five years before. It was torn and stained, thread-bear, and it hung upon him loosely, as though it had been made for someone else. I noticed his hands, dirty, with long nails. They were merely bone and sinew, large and strong. But I had forgotten that they were so shapely. He gave me an extraordinary impression as he sat there, his attention riveted on his game, an impression of great strength, and I could not understand why it was that his emaciation somehow made it more striking. Presently after moving he lent back and gazed with a curious abstraction at his antagonist. This was a fat-bearded Frenchman. The Frenchman considered the position, then broke suddenly into jovial expletives, and with an impatient gesture, gathering up the pieces, flung them into their box. He cursed Strickland freely, then calling for the waiter, paid for the drinks, and left. Strover drew his chair closer to the table. Now I suppose we can talk, he said. Strickland's eyes rested on him, and there was in them a malicious expression. I felt sure he was seeking for some jibe, could think of none, and so was forced to silence. I brought an old friend to see you, repeated Strover, beaming cheerfully. Strickland looked at me thoughtfully for nearly a minute. I did not speak. I've never seen him in my life, he said. I don't know why he said this, for I felt certain I had caught a gleam of recognition in his eyes. I was not so easily abashed as I had been some years earlier. I saw your wife the other day, I said. I felt sure you'd like to have the latest news of her. He gave a short laugh, his eyes twinkled. We had a jolly evening together, he said. How long ago is it? Five years. He called for another absence. Strover, with voluble tongue, explained how he and I had met, and by what an accident we had discovered that we both knew Strickland. I do not know if Strickland listened. He glanced at me once or twice, reflectively, but for the most part seemed occupied with his own thoughts, and certainly without Strover's babble the conversation would have been difficult. In half an hour the Dutchman, looking at his watch, announced that he must go. He asked whether I would come too. I thought, alone, I might get something out of Strickland, and so answered that I would stay. When the fat man had left, I said, Derrick Strover thinks you're a great artist. What the hell do you suppose I care? Will you let me see your pictures? Why should I? I might feel inclined to buy one. I might not feel inclined to sell one. Are you making a good living? I asked, smiling. He chuckled. Do I look it? You look half-starved. I am half-starved. Then come, and let's have a bit of dinner. Why do you ask me? Not out of charity? I answered coolly. I don't really care a tap any damn if you starve or not. His eyes lit up again. Come on, then, he said, getting up. I like a decent meal. End of chapter 20. CHAPTER 21 I let him take me to a restaurant of his choice, but on the way I bought a paper. When we had ordered our dinner, I propped it against a bottle of sangaumye, and began to read. We ate in silence. I felt him looking at me now and again, but I took no notice. I meant to force him to conversation. Is there anything in the paper? He said, as we approached the end of our silent meal. I fancied there was in his tone a slight note of exasperation. I always liked to read the foie gras on the drama, I said. I folded the paper and put it down beside me. I've enjoyed my dinner, he remarked. I think we might have our coffee here, don't you? Yes. We let our cigars. I smoked in silence. I noticed that now and then his eyes rested on me with a faint smile of amusement. I waited patiently. What have you been up to since I saw you last? He asked at length. I had not very much to say. It was a record of hard work and of little adventure, of experiments in this direction and in that the gradual acquisition of the knowledge of books and of men. I took care to ask Strickland nothing about his own doings. I showed not the least interest in him, and at last I was rewarded. He began to talk of himself, but with his poor gift of expression he gave but indications of what he had gone through, and I had to fill up the gaps with my own imagination. It was tantalising to get no more than hints into a character that interested me so much. It was like making one's way through a mutilated manuscript. I received the impression of a life which was a bitter struggle against every sort of difficulty. But I realised that much which would have seemed horrible to most people did not in the least affect him. Strickland was distinguished from most Englishmen by his perfect indifference to comfort. It did not irk him to live always in one shabby room. He had no need to be surrounded by beautiful things. I do not suppose he had ever noticed how dingy was the paper on the wall of the room in which on my first visit I found him. He did not want arm-chairs to sit in. He really felt more at his ease on a kitchen chair. He ate with appetite, but was indifferent to what he ate. To him it was only food that he devoured to still the pangs of hunger, and when no food was to be had he seemed capable of doing without. I learnt that for six months he had lived on a loaf of bread and a bottle of milk a day. He was a sensual man, and yet was indifferent to sensual things. He looked upon privation as no hardship. There was something impressive in the manner in which he lived a life wholly of the spirit. When the small sum of money which he had brought with him from London came to an end, he suffered from no dismay. He sold no pictures. I think he made little attempt, so any. He set about finding some way to make a bit of money. He told me with grim humour of the time he had spent acting as a guide to Cogniz who wanted to see the night-side of life in Paris. It was an occupation that appealed to his sardonic temper, and somehow or other he had acquired a wide acquaintance with the more disreputable quarters of the city. He told me of the long hours he spent