The Moon and Sixpence

The Moonand SixpencebySomerset MaughamAn Electronic Classics Series Publication

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The Moonand SixpencebySomerset MaughamSomerset MaughamChapter II CONFESS that when first I made acquaintancewith Charles Strickland I never for a momentdiscerned that there was in him anything out ofthe ordinary. Yet now few will be found to denyhis greatness. I do not speak of that greatnesswhich is achieved by the fortunate politician orthe successful soldier; that is a quality whichbelongs to the place he occupies rather than tothe man; and a change of circumstances reduces3it to very discreet proportions. The Prime Ministerout of office is seen, too often, to have beenbut a pompous rhetorician, and the General withoutan army is but the tame hero of a markettown. The greatness of Charles Strickland wasauthentic. It may be that you do not like his art,but at all events you can hardly refuse it the tributeof your interest. He disturbs and arrests. Thetime has passed when he was an object of ridicule,and it is no longer a mark of eccentricity todefend or of perversity to extol him. His faultsare accepted as the necessary complement to hismerits. It is still possible to discuss his place inart, and the adulation of his admirers is perhapsno less capricious than the disparagement of hisdetractors; but one thing can never be doubtful,and that is that he had genius. To my mind themost interesting thing in art is the personalityof the artist; and if that is singular, I am willingto excuse a thousand faults. I suppose Velasquezwas a better painter than El Greco, but custom

The Moon and Sixpencestales one’s admiration for him: the Cretan, sensualand tragic, proffers the mystery of his soul cility, have followed. For a long time no critic haswhich succeeding writers, with more or less do-like a standing sacrifice. The artist, painter, poet, enjoyed in France a more incontestable authority,and it was impossible not to be impressed byor musician, by his decoration, sublime or beautiful,satisfies the aesthetic sense; but that is akin the claims he made; they seemed extravagant;to the sexual instinct, and shares its barbarity: but later judgments have confirmed his estimate,he lays before you also the greater gift of himself.To pursue his secret has something of the firmly established on the lines which he laidand the reputation of Charles Strickland is nowfascination of a detective story. It is a riddle which down. The rise of this reputation is one of theshares with the universe the merit of having no most romantic incidents in the history of art. Butanswer. The most insignificant of Strickland’s I do not propose to deal with Charles Strickland’sworks suggests a personality which is strange, work except in so far as it touches upon his character.I cannot agree with the painters who claimtormented, and complex; and it is this surelywhich prevents even those who do not like his superciliously that the layman can understandpictures from being indifferent to them; it is this nothing of painting, and that he can best showwhich has excited so curious an interest in his his appreciation of their works by silence and alife and character.cheque-book. It is a grotesque misapprehensionIt was not till four years after Strickland’s which sees in art no more than a craft comprehensibleperfectly only to the craftsman: art is adeath that Maurice Huret wrote that article inthe Mercure de France which rescued the unknownpainter from oblivion and blazed the trail language that all may understand. But I willmanifestation of emotion, and emotion speaks aal-4

Somerset Maughamlow that the critic who has not a practical knowledgeof technique is seldom able to say anything when such as had come in contact with Stricklandable him more easily to effect his purpose. Andon the subject of real value, and my ignorance of in the past, writers who had known him in London,painters who had met him in the cafes ofpainting is extreme. Fortunately, there is no needfor me to risk the adventure, since my friend, Montmartre, discovered to their amazement thatMr. Edward Leggatt, an able writer as well as an where they had seen but an unsuccessful artist,admirable painter, has exhaustively discussed like another, authentic genius had rubbed shoulderswith them there began to appear in theCharles Strickland’s work in a little book* whichis a charming example of a style, for the most magazines of France and America a successionpart, less happily cultivated in England than in of articles, the reminiscences of one, the appreciationof another, which added to Strickland’sFrance.Maurice Huret in his famous article gave an notoriety, and fed without satisfying the curiosityof the public. The subject was grateful, andoutline of Charles Strickland’s life which waswell calculated to whet the appetites of the inquiring.With his disinterested passion for art, ing monograph* has been able to give a remark-the industrious Weitbrecht-Rotholz in his impos-he had a real desire to call the attention of the able list of authorities.wise to a talent which was in the highest degree The faculty for myth is innate in the humanoriginal; but he was too good a journalist to be race. It seizes with avidity upon any incidents,unaware that the “human interest” would en-surprising or mysterious, in the career of those*A Modern Artist: Notes on the Work of CharlesStrickland, by Edward Leggatt, A.R.H.A. MartinSecker, 1917.5*“Karl Strickland: sein Leben und seine Kunst,”by Hugo Weitbrecht-Rotholz, Ph.D. Schwingelund Hanisch. Leipzig, 1914.