walking about the Boulevard de la Madeleine on the lookout for Englishmen, preferably the worse for liquor, who desired to see things which the law forbade. When in luck he was able to make a tidy sum, but the shabbiness of his clothes at last frightened the sightseers, and he could not find people adventurous enough to trust themselves to him. Then he happened on a job to translate the advertisements of patent medicines which were sent broadcast to the medical profession in England. During a strike he had been employed as a house-painter. Meanwhile, he had never ceased to work at his art, but soon tiring of the studios, entirely by himself. He had never been so poor that he could not buy canvas and paint, and really he needed nothing else. So far as I could make out he painted with great difficulty, and in his unwillingness to accept help from any one lost much time in finding out for himself the solution of technical problems which preceding generations had already worked out one by one. He was aiming at something, I knew not what, and perhaps he hardly knew himself. And I got again more strongly the impression of a man possessed. He did not seem quite sane. It seemed to me that he would not show his pictures, because he was really not interested in them. He lived in a dream, and the reality meant nothing to him. I had the feeling that he worked on a canvas with all the force of his violent personality, oblivious to everything in his effort to get what he saw with the mind's eye. And then, having finished, not the picture perhaps, for I had an idea that he seldom brought anything to completion, but the passion that fired him. He lost all care for it. He was never satisfied with what he had done. It seemed to him of no consequence compared with the vision that obsessed his mind. Why don't you ever send your work to exhibitions? I asked. I should have thought you'd like to know what people thought about it. Would you? I cannot describe the immeasurable contempt he put into the two words. Don't you want fame? It's something that most artists haven't been indifferent to. Children, how can you care for the opinion of the crowd when you don't care tuppence for the opinion of the individual? They're not all reasonable beings, I laughed. Who makes fame? Critics, writers, stockbrokers, women. Wouldn't it give you a rather pleasing sensation to think of people you didn't know and had never seen receiving emotions, subtle and passionate from the work of your hands? Everyone likes power. I can't imagine a more wonderful exercise of it than to move the souls of men to pity or terror. Melodrama. Why do you mind if you paint well or badly? I don't. I only want to paint what I see. I wonder if I could write on a desert island with the certainty that no eyes but mine would ever see what I had written. Strickland did not speak for a long time, but his eyes shone strangely as though he saw something that kindled his soul to ecstasy. Sometimes I've thought of an island lost in a boundless sea where I could live in some hidden valley among strange trees in silence. There I think I could find what I want. He did not express himself quite like this. He used gestures instead of adjectives, and he halted. I have put into my own words what I think he wanted to say. Looking back on the last five years, do you think it was worth it? I asked. He looked at me, and I saw that he did not know what I meant. I explained. You gave up a comfortable home, and the life as happy as the average. You were fairly prosperous. You seemed to have had a rotten time in Paris. If you had your time over again, would you do what you did? Rather. Do you know you haven't asked anything about your wife and children? Do you never think of them? No. I wish you weren't so damn monosyllabic. Have you never had a moment's regret for all the unhappiness you caused them? His lips broke into a smile, and he shook his head. I should have thought sometimes you couldn't help thinking of the past. I don't mean the past of seven or eight years ago, but further back still, when you first met your wife and loved her and married her, don't you remember the joy with which you first took her in your arms? I don't think of the past. The only thing that matters is the everlasting present. I thought for a moment over this reply. It was obscure, perhaps, but I thought I saw dimly his meaning. Are you happy? I asked. Yes. I was silent. I looked at him reflectively. He held my stare, and presently a sardonic twinkle lit up his eyes. I'm afraid you disapprove of me. Nonsense! I answered promptly. I don't disapprove of the Bois Constrictor. On the contrary, I'm interested in his mental processes. It's a purely professional interest you take in me. Purely. It's only right that you shouldn't disapprove of me. You have a despicable character. Perhaps that's why you feel at home with me, I retorted. He smiled dryly, but said nothing. I wish I knew how to describe his smile. I do not know that it was attractive, but it lit up his face, changing the expression which was generally somber, and gave it a look of not ill-natured malice. It was a slow smile, starting and sometimes ending in the eyes. It was very sensual, neither cruel nor kindly, but suggested rather the inhuman glee of the satire. It was his smile that made me ask him, haven't you been in love since you came to Paris? I haven't got time for that sort of nonsense. Life isn't long enough for love and art. Your appearance doesn't suggest the anchorite. All that business fills me with disgust. Human nature is a nuisance, isn't it? I said. Why are you sniggering at me? Because I don't believe you. Then you're a damn fool. I paused, and I looked at him, searching me. What's the good of trying to humbug me? I said. I don't know what you mean. I smiled. Let me tell you, I imagine that for months the matter never comes into your head, and you're able to persuade yourself that you've finished with it for good and all. You rejoice in your freedom, and you feel that at last you can call your soul your own. You seem to walk with your head among the stars, and then all of a sudden you can't stand it any more, and you notice that all the time your feet have been walking in the mud, and you want to roll yourself in it, and you find some woman, coarse, and low, and vulgar, some beastly creature in whom all the horror of sex is blatant, and you fall upon her like a wild animal, you drink till you're blind with rage. He stared at me without the slightest movement. I held his eyes with mine. I spoke very slowly. I'll tell you what must seem strange, that when it's over you feel so extraordinarily pure. You feel like a disembodied spirit, immaterial, and you seem to be able to touch beauty as though it were a palpable thing, and you feel an intimate communion with the breeze, and with the trees breaking into leaf, and with the iridescence of the river. You feel like God. Can you explain that to me? He kept his eyes fixed on mine till I had finished, and then he turned away. There was on his face a strange look, and I thought that so might a man look when he had died under the torture. He was silent. I knew that our conversation was ended. CHAPTER 22 I settled down in Paris and began to write a play. I led a very regular life, working in the morning and in the afternoon lounging about the gardens of Luxembourg, or sauntering through the streets. I spent long hours in the Louvre, the most friendly of all galleries, and the most convenient for meditation, or idled on the keys, fingering second-hand books that I never meant to buy. I read a page here and there, and made acquaintance with a great many authors whom I was content to know thus, desultorily. In the evenings I went to see my friends. I looked in often on the strovers, and sometimes shared their modest fare. Derek's strover flattered himself on his skill in cooking Italian dishes, and I confess that his spaghetti were very much better than his pictures. It was a dinner for a king when he brought in a huge dish of it, succulent with tomatoes, and we ate it together with a good household bread and a bottle of red wine. I grew more intimate with Blanche's strover, and I think because I was English and she knew few English people, she was glad to see me. She was pleasant and simple, but she remained always rather silent, and I knew not why, gave me the impression that she was concealing something. But I thought that was perhaps no more than a natural reserve, accentuated by the verbose frankness of her husband. Derek never concealed anything. He discussed the most intimate matters with a complete lack of self-consciousness. Sometimes he embarrassed his wife, and the only time I saw her put out of countenance was when he insisted on telling me that he had taken a purge, and went into somewhat realistic details on the subject. The perfect seriousness with which he narrated his misfortunes convulsed me with laughter, and this added to Mrs. Strover's irritation. You seem to like making a fool of yourself, she said. His round eyes grew rounder still, and his brow puckered in dismay as he saw that she was angry. Sweetheart, have I vexed you? I'll never take another. It was only because I was bilious. I need a sedentary life. I don't take enough exercise for three days I hadn't. For goodness sake, hold your tongue! She interrupted, tears of annoyance in her eyes. His face fell, and he pouted his lips like a scalded child. He gave me a look of appeal, so that I might put things right, but unable to control myself I shook with helpless laughter. We went one day to the picture-dealer, in whose shops Strover thought he could show me at least two or three of Strickland's pictures. But when we were arrived, we were told that Strickland himself had taken them away. The dealer did not know why. But don't imagine to yourselves that I make myself bad blood on the other count. I took them to a place, Mr. Strover, and I said I would sell them if I could, but, really, he shrugged his shoulders. I'm interested in the young men, but, voyant, you yourself, Mr. Strover, you don't think there's any talent there? I give you my word of honour. There's no one painting today in whose talent I'm more convinced. Take my word for it. You are missing a good affair. Someday those pictures will be worth more than all you have in your shop. Remember Monet, who could not get anyone to buy his pictures for 100 francs? What are they worth now? Oh, but there were 100 as good painters as Monet. Who could not sell their pictures at that time? And their pictures are worth nothing still. How come one tell? Is merit enough to bring success? Don't believe it. Do you rest? It has still to be proved that this friend of yours has merit. No one claims it for him, but Mr. Strover. How then will you recognise merit? Ask Derrick, red in the face with anger. There's only one way, by success. Palestine, cried Derrick. But, I think, of all the great artists of the past. Waffel, Michelangelo, Angus, Delacroix. They were all successful. Let us go, said Strover to me. Oh, I shall kill this man. End of Chapter 22, Chapter 23. I saw Strickler not infrequently, and now and then played Jess with him. He was of uncertain temper. Sometimes he would sit silent and abstracted, taking no notice of any one. And to others, when he was in a good humour, he would talk in his own halting way. He never said a clever thing, but he had a vein of brutal sarcasm which was not ineffective, and he always said exactly what he thought. He was indifferent to the susceptibilities of others, and when he wounded them, was amused. He was constantly offending Derrick Strover, so bitterly that he flung away, bowing he would never speak to him again. But there was a solid force in Strickland that attracted the fat Dutchman against his will, so that he came back, forning like a clumsy dog, though he knew that his only greeting would be the blow he dreaded. I don't know why Strickland put up with me. Our relations were peculiar. One day he asked me to lend him fifty francs. I