The Moon and Sixpencewho have at all distinguished themselves from of such circumstantiality that the wise historiantheir fellows, and invents a legend to which it would hesitate to attack it.then attaches a fanatical belief. It is the protest But a wise historian is precisely what the Rev.of romance against the commonplace of life. The Robert Strickland is not. He wrote his biography*incidents of the legend become the hero’s surestpassport to immortality. The ironic philoso-which had gained currency” in regard to the lateravowedly to “remove certain misconceptionspher reflects with a smile that Sir Walter Raleigh part of his father’s life, and which had “causedis more safely inshrined in the memory of mankindbecause he set his cloak for the Virgin Queen obvious that there was much in the commonlyconsiderable pain to persons still living.” It isto walk on than because he carried the English received account of Strickland’s life to embarrassa respectable family. I have read this workname to undiscovered countries. CharlesStrickland lived obscurely. He made enemies with a good deal of amusement, and upon this Irather than friends. It is not strange, then, that congratulate myself, since it is colourless andthose who wrote of him should have eked out dull. Mr. Strickland has drawn the portrait of antheir scanty recollections with a lively fancy, and excellent husband and father, a man of kindlyit is evident that there was enough in the little temper, industrious habits, and moral disposition.that was known of him to give opportunity to The modern clergyman has acquired in his studythe romantic scribe; there was much in his life of the science which I believe is called exegesiswhich was strange and terrible, in his character an astonishing facility for explaining things away,something outrageous, and in his fate not a littlethat was pathetic. In due course a legend arose *Strickland: The Man and His Work, by his son,Robert Strickland. Wm. Heinemann, 1913.6

Somerset Maughambut the subtlety with which the Rev. Robert Christie’s shortly after the discussion which followedthe publication of Mr. Strickland’s biog-Strickland has “interpreted” all the facts in hisfather’s life which a dutiful son might find it raphy, it fetched £ 235 less than it had done nineinconvenient to remember must surely lead him months before when it was bought by the distinguishedcollector whose sudden death hadin the fullness of time to the highest dignities ofthe Church. I see already his muscular calves brought it once more under the hammer. Perhapsencased in the gaiters episcopal. It was a hazardous,though maybe a gallant thing to do, since scarcely have sufficed to turn the scale if the re-Charles Strickland’s power and originality wouldit is probable that the legend commonly received markable mythopoeic faculty of mankind had nothas had no small share in the growth of brushed aside with impatience a story which disappointedall its craving for the extraordinary.Strickland’s reputation; for there are many whohave been attracted to his art by the detestationAnd presently Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz producedin which they held his character or the compassionwith which they regarded his death; andthe work which finally set at rest the misgivingsof all lovers of art.the son’s well-meaning efforts threw a singularDr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz belongs to that schoolchill upon the father’s admirers. It is due to noof historians which believes that human natureaccident that when one of his most importantis not only about as bad as it can be, but a greatworks, The Woman of Samaria,* was sold atdeal worse; and certainly the reader is safer of*This was described in Christie’s catalogue asentertainment in their hands than in those offollows: “A nude woman, a native of the SocietyIslands, is lying on the ground beside a brook.the writers who take a malicious pleasure in representingthe great figures of romance as pat-Behind is a tropical Landscape with palm-trees,bananas, etc. 60 in. x 48 in.”7

The Moon and Sixpenceterns of the domestic virtues. For my part, I Charles Strickland in a letter written from Parisshould be sorry to think that there was nothing had described her as “an excellent woman,”between Anthony and Cleopatra but an economic since Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz was able to printsituation; and it will require a great deal more the letter in facsimile, and it appears that theevidence than is ever likely to be available, thank passage referred to ran in fact as follows: GodGod, to persuade me that Tiberius was as blamelessa monarch as King George V. Dr. Weitbrecht- she was in hell.> It is not thus that the Church indamn my wife. She is an excellent woman. I wishRotholz has dealt in such terms with the Rev. its great days dealt with evidence that was unwelcome.Robert Strickland’s innocent biography that itis difficult to avoid feeling a certain sympathy Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz was an enthusiastic admirerof Charles Strickland, and there was nofor the unlucky parson. His decent reticence isbranded as hypocrisy, his circumlocutions are danger that he would whitewash him. He hadroundly called lies, and his silence is vilified as an unerring eye for the despicable motive in actionsthat had all the appearance of innocence.treachery. And on the strength of peccadillos,reprehensible in an author, but excusable in a He was a psycho-pathologist, as well as a studentof art, and the subconscious had few secretsson, the Anglo-Saxon race is accused of prudishness,humbug, pretentiousness, deceit, cunning, from him. No mystic ever saw deeper meaningand bad cooking. Personally I think it was rash in common things. The mystic sees the ineffable,of Mr. Strickland, in refuting the account which and the psycho-pathologist the unspeakable.had gained belief of a certain “unpleasantness” There is a singular fascination in watching thebetween his father and mother, to state that eagerness with which the learned author ferrets8

Somerset Maughamout every circumstance which may throw discrediton his hero. His heart warms to him whenChapter IIhe can bring forward some example of cruelty WHEN SO MUCH has been written about Charlesor meanness, and he exults like an inquisitor at Strickland, it may seem unnecessary that I shouldthe auto da fe of an heretic when with some forgottenstory he can confound the filial piety of It is true I knew him more intimately than most:write more. A painter’s monument is his work.the Rev. Robert Strickland. His industry has been I met him first before ever he became a painter,amazing. Nothing has been too small to escape and I saw him not infrequently during the difficultyears he spent in Paris; but I do not supposehim, and you may be sure that if CharlesStrickland left a laundry bill unpaid it will be I should ever have set down my recollections ifgiven you in extenso, and if he forebore to returna borrowed half-crown no detail of the transhiti.There, as is notorious, he spent the last yearsthe hazards of the war had not taken me to Taactionwill be omitted.of his life; and there I came across persons whowere familiar with him. I find myself in a positionto throw light on just that part of his tragiccareer which has remained most obscure. If theywho believe in Strickland’s greatness are right,the personal narratives of such as knew him inthe flesh can hardly be superfluous. What wouldwe not give for the reminiscences of someonewho had been as intimately acquainted with El9