wouldn't dream of it, I replied. Why not? It wouldn't amuse me. I'm pricefully hard up, you know. I don't care. You don't care if I starve? Why on earth should I? I asked in my turn. He looked at me for a minute or two, pulling his untidy beard. I smiled at him. What are you amused at? He said, with a gleam of anger in his eyes. You're so simple. You recognize no obligations. No one is under any obligation to you. Wouldn't it make you uncomfortable if I went and hanged myself, because I'd been turned out of my room as I couldn't pay the rent? Not a bit. He chuckled. You're bragging. If I really did, you'd be overwhelmed at the remorse. Try it, and we'll see. I retorted. A smile flickered in his eyes, and he stirred his absarth in silence. Would you like to play chess? I asked. I don't mind. We set up the pieces, and when the board was ready he considered it with a comfortable eye. There is a sense of satisfaction in looking at your men, or ready for the fray. Did you really think I'd lend you money? I asked. I didn't see why you shouldn't. You surprised me. Why? It's disappointing to find that at heart you're sentimental. I should have liked you better if you hadn't made that ingenuous appeal to my sympathies. I should have despised you if you'd be moved by it. He answered. That's better. I laughed. We began to play. We were both absorbed in the game. When it was finished I said to him, Look here, if you're hard up, let me see your pictures. If there's anything I like, I'll buy it. Go to hell! He answered. He got up and was about to go away. I stopped him. You haven't paid for your absarth, I said, smiling. He cursed me, flung down the money, and left. I did not see him for several days after that. But one evening, when I was sitting in the cafe, reading a paper, he came up and sat beside me. You haven't hanged yourself after all? I remarked. No, I've got a commission. I'm painting the portrait of a retired plumber for two hundred tranks. Authors note, this picture, formerly in the possession of a wealthy manufacturer at Lille, who fled from that city on the approach of the Germans, is now in the National Gallery at Stockholm. The Swede is adept at the gentle pastime of fishing in troubled waters. But how did you manage that? The woman where I get my bread recommended me. He told her he was looking out for someone to paint him. I've got to give her twenty francs. What's he like? Splendid! He's got a great red face, like a leg of mutton, and on his right cheek there's an enormous mole with long hairs growing out of it. Strickland was in a good humour, and when Derek Strover came up and sat down with us, he attacked him with ferocious banter. He showed a skill I should never have credit him with in finding the places where the unhappy Dutchman was most sensitive. Strickland employed not the rapier of sarcasm, but the bludgeon of invective. The attack was so unprovoked that Strover, taken unawares, was defenseless. He reminded you of a frightened sheep running aimlessly hither and thither. He was startled and amazed. At last the tears ran from his eyes, and the worst of it was that though you hated Strickland, and the exhibition was horrible, it was impossible not to laugh. Derek Strover was one of those unlucky persons whose most sincere emotions are ridiculous. But after all, when I look back upon that winter in Paris, my pleasantest recollection is of Derek Strover. There was something very charming in his little household. He and his wife made a picture which the imagination gratefully dwelt upon, and the simplicity of his love for her had a deliberate grace. He remained absurd, but the sincerity of his passion excited one's sympathy. I could understand how his wife must feel for him, and I was glad that her affection was so tender. If she had any sense of humour, it must amuse her that he should place her on a pedestal and worship her with such an honest idolatry. But even while she laughed she must have been pleased and touched. He was the constant lover, and though she grew old, losing her rounded lines and her fair comeliness, to him she would certainly never alter. To him she would always be the loveliest woman in the world. There was a pleasing grace in the orderliness of their lives. They had but the studio, a bedroom, and a tiny kitchen. Mrs. Strover did all the housework herself, and while Derek painted bad pictures, she went marketing, cooked the luncheon, sewed, occupied herself like a busy ant all the day, and in the evening sat in the studio, sewing again, while Derek played music which I am sure was far beyond her comprehension. She played with taste, but with more feeling than was always justified, and into his music poured all his honest, sentimental, exuberant soul. Their life, in its own way, was a niddle, and it managed to achieve a singular beauty. The absurdity that clung to everything connected with Derek Strover gave it a curious note, like an unresolved discord, but made it somehow more modern, more human, like a rough joke thrown into a serious scene. It heightened the poignancy which all beauty has. Chapter 24 Shortly before Christmas Derek Strover came to ask me to spend the holiday with him. He had a characteristic sentimentality about the day, and wanted to pass it among his friends with suitable ceremonies. Neither of us had seen Strickland for two or three weeks. I, because I had been busy with friends who were spending a little while in Paris, and Strover because, having quarrelled with him more violently than usual, he had made up his mind to have nothing more to do with him. Strickland was impossible, and he swore never to speak to him again. But the season touched him with gentle feeling, and he hated the thought of Strickland spending Christmas day by himself. He ascribed his own emotions to him, and could not bear that all an occasion given up to good fellowship, the lonely painter should be abandoned to his own melancholy. Strover had set up a Christmas tree in his studio, and I suspected that we should both find