The Moon and SixpenceGreco as I was with Strickland?the tedium of a journey. And if I may judge fromBut I seek refuge in no such excuses. I forget the reviews, many of these books are well andwho it was that recommended men for their carefully written; much thought has gone to theirsoul’s good to do each day two things they disliked:it was a wise man, and it is a precept that anxious labour of a lifetime. The moral I draw iscomposition; to some even has been given theI have followed scrupulously; for every day I have that the writer should seek his reward in the pleasureof his work and in release from the burdengot up and I have gone to bed. But there is in mynature a strain of asceticism, and I have subjected of his thought; and, indifferent to aught else, caremy flesh each week to a more severe mortification.I have never failed to read the Literary Now the war has come, bringing with it a newnothing for praise or censure, failure or success.Supplement of The Times. It is a salutary disciplineto consider the vast number of books that lier day knew not, and it is possible to see al-attitude. Youth has turned to gods we of an ear-are written, the fair hopes with which their authorssee them published, and the fate which after us will move. The younger generation, conreadythe direction in which those who comeawaits them. What chance is there that any book scious of strength and tumultuous, have donewill make its way among that multitude? And the with knocking at the door; they have burst insuccessful books are but the successes of a season.Heaven knows what pains the author has noisy with their shouts. Of their elders some, byand seated themselves in our seats. The air isbeen at, what bitter experiences he has endured imitating the antics of youth, strive to persuadeand what heartache suffered, to give some chance themselves that their day is not yet over; theyreader a few hours’ relaxation or to while away shout with the lustiest, but the war cry sounds10

Somerset Maughamhollow in their mouth; they are like poor wantonsattempting with pencil, paint and powder, in his day, and the world recognised his geniusthinks of George Crabbe? He was a famous poetwith shrill gaiety, to recover the illusion of their with a unanimity which the greater complexityspring. The wiser go their way with a decent of modern life has rendered infrequent. He hadgrace. In their chastened smile is an indulgent learnt his craft at the school of Alexander Pope,mockery. They remember that they too trod down and he wrote moral stories in rhymed couplets.a sated generation, with just such clamor and Then came the French Revolution and the NapoleonicWars, and the poets sang new songs. Mr.with just such scorn, and they foresee that thesebrave torch-bearers will presently yield their Crabbe continued to write moral stories inplace also. There is no last word. The new evangelwas old when Nineveh reared her greatness verse of these young men who were making sorhymed couplets. I think he must have read theto the sky. These gallant words which seem so great a stir in the world, and I fancy he found itnovel to those that speak them were said in accentsscarcely changed a hundred times before. odes of Keats and of Wordsworth, a poem or twopoor stuff. Of course, much of it was. But theThe pendulum swings backwards and forwards. by Coleridge, a few more by Shelley, discoveredThe circle is ever travelled anew.vast realms of the spirit that none had exploredSometimes a man survives a considerable time before. Mr. Crabbe was as dead as mutton, butfrom an era in which he had his place into one Mr. Crabbe continued to write moral stories inwhich is strange to him, and then the curious rhymed couplets. I have read desultorily theare offered one of the most singular spectacles writings of the younger generation. It may bein the human comedy. Who now, for example, that among them a more fervid Keats, a more11

The Moon and Sixpenceethereal Shelley, has already published numbersChapter IIIthe world will willingly remember. I cannot tell.I admire their polish — their youth is already so BUT ALL THIS is by the way.accomplished that it seems absurd to speak of I was very young when I wrote my first book.promise — I marvel at the felicity of their style; By a lucky chance it excited attention, and variouspersons sought my acquaintance.but with all their copiousness (their vocabularysuggests that they fingered Roget’s Thesaurus It is not without melancholy that I wanderin their cradles) they say nothing to me: to my among my recollections of the world of letters inmind they know too much and feel too obviously; London when first, bashful but eager, I was introducedto it. It is long since I frequented it,I cannot stomach the heartiness with which theyslap me on the back or the emotion with which and if the novels that describe its presentthey hurl themselves on my bosom; their passionseems to me a little anaemic and their changed. The venue is different. Chelsea andsingularities are accurate much in it is nowdreams a trifle dull. I do not like them. I am on Bloomsbury have taken the place of Hampstead,the shelf. I will continue to write moral stories Notting Hill Gate, and High Street, Kensington.in rhymed couplets. But I should be thrice a fool Then it was a distinction to be under forty, butif I did it for aught but my own entertainment. now to be more than twenty-five is absurd. I thinkin those days we were a little shy of our emotions,and the fear of ridicule tempered the moreobvious forms of pretentiousness. I do not believethat there was in that genteel Bohemia an12

Somerset Maughamintensive culture of chastity, but I do not rememberso crude a promiscuity as seems to be prac-my ease and listen to the clever things they said.that I could observe these famous creatures attised in the present day. We did not think it hypocriticalto draw over our vagaries the curtain of with great noses and rapacious eyes, who woreI have a recollection of large, unbending womena decent silence. The spade was not invariably their clothes as though they were armour; andcalled a bloody shovel. Woman had not yet altogethercome into her own.a shrewd glance. I never ceased to be fascinatedof little, mouse-like spinsters, with soft voices andI lived near Victoria Station, and I recall long by their persistence in eating buttered toast withexcursions by bus to the hospitable houses of the their gloves on, and I observed with admirationliterary. In my timidity I wandered up and down the unconcern with which they wiped their fingerson their chair when they thought no onethe street while I screwed up my courage to ringthe bell; and then, sick with apprehension, was was looking. It must have been bad for the furniture,but I suppose the hostess took her revengeushered into an airless room full of people. I wasintroduced to this celebrated person after that on the furniture of her friends when, in turn,one, and the kind words they said about my book she visited them. Some of them were dressedmade me excessively uncomfortable. I felt they fashionably, and they said they couldn’t for theexpected me to say clever things, and I never life of them see why you should be dowdy justcould think of any till after the party was over. I because you had written a novel; if you had atried to conceal my embarrassment by handing neat figure you might as well make the most ofround cups of tea and rather ill-cut bread-andbutter.I wanted no one to take notice of me, so prevented an editor from taking yourit, and a smart shoe on a small foot had never“stuff.”13

The Moon and SixpenceBut others thought this frivolous, and they wore more highly valued than the crackling of thorns“art fabrics” and barbaric jewelry. The men were under a pot; and the epigram, not yet a mechanicalappliance by which the dull may achieve aseldom eccentric in appearance. They tried tolook as little like authors as possible. They wished semblance of wit, gave sprightliness to the smallto be taken for men of the world, and could have talk of the urbane. It is sad that I can rememberpassed anywhere for the managing clerks of a nothing of all this scintillation. But I think thecity firm. They always seemed a little tired. I had conversation never settled down so comfortablynever known writers before, and I found them as when it turned to the details of the trade whichvery strange, but I do not think they ever seemed was the other side of the art we practised. Whento me quite real.we had done discussing the merits of the latestI remember that I thought their conversation book, it was natural to wonder how many copiesbrilliant, and I used to listen with astonishment had been sold, what advance the author had received,and how much he was likely to make outto the stinging humour with which they wouldtear a brother-author to pieces the moment that of it. Then we would speak of this publisher andhis back was turned. The artist has this advantageover the rest of the world, that his friends the meanness of another; we would argueof that, comparing the generosity of one withoffer not only their appearance and their characterto his satire, but also their work. I despaired handsome royalties or to another who “pushed”whether it was better to go to one who gaveof ever expressing myself with such aptness or a book for all it was worth. Some advertised badlywith such fluency. In those days conversation was and some well. Some were modern and somestill cultivated as an art; a neat repartee was were old-fashioned. Then we would talk of agents14

Somerset Maughamand the offers they had obtained for us; of editorsand the sort of contributions they welcomed,Chapter IVhow much they paid a thousand, and whether NO ONE WAS KINDER to me at that time than Rosethey paid promptly or otherwise. To me it was Waterford. She combined a masculine intelligencewith a feminine perversity, and the novelsall very romantic. It gave me an intimate senseof being a member of some mystic brotherhood. she wrote were original and disconcerting. It wasat her house one day that I met CharlesStrickland’s wife. Miss Waterford was giving atea-party, and her small room was more thanusually full. Everyone seemed to be talking, andI, sitting in silence, felt awkward; but I was tooshy to break into any of the groups that seemedabsorbed in their own affairs. Miss Waterford wasa good hostess, and seeing my embarrassmentcame up to me.“I want you to talk to Mrs. Strickland,” shesaid. “She’s raving about your book.”“What does she do?” I asked.I was conscious of my ignorance, and if Mrs.Strickland was a well-known writer I thought itas well to ascertain the fact before I spoke to her.15

The Moon and SixpenceRose Waterford cast down her eyes demurely and St. James’s Park. Mrs. Strickland asked meto give greater effect to her reply.for my address, and a few days later I received“She gives luncheon-parties. You’ve only got an invitation to luncheon.to roar a little, and she’ll ask you.”My engagements were few, and I was glad toRose Waterford was a cynic. She looked upon accept. When I arrived, a little late, because inlife as an opportunity for writing novels and the my fear of being too early I had walked threepublic as her raw material. Now and then she times round the cathedral, I found the party alreadycomplete. Miss Waterford was there andinvited members of it to her house if they showedan appreciation of her talent and entertained Mrs. Jay, Richard Twining and George Road. Wewith proper lavishness. She held their weakness were all writers. It was a fine day, early in spring,for lions in good-humoured contempt, but played and we were in a good humour. We talked aboutto them her part of the distinguished woman of a hundred things. Miss Waterford, torn betweenletters with decorum.the aestheticism of her early youth, when sheI was led up to Mrs. Strickland, and for ten minuteswe talked together. I noticed nothing about daffodil, and the flippancy of her maturer years,used to go to parties in sage green, holding aher except that she had a pleasant voice. She which tended to high heels and Paris frocks, worehad a flat in Westminster, overlooking the unfinishedcathedral, and because we lived in the same heard her more malicious about our commona new hat. It put her in high spirits. I had neverneighbourhood we felt friendly disposed to one friends. Mrs. Jay, aware that impropriety is theanother. The Army and Navy Stores are a bond soul of wit, made observations in tones hardlyof union between all who dwell between the river above a whisper that might well have tinged the16