absurd little presents hanging on its festive branches. But he was shy about seeing Strickland again. He was a little humiliating to forgive so easily, insults so outrageous, and he wished me to be present at the reconciliation on which he was determined. We walked together down the avenue de Clichy. But Strickland was not in the cafe. It was too cold to sit outside, and we took our places on leather benches within. It was hot and stuffy, and the air was gray with smoke. Strickland did not come. But presently we saw the French painter who occasionally played chess with him. I had formed a casual acquaintance with him, and he sat down at our table. Strover asked him if he had seen Strickland. He's ill! He said, didn't you know? Seriously? Very, I understand. Strover's face grew white. Why didn't he write and tell me? How stupid of me to quarrel with him! We must go to him at once. He can have no one to look after him. Where does he live? I've no idea, said the Frenchman. We discovered that none of us knew how to find him. Strover grew more and more distressed. He might die, and not a soul would know anything about it. It's dreadful. I can't bear the thought. We must find him at once. I tried to make Strover understand that it was absurd to hunt vaguely about Paris. We must first think of some plan. Yes, but all this time he may be dying, and when we get there he may be too late to do anything. Sit still and let us think, I said impatiently. The only address I knew was the Hotel de Belge, but Strickland had long left that, and they would have no recollection of him. With that queer idea of his to keep his whereabouts secret, it was unlikely that on leaving he had said where he was going. As it was more than five years ago. I felt pretty sure that he had not moved far. If he continued to frequent the same café as when he had stayed at the Hotel, it was probably because it was the most convenient. Suddenly I remembered that he had got his commission to paint a portrait to do the baker from whom he bought his bread, and it struck me that there one might find his address. I called for a directory and looked out the bakers, though there were five in the immediate neighbourhood, and the only thing was to go to all of them. Stroger accompanied me, unwillingly. His own plan was to run up and down the streets that led out of the Avenue de Clichy, and ask at every house if Strickland lived there. My commonplace scheme was after all effective. For in the second shot we asked at, the woman behind the counter acknowledged that she knew him. She was not certain where he lived, but it was in one of the three houses opposite. Strickland was very much in favour of us, and in the first we tried, the concierge told us that we should find him on the top floor. It appears that he's ill, said Stroger. Oh, it may be, answered the concierge indifferently. Bonifet! I have not seen him for several days. Stroger ran up the stairs ahead of me, and when I reached the top floor I found him talking to a workman in his shirt sleeves who had opened a door at which Stroger had knocked. He pointed to another door. He believed that the person who lived there was a painter. He had not seen him for a week. Stroger made as though he was about to knock, and then turned to me with a gesture of helplessness. I saw that he was panicked-stricken. I was supposing he's dead. Not he, I said. I knocked. There was no answer. I tried the handle and found the door unlocked. I walked in, and Stroger followed me. The room was in darkness. I could only see that it was an attic, with a sloping roof, and a faint glimmer, no more than a less profound obscurity, came from a skylight. A strickland, I called. There was no answer. It was really rather mysterious, and it seemed to me that Stroger, standing just behind, was trembling in his shoes. For a moment I hesitated to strike a light. I dimly perceived a bed in the corner, and I wondered whether the light would disclose lying on it a dead body. Haven't you got a match, you fool? Strickland's voice, coming out of the darkness, harshly made me start. Stroger cried out, Oh, my God, I thought you were dead! I struck a match, and looked about for a candle. I had a rapid glimpse of a tiny apartment, half-room, half-studio, in which was nothing but a bed, canvases with their face to the wall, an easel, a table, and a chair. There was no carpet on the floor. There was no fireplace. On the table, crowded with paints, pallet knives, and litter of all kinds, was the end of a candle. I lit it. Strickland was lying in the bed, uncomfortably, because it was too small for him, and he had put all his clothes over him for warmth. It was obvious at a glance that he was in a high fever. However, his voice, cracking with emotion, went up to him. Oh, my poor friend, what is the matter with you? I had no idea you were ill. Why didn't you let me know? You must know I'd have done anything in the world for you. Were you thinking of what I said? I didn't mean it. I was wrong. It was stupid of me to take offence. Go to hell! said Strickland. Now, be reasonable. Let me make you comfortable. Haven't you any want to look after you? He looked round the squalid attic in dismay. He tried to arrange the bed clothes. Strickland, breathing laboriously, kept an angry silence. He gave me a resentful glance. I stood quite quietly, looking at him. If you want to do something for me, you can get me some milk. He said at last, I haven't been able to get out for two days. There was an empty bottle by the side of the bed, which had contained milk, and, in a piece of newspaper, a few crumbs. What have you been having? I asked. Nothing. Well, how long, cried Strowford, do you mean to say you've had nothing to eat or drink for two days? It's horrible! Why, lad, water! His eyes dwelt for a moment on a large can within reach of an outstretched arm. I'll go immediately, said Strowford, is there anything you fancy? I suggested that he should get a thermometer and a few grapes and some bread. Strowford, glad to