Somerset Maughamsnowy tablecloth with a rosy hue. Richard Twiningbubbled over with quaint absurdities, and in straight lines, and the green carpet, in thegreen curtains with their peacock design, hungGeorge Road, conscious that he need not exhibit pattern of which pale rabbits frolicked amonga brilliancy which was almost a by-word, opened leafy trees, suggested the influence of Williamhis mouth only to put food into it. Mrs. Strickland Morris. There was blue delft on the chimneypiece.did not talk much, but she had a pleasant gift At that time there must have been five hundredfor keeping the conversation general; and when dining-rooms in London decorated in exactly thethere was a pause she threw in just the right same manner. It was chaste, artistic, and dull.remark to set it going once more. She was a When we left I walked away with Misswoman of thirty-seven, rather tall and plump, Waterford, and the fine day and her new hatwithout being fat; she was not pretty, but her persuaded us to saunter through the Park.face was pleasing, chiefly, perhaps, on account “That was a very nice party,” I said.of her kind brown eyes. Her skin was rather sallow.Her dark hair was elaborately dressed. She that if she wanted writers she must feed them“Did you think the food was good? I told herwas the only woman of the three whose face was well.”free of make-up, and by contrast with the others “Admirable advice,” I answered. “But whyshe seemed simple and unaffected.does she want them?”The dining-room was in the good taste of the Miss Waterford shrugged her shoulders.period. It was very severe. There was a high dado “She finds them amusing. She wants to be inof white wood and a green paper on which were the movement. I fancy she’s rather simple, pooretchings by Whistler in neat black frames. The dear, and she thinks we’re all wonderful. After17

The Moon and Sixpenceall, it pleases her to ask us to luncheon, and it them and visited them in their fastnesses. Shedoesn’t hurt us. I like her for it.”accepted the rules with which they played theLooking back, I think that Mrs. Strickland was game of life as valid for them, but never for athe most harmless of all the lion-hunters that moment thought of regulating her own conductpursue their quarry from the rarefied heights of in accordance with them. Their moral eccentricities,like their oddities of dress, their wild theo-Hampstead to the nethermost studios of CheyneWalk. She had led a very quiet youth in the country,and the books that came down from Mudie’s which amused her, but had not the slightest inriesand paradoxes, were an entertainmentLibrary brought with them not only their own fluence on her convictions.romance, but the romance of London. She had a “Is there a Mr. Strickland?” I askedreal passion for reading (rare in her kind, who “Oh yes; he’s something in the city. I believefor the most part are more interested in the authorthan in his book, in the painter than in his “Are they good friends?”he’s a stockbroker. He’s very dull.”pictures), and she invented a world of the imaginationin which she lived with a freedom she you dine there. But she doesn’t often have people“They adore one another. You’ll meet him ifnever acquired in the world of every day. When to dinner. He’s very quiet. He’s not in the leastshe came to know writers it was like adventuringupon a stage which till then she had known “Why do nice women marry dull men?”interested in literature or the arts.”only from the other side of the footlights. She “Because intelligent men won’t marry nicesaw them dramatically, and really seemed herselfto live a larger life because she entertained I could not think of any retort to this, so Iwomen.”asked18

Somerset Maughamif Mrs. Strickland had children.Chapter V“ Yes; she has a boy and a girl. They’re both atschool.”During the summer I met Mrs. Strickland notThe subject was exhausted, and we began to infrequently. I went now and then to pleasanttalk of other things.little luncheons at her flat, and to rather moreformidable tea-parties. We took a fancy to oneanother. I was very young, and perhaps she likedthe idea of guiding my virgin steps on the hardroad of letters; while for me it was pleasant tohave someone I could go to with my smalltroubles, certain of an attentive ear and reasonablecounsel. Mrs. Strickland had the gift of sympathy.It is a charming faculty, but one oftenabused by those who are conscious of its possession:for there is something ghoulish in the aviditywith which they will pounce upon the misfortuneof their friends so that they may exercisetheir dexterity. It gushes forth like an oil-well,and the sympathetic pour out their sympathywith an abandon that is sometimes embarrassingto their victims. There are bosoms on which19

The Moon and Sixpenceso many tears have been shed that I cannot food was well cooked. It was impossible not tobedew them with mine. Mrs. Strickland used her see that Mrs. Strickland was an excellent housekeeper.And you felt sure that she was an admi-advantage with tact. You felt that you obligedher by accepting her sympathy. When, in the rable mother. There were photographs in theenthusiasm of my youth, I remarked on this to drawing-room of her son and daughter. The sonRose Waterford, she said:— his name was Robert — was a boy of sixteen at“Milk is very nice, especially with a drop of Rugby; and you saw him in flannels and a cricketbrandy in it, but the domestic cow is only too cap, and again in a tail-coat and a stand-up collar.He had his mother’s candid brow and fine,glad to be rid of it. A swollen udder is very uncomfortable.”reflective eyes. He looked clean, healthy, andRose Waterford had a blistering tongue. No one normal.could say such bitter things; on the other hand, “I don’t know that he’s very clever,” she saidno one could do more charming ones.one day, when I was looking at the photograph,There was another thing I liked in Mrs. “but I know he’s good. He has a charming character.”Strickland. She managed her surroundings withelegance. Her flat was always neat and cheerful, The daughter was fourteen. Her hair, thick andgay with flowers, and the chintzes in the drawing-room,notwithstanding their severe design, in fine profusion, and she had the same kindlydark like her mother’s, fell over her shoulderswere bright and pretty. The meals in the artistic expression and sedate, untroubled eyes.little dining-room were pleasant; the table looked “They’re both of them the image of you,” Inice, the two maids were trim and comely; the said.20

Somerset Maugham“ Yes; I think they are more like me than their she had a fear that I would make the sort of gibefather. ”that such a confession could hardly have failed“Why have you never let me meet him?” I to elicit from Rose Waterford. She hesitated aasked.little. Her eyes grew tender.“ Would you like to?”“He doesn’t pretend to be a genius. He doesn’tShe smiled, her smile was really very sweet, even make much money on the Stock Exchange.and she blushed a little; it was singular that a But he’s awfully good and kind.”woman of that age should flush so readily. Perhapsher naivete was her greatest charm.“I’ll ask you to dine with us quietly some time,“I think I should like him very much.”“ You know, he’s not at all literary,” she said. but mind, you come at your own risk; don’t“He’s a perfect philistine.”blame me if you have a very dull evening.”She said this not disparagingly, but affectionatelyrather, as though, by acknowledging theworst about him, she wished to protect him fromthe aspersions of her friends.“He’s on the Stock Exchange, and he’s a typicalbroker. I think he’d bore you to death.”“Does he bore you?” I asked.“ You see, I happen to be his wife. I’m veryfond of him.”She smiled to cover her shyness, and I fancied21

The Moon and SixpenceChapter VI“I asked him to show him that I really had ahusband. I think he was beginning to doubt it.”BUT WHEN AT LAST I met Charles Strickland, it was Strickland gave the polite little laugh withunder circumstances which allowed me to do no which people acknowledge a facetiousness inmore than just make his acquaintance. One morningMrs. Strickland sent me round a note to say New arrivals claimed my host’s attention, and Iwhich they see nothing funny, but did not speak.that she was giving a dinner-party that evening, was left to myself. When at last we were all assembled,waiting for dinner to be announced, Iand one of her guests had failed her. She askedme to stop the gap. She wrote:reflected, while I chatted with the woman I hadbeen asked to “take in,” that civilised man practisesa strange ingenuity in wasting on tedious“It’s only decent to warn you that you will bebored to extinction. It was a thoroughly dull party exercises the brief span of his life. It was thefrom the beginning, but if you will come I shall kind of party which makes you wonder why thebe uncommonly grateful. And you and I can have hostess has troubled to bid her guests, and whya little chat by ourselves.”the guests have troubled to come. There wereten people. They met with indifference, andIt was only neighbourly to accept.would part with relief. It was, of course, a purelyWhen Mrs. Strickland introduced me to her husband,he gave me a rather indifferent hand to to a number of persons, whom they took no in-social function. The Stricklands “owed” dinnersshake. Turning to him gaily, she attempted a small terest in, and so had asked them; these personsjest.had accepted. Why? To avoid the tedium of din-22

Somerset Maughaming tete-a-tete, to give their servants a rest, becausethere was no reason to refuse, because they and savoury. They talked of the political situa-neighbour on the left during the roast, sweet,were “owed” a dinner.tion and of golf, of their children and the latestThe dining-room was inconveniently crowded. play, of the pictures at the Royal Academy, of theThere was a K.C. and his wife, a Government weather and their plans for the holidays. Thereofficial and his wife, Mrs. Strickland’s sister and was never a pause, and the noise grew louder.her husband, Colonel MacAndrew, and the wife Mrs. Strickland might congratulate herself thatof a Member of Parliament. It was because the her party was a success. Her husband played hisMember of Parliament found that he could not part with decorum. Perhaps he did not talk veryleave the House that I had been invited. The respectabilityof the party was portentous. The a look of fatigue in the faces of the women onmuch, and I fancied there was towards the endwomen were too nice to be well dressed, and too either side of him. They were finding him heavy.sure of their position to be amusing. The men Once or twice Mrs. Strickland’s eyes rested onwere solid. There was about all of them an air of him somewhat anxiously.well-satisfied prosperity.At last she rose and shepherded the ladies outEveryone talked a little louder than natural in of one room. Strickland shut the door behind her,an instinctive desire to make the party go, and and, moving to the other end of the table, tookthere was a great deal of noise in the room. But his place between the K.C. and the Governmentthere was no general conversation. Each one official. He passed round the port again andtalked to his neighbour; to his neighbour on the handed us cigars. The K.C. remarked on the excellenceof the wine, and Strickland told us right during the soup, fish, and entree; to hiswhere23

The Moon and Sixpencehe got it. We began to chat about vintages and Mrs. Strickland felt a certain embarrassmenttobacco. The K.C. told us of a case he was engagedin, and the Colonel talked about polo. I who wanted to make herself a position in theabout him; he was scarcely a credit to a womanhad nothing to say and so sat silent, trying politelyto show interest in the conversation; and had no social gifts, but these a man can do with-world of art and letters. It was obvious that hebecause I thought no one was in the least concernedwith me, examined Strickland at my ease. of the common run; he was just a good, dull,out; he had no eccentricity even, to take him outHe was bigger than I expected: I do not know honest, plain man. One would admire his excellentqualities, but avoid his company. He was null.why I had imagined him slender and of insignificantappearance; in point of fact he was broad He was probably a worthy member of society, aand heavy, with large hands and feet, and he good husband and father, an honest broker; butwore his evening clothes clumsily. He gave you there was no reason to waste one’s time oversomewhat the idea of a coachman dressed up him.for the occasion. He was a man of forty, not goodlooking,and yet not ugly, for his features wererather good; but they were all a little larger thanlife-size, and the effect was ungainly. He wasclean shaven, and his large face looked uncomfortablynaked. His hair was reddish, cut veryshort, and his eyes were small, blue or grey. Helooked commonplace. I no longer wondered that24