make himself useful, clattered down the stairs. Damn fool! muttered Strickland. I felt his pulse. It was beating quickly and feebly. I asked him one or two questions, but he would not answer, and when I pressed him, he turned his face irritably to the wall. The only thing was to wait in silence. In ten minutes, Strowford, panting, came back. Besides what I had suggested, he bought candles and meat juice and a spirit lamp. He was a practical little fellow, and without delay set about making bread and milk. I took Strickland's temperature. It was a hundred and four. He was obviously very ill. CHAPTER XXV Presently we left him. Strick was going home to dinner, and I proposed to find a doctor and bring him to see Strickland. But when we got down into the street, fresh after the stuffy attic, the Dutchman begged me to go immediately to his studio. He had something in mind which he would not tell me, but he insisted that it was very necessary for me to accompany him. Since I did not think a doctor could at the moment do any more than we had done, I consented. We found Blanche Strowford laying the table for dinner. I went up to her and took both her hands. Dear one, I want you to do something for me," he said. She looked at him with the grave cheerfulness which was one of her charms. His red face was shining with sweat, and he had a look of comic agitation, but there was in his round, surprised eyes an eager light. Strickland is very ill. He may be dying. He is alone in the filthy attic, and though he is not a soul to look after him, I want you to let me bring him here. She withdrew her hands quickly. I had never seen her make so rapid a movement, and her cheeks flushed. Oh, no! Oh, my dear one, don't refuse. I couldn't bear to leave him where he is. I shouldn't sleep a wink for thinking of him. I have no objection to your nursing him. Her voice was cold and distant. But you die. Let him! Strava gave a little gasp. He wiped his face. He turned to me for support, but I did not know what to say. He's a great artist. What do I care? I hate him. Oh, my love, my precious, you don't mean that. I beseech you to let me bring him here. We can make him comfortable. Perhaps we can save him. He shall be no trouble to you. I will do everything. When we make him up, I'll bathe in the studio. We can't let him die like a dog. It would be inhuman. Why can't he go into our hospital? At a hospital he needs the care of loving hands. He must be treated with infinite tact. I was surprised to see how moved she was. She went on laying the table, but her hands trembled. I have no patience with you. Do you think if you were ill he would stir a finger to help you? But what does that matter? I should have you to nurse me. It wouldn't be necessary. And besides, I'm different. I'm not of any importance. You have no more spirit than a mongrel kerb, but you'll lie down on the ground and ask people to trample on you. Drogoe gave a little laugh. He thought he understood the reason of his wife's attitude. Oh, my poor dear, your thinking of that day he came to look at my pictures. What does it matter if he didn't think them any good? It was stupid of me to show them to him. I daresay they're not very good. He looked round the studio ruefully. On the easel was a half-finished picture of a smiling Italian peasant holding a bunch of grapes over the head of a dark-eyed girl. Even if he didn't like them, he should have been civil. He'd needn't have insulted you. He showed you. He despised you and you nicked his hand. Oh, I hate him. Dear child, he has genius. You don't think I believe that I have it. I wish I had, but I know it when I see it, and I honour it with all my heart. It's the most wonderful thing in the world. It's a great burden to its possessors. We should be very tolerant with them and very patient." I stood apart, somewhat embarrassed by the domestic scene, and wondered why Strogoe had insisted on my coming with him. I saw that his wife was on the verge of tears. But it's not only because he's a genius that I ask you to let me bring him here. It's because he's a human being, and he's ill and poor. I would never have him in my house, never! Strogoe turned to me. Tell her that it's a matter of life and death. It's impossible to leave him in that wretched hole. It's quite obvious that it would be much easier to nurse him here, I said. But of course it would be very inconvenient. I have an idea that someone would have to be with him day and night. My love, it's not you who would shirk a little trouble. If he comes here I shall go," said Mrs. Strogoe violently. I don't recognise you. You're so good and kind. Oh, for goodness sake, let me be! You drive me to distraction!" Then at last the tears came. She sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook convulsively. In a moment Derek was on his knees beside her, with his arms round her, kissing her, calling her all sorts of pet names, and the facile tears ran down his own cheeks. Presently she released herself and dried her eyes. Leave me alone! She said, not unkindly, and then to me, trying to smile, what you must think of me! Strogoe looked at her with perplexity, hesitated. His forehead was all puckered and his red mouth set in a pout. He reminded me oddly of an agitated guinea pig. It's no, darling, he said at last. She gave her gesture of lassitude. She was exhausted. The studio's yours. Everything belongs to you. If you want to bring him here, how can I prevent you? A sudden smile flashed across his round face. Then you consent, I knew you would. Oh, my precious! Suddenly she pulled herself together. She looked at him with haggard eyes. She clasped her hands over her heart as though its beating were intolerable. Oh, Derek, I've never, since we met, asked you to do anything for me. You know there's nothing in the world I wouldn't do for you. I beg you not to let Strickland come here. Anyone else you like, bring a thief or drunkard, any outcast off the streets, and I promise you I'll do everything I can for them gladly, but I