Somerset MaughamChapter VIItraordinarily nice, healthy young children. It wasvery agreeable under the trees.THE SEASON was drawing to its dusty end, and When in an hour they crowded into a cab to goeveryone I knew was arranging to go away. Mrs. home, I strolled idly to my club. I was perhaps aStrickland was taking her family to the coast of little lonely, and it was with a touch of envy thatNorfolk, so that the children might have the sea I thought of the pleasant family life of which Iand her husband golf. We said good-bye to one had had a glimpse. They seemed devoted to oneanother, and arranged to meet in the autumn. another. They had little private jokes of their ownBut on my last day in town, coming out of the which, unintelligible to the outsider, amusedStores, I met her with her son and daughter; like them enormously. Perhaps Charles Stricklandmyself, she had been making her final purchases was dull judged by a standard that demandedbefore leaving London, and we were both hot above all things verbal scintillation; but his intelligencewas adequate to his surroundings, andand tired. I proposed that we should all go andeat ices in the park.that is a passport, not only to reasonable success,but still more to happiness. Mrs. StricklandI think Mrs. Strickland was glad to show meher children, and she accepted my invitation with was a charming woman, and she loved him. Ialacrity. They were even more attractive than pictured their lives, troubled by no untowardtheir photographs had suggested, and she was adventure, honest, decent, and, by reason ofright to be proud of them. I was young enough those two upstanding, pleasant children, so obviouslydestined to carry on the normal tradi-for them not to feel shy, and they chattered merrilyabout one thing and another. They were extionsof their race and station, not without sig-25

The Moon and Sixpencenificance. They would grow old insensibly; they fever in my blood asked for a wilder course. Therewould see their son and daughter come to years seemed to me something alarming in such easyof reason, marry in due course — the one a pretty delights. In my heart was a desire to live moregirl, future mother of healthy children; the other dangerously. I was not unprepared for jaggeda handsome, manly fellow, obviously a soldier; rocks and treacherous shoals if I could only haveand at last, prosperous in their dignified retirement,beloved by their descendants, after a foreseen.change — change and the excitement of the un-happy, not unuseful life, in the fullness of theirage they would sink into the grave.That must be the story of innumerable couples,and the pattern of life it offers has a homelygrace. It reminds you of a placid rivulet, meanderingsmoothly through green pastures andshaded by pleasant trees, till at last it falls intothe vasty sea; but the sea is so calm, so silent, soindifferent, that you are troubled suddenly by avague uneasiness. Perhaps it is only by a kink inmy nature, strong in me even in those days, thatI felt in such an existence, the share of the greatmajority, something amiss. I recognised its socialvalues, I saw its ordered happiness, but a26

Somerset MaughamChapter VIIIist in it and by it only. They are like cells in thebody, essential, but, so long as they remainON READING OVER what I have written of the healthy, engulfed in the momentous whole. TheStricklands, I am conscious that they must seem Stricklands were an average family in the middleshadowy. I have been able to invest them with class. A pleasant, hospitable woman, with a harmlesscraze for the small lions of literary society; anone of those characteristics which make thepersons of a book exist with a real life of their rather dull man, doing his duty in that state ofown; and, wondering if the fault is mine, I rack life in which a merciful Providence had placedmy brains to remember idiosyncrasies which him; two nice-looking, healthy children. Nothingmight lend them vividness. I feel that by dwellingon some trick of speech or some queer habit was anything about them to excite the atten-could be more ordinary. I do not know that thereI should be able to give them a significance peculiarto themselves. As they stand they are like When I reflect on all that happened later, I asktion of the curious.the figures in an old tapestry; they do not separatethemselves from the background, and at a was in Charles Strickland at least something outmyself if I was thick-witted not to see that theredistance seem to lose their pattern, so that you of the common. Perhaps. I think that I have gatheredin the years that intervene between thenhave little but a pleasing piece of colour. My onlyexcuse is that the impression they made on me and now a fair knowledge of mankind, but evenwas no other. There was just that shadowiness if when I first met the Stricklands I had the experiencewhich I have now, I do not believe thatabout them which you find in people whose livesare part of the social organism, so that they ex-I should have judged them differently. But be-27

The Moon and Sixpencecause I have learnt that man is incalculable, I Street, and so, like an artist, flung the bare factshould not at this time of day be so surprised by at me and declared that she knew no details. Ithe news that reached me when in the early autumnI returned to London.so trifling a circumstance would have preventedcould not do her the injustice of supposing thatI had not been back twenty-four hours before I her from giving them, but she was obstinate.ran across Rose Waterford in Jermyn Street. “I tell you I know nothing,” she said, in reply“ You look very gay and sprightly,” I said. to my agitated questions, and then, with an airy“What’s the matter with you?”shrug of the shoulders: “I believe that a youngShe smiled, and her eyes shone with a malice I person in a city tea-shop has left her situation.”knew already. It meant that she had heard some She flashed a smile at me, and, protesting anscandal about one of her friends, and the instinct engagement with her dentist, jauntily walked on.of the literary woman was all alert.I was more interested than distressed. In those“ You did meet Charles Strickland, didn’t you?” days my experience of life at first hand was small,Not only her face, but her whole body, gave a and it excited me to come upon an incidentsense of alacrity. I nodded. I wondered if the poor among people I knew of the same sort as I haddevil had been hammered on the Stock Exchange read in books. I confess that time has now accustomedme to incidents of this character amongor run over by an omnibus.“Isn’t it dreadful? He’s run away from his my acquaintance. But I was a little shocked.wife.”Strickland was certainly forty, and I thought itMiss Waterford certainly felt that she could not disgusting that a man of his age should concerndo her subject justice on the curb of Jermyn himself with affairs of the heart. With the super-28