beseech you not to bring Strickland here. But why? I am frightened of him, I don't know why, but there's something in him that terrifies me. He'll do us some great harm, I know it, I feel it. If you bring him here it can only end badly. But how unreasonable! No, no, I know I'm right. Something terrible will happen to us. Because we do a good action. She was panting now, and in her face was a terror which was inexplicable. I do not know what she thought. I felt that she was possessed by some shapeless dread which robbed her of all self-control. As a rule she was so calm, her agitation now was amazing. Strava looked at her for a while with puzzled consternation. You're my wife, you're dearer to me than anyone in the world. No one shall come here without your entire consent. She closed her eyes for a moment, and I thought she was going to faint. I was a little impatient with her. I had not suspected that she was so neurotic a woman. Then I heard Strava's voice again. It seemed to break oddly on the silence. Haven't you been in bitter distress when once when a helping hand was held out to you? You know how much it means. Couldn't you like to do some one a good turn when you have the chance? The words were ordinary enough, and to my mind there was in them something so hortatory that I almost smiled. I was astonished at the effect they had on Strava. She started a little and gave her husband a long look. His eyes were fixed on the ground. I did not know why he seemed embarrassed. A faint colour came into her cheeks, and then her face became white, more than white, ghastly. You felt that the blood had shrunk away from the whole surface of her body, and even her hands were pale. The shiver passed through her. The silence of the studio seemed to gather body, so that it became an almost palpable presence. I was bewildered. Bring Strickland here, Derrick. I'll do my best for him. My precious!" he smiled. He wanted to take her in his arms, but she avoided him. Don't be affectionate before strangers, Derrick. She said, It makes me feel such a fool. Her manner was quite normal again, and no one could have told that so shortly before she had been shaken by such a great emotion. End of Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Next day we moved Strickland. It needed a good deal of firmness, and still more patience to induce him to come, but he was really too ill to offer any effective resistance to Strava's entreaties and to my determination. We dressed him, while he feebly cursed us, got him downstairs, into a cab, and eventually to Strava's studio. He was so exhausted by the time we arrived that he allowed us to put him to bed without a word. He was ill for six weeks. At one time it looked as though he could not live more than a few hours, and I am convinced that it was only through the Dutchman's doggedness that he pulled through. I have never known a more difficult patient. It was not that he was exacting and querulous. On the contrary, he never complained. He asked for nothing. He was perfectly silent. But he seemed to resent the care that was taken of him. He received all inquiries about his feelings or his needs with a jib, a sneer, or an oath. I found him detestable, and as soon as he was out of danger I had no hesitation in telling him so. Go to hell! he answered briefly. There Strava, giving up his work entirely, nursed Strickland with tenderness and sympathy. He was dexterous to make him comfortable, and he exercised a cunning of which I should never have thought him capable to induce him to take the medicines prescribed by the doctor. Nothing was too much trouble for him. Though his means were adequate to the needs of himself and his life, he certainly had no money to waste. But now he was wantonly extravagant in the purchase of delicacies out of season and deer which might tempt Strickland's capricious appetite. I shall never forget the tactful patience with which he persuaded him to take nourishment. He was never put out by Strickland's rudeness. If it was merely sullen he appeared not to notice it. If it was aggressive he only chuckled. When Strickland, recovering somewhat, was in a good humour and amused himself by laughing at him, he deliberately did absurd things to excite his ridicule. Then he would give me little happy glances so that I might notice in how much better form the patient was. Strava was sublime. But it was Blanche who most surprised me. She proved herself not only incapable but a devoted nurse. There was nothing in her to remind you that she had so vehemently struggled against her husband's wish to bring Strickland to the studio. She insisted on doing her share of the office's needful to the sick. She arranged his bed so that it was possible to change the sheet without disturbing him. She washed him. When I remarked on her competence she told me with that pleasant little smile of hers that for a while she had worked in the hospital. She gave no sign that she hated Strickland so desperately. She did not speak to him much, but she was quick to forestall his wants. For a fortnight it was necessary that some one should stay with him all night, and she took turns at watching with her husband. I wondered what she thought during the long darkness as she sat by the bedside. Strickland was a weird figure as he lay there thinner than ever with his ragged red beard and his eyes staring feverishly into vacancy. His illness seemed to have made them larger, and they had an unnatural brightness. Does he ever talk to you in the night? I asked her once. Never. Do you dislike him as much as you did? More, if anything. She looked at me with her calm grey eyes. Her expression was so placid it was hard to believe that she was capable of the violent emotion I had witnessed. Does he ever thank you for what you do for him? No, she smiled. He's inhuman. He's abominable. Strover was, of course, delighted with her. He could not do enough to show his gratitude for the wholehearted devotion with which she had accepted the burden he laid on her, but he was a little puzzled by the behaviour of Blanche and Strickland towards one another. Do you know I have seen them sit there for hours together without saying a word? On one occasion, when Strickland was so much better than in a day or two he was to get up, I sat with them in the studio. Derrick and I were talking. Mrs. Strover soared, and I thought I recognized the shirt that she was mending as Strickland's. He lay on his back. He did not speak. Once I saw that his eyes were fixed on Blanche and Strover, and there was in them a curious irony. During their gaze she raised her own, and for a moment they stared at one another. I could not quite understand her expression. Her eyes had in them a strange perplexity and perhaps—but why?—an arm. In a moment Strickland looked away and idly surveyed the ceiling, but she continued to stare at him. Now her look was quite inexplicable. In a few days Strickland began to get up. He was nothing but skin and bone. His clothes hung upon him like rags on a scarecrow. With his untidy beard and long hair, his features always a little larger than life. Now, emphasized by illness, he had an extraordinary aspect. But it was so odd that it was not quite ugly. There was something monumental in his ungainliness. I do not know how to express precisely the impression he made upon me. It was not exactly spirituality. That was obvious, though the screen of the flesh seemed almost transparent, because there was in his face an outrageous sensuality. But though it sounded nonsense, it seemed as though his sensuality were curiously spiritual, there was in him something primitive. He seemed to partake of those obscure forces of nature which the Greeks personified in shapes, part human and part beast, the satire and the fawn. I thought of Marcius, whom the God flayed because he had dared to rival him in song. Strickland seemed to bear in his heart strange harmonies and unadventured patterns, and I foresaw for him an end of torture and despair. I had again the feeling that he was possessed of a devil. But you could not say that it was a devil of evil, for it was a primitive force that existed before good and ill. He was still too weak to paint, and he sat in the studio, silent, occupied with God knows what dreams or reading. The books he liked were queer. Sometimes I would find him pouring over the poems of Malame, and he read them as a child reads, forming the words with his lips, and I wondered what strange emotion he got from those subtle cadences and obscure phrases. And again I found him absorbed in the detective novels of Gaborio. I amused myself by thinking that in his choice of books he showed pleasantly the irreconcilable sides of his fantastic nature. It was singular to notice that even in the weak state of his body he had no thought for its comfort. Strava liked his ease, and in his studio were a couple of heavily upholstered arm-chairs and a large divan. Strickland would not go near them, not from any affectation of stoicism, for I found him seated on a three-legged stool when I went into the studio one day, and he was alone. But because he did not like them. For choice he sat on a kitchen chair without arms. It often exasperated me to see him. I never knew a man so entirely indifferent to his surroundings. CHAPTER 27 Two or three weeks passed. One morning, having come to a pause in my work, I thought I would give myself a holiday, and I went to the Louvre. I wandered about, looking at the pictures I knew so well, and let my fancy play idly with the emotions they suggested. I sauntered into the Long Gallery, and there suddenly saw Strava. I smiled. For his appearance, so retunned and yet so startled, could never fail to excite a smile. And then, as I came nearer, I noticed that he seemed singularly disconsolate. He looked woe-begone and yet ridiculous, like a man who has fallen into the water with all his clothes on, and, being rescued from death, fright and still, feels that he only looks a fool. Turning round he stared at me, but I perceived that he did not see me. His round blue eyes looked harassed behind his glasses. Strava, I said. He gave a little start, and then smiled, but his smile was rueful. Why are you idling in this disgraceful fashion? I asked gaily. It's a long time since I was at the Louvre. I thought I'd come and see if they had anything new. But you told me you had to get a picture finished this week. Strickland's painting in my studio. Well, I suggested it myself. He's not strong enough to go back to his own place yet. I thought we could both paint there, and lots of fellows in the quarter-stair of studio. I thought it would be fun. I always thought it would be jolly to have someone to talk to when one was tired of work. He said all this slowly, detaching statement from statement with a little awkward silence. Then he kept his kind, foolish eyes fixed on mine. They were full of tears. I don't think I understand, I said. Strickland can't work with anyone else in the studio. Damn it all, it's your studio. That's his lookout. He looked at me pitifully. His lips were trembling. What happened? I asked, rather sharply. He hesitated and flushed. He glanced unhappily at one of the pictures on the wall. He wouldn't let me go on painting. He told me to get out. But why didn't you tell him to go to hell? He turned me out. I couldn't very well struggle with him. He threw my hat off to me and locked the door. I was furious with Strickland and was indignant with myself because Derek Stover cut such an absurd figure that I felt inclined to laugh. But what did your wife say? She's gone out to do the marketing. Is he going to let her in? I don't know. I gazed at Stover with perplexity. He stood like a schoolboy with whom a master is finding fault. Shall I get rid of Strickland for you? I asked. He gave a little start, and his shining face grew very red. No, you better not do anything. He nodded to me and walked away. It was clear that for some reason he did not want to discuss the matter. I did not understand. End of Chapter 27