Somerset Maughamciliousness of extreme youth, I put thirty-five as a desire, that I felt a little ashamed of, to seethe utmost limit at which a man might fall in how she was taking it. I did not know what tolove without making a fool of himself. And this do.news was slightly disconcerting to me personally,because I had written from the country to though nothing had happened, and send a mes-Finally it occurred to me that I would call asMrs. Strickland, announcing my return, and had sage in by the maid asking Mrs. Strickland if itadded that unless I heard from her to the contrary,I would come on a certain day to drink a give her the opportunity to send me away. But Iwas convenient for her to see me. This woulddish of tea with her. This was the very day, and I was overwhelmed with embarrassment when Ihad received no word from Mrs. Strickland. Did said to the maid the phrase I had prepared, andshe want to see me or did she not? It was likely while I waited for the answer in a dark passageenough that in the agitation of the moment my I had to call up all my strength of mind not tonote had escaped her memory. Perhaps I should bolt. The maid came back. Her manner suggestedbe wiser not to go. On the other hand, she might to my excited fancy a complete knowledge of thewish to keep the affair quiet, and it might be domestic calamity.highly indiscreet on my part to give any sign that “Will you come this way, sir?” she said.this strange news had reached me. I was torn I followed her into the drawing-room. The blindsbetween the fear of hurting a nice woman’s feelingsand the fear of being in the way. I felt she Strickland was sitting with her back to the light.were partly drawn to darken the room, and Mrs.must be suffering, and I did not want to see a Her brother-in-law, Colonel MacAndrew, stood inpain which I could not help; but in my heart was front of the fireplace, warming his back at an29

The Moon and Sixpenceunlit fire. To myself my entrance seemed excessivelyawkward. I imagined that my arrival had whisky-and-soda.tea was brought in. The Colonel asked for ataken them by surprise, and Mrs. Strickland had “ You’d better have one too, Amy,” he said.let me come in only because she had forgotten “No; I prefer tea.”to put me off. I fancied that the Colonel resented This was the first suggestion that anything untowardhad happened. I took no notice, and didthe interruption.“I wasn’t quite sure if you expected me,” I my best to engage Mrs. Strickland in talk. Thesaid, trying to seem unconcerned.Colonel, still standing in front of the fireplace,“Of course I did. Anne will bring the tea in a uttered no word. I wondered how soon I couldminute.”decently take my leave, and I asked myself whyEven in the darkened room, I could not help on earth Mrs. Strickland had allowed me to come.seeing that Mrs. Strickland’s face was all swollenwith tears. Her skin, never very good, was put away during the summer, had not been re-There were no flowers, and various knick-knacks,earthy.placed; there was something cheerless and stiff“ You remember my brother-in-law, don’t you? about the room which had always seemed soYou met at dinner, just before the holidays.” friendly; it gave you an odd feeling, as thoughWe shook hands. I felt so shy that I could think someone were lying dead on the other side ofof nothing to say, but Mrs. Strickland came to the wall. I finished tea.my rescue. She asked me what I had been doing “Will you have a cigarette?” asked Mrs.with myself during the summer, and with this Strickland.help I managed to make some conversation till She looked about for the box, but it was not to30

Somerset Maughambe seen.“I’m awfully sorry,” I said, not knowing what“I’m afraid there are none.”else to say.Suddenly she burst into tears, and hurried from The Colonel gulped down his whisky. He was athe room.tall, lean man of fifty, with a drooping moustacheI was startled. I suppose now that the lack of and grey hair. He had pale blue eyes and a weakcigarettes, brought as a rule by her husband, mouth. I remembered from my previous meetingwith him that he had a foolish face, and wasforced him back upon her recollection, and thenew feeling that the small comforts she was used proud of the fact that for the ten years before heto were missing gave her a sudden pang. She left the army he had played polo three days arealised that the old life was gone and done with. week.It was impossible to keep up our social pretences “I don’t suppose Mrs. Strickland wants to beany longer.bothered with me just now,” I said. “Will you“I dare say you’d like me to go,” I said to the tell her how sorry I am? If there’s anything IColonel, getting up.can do. I shall be delighted to do it.”“I suppose you’ve heard that blackguard has He took no notice of me.deserted her,” he cried explosively.“I don’t know what’s to become of her. AndI hesitated.then there are the children. Are they going to“ You know how people gossip,” I answered. “I live on air? Seventeen years.”was vaguely told that something was wrong.” “What about seventeen years?”“He’s bolted. He’s gone off to Paris with a “They’ve been married,” he snapped. “I neverwoman. He’s left Amy without a penny. ” liked him. Of course he was my brother-in-law,31

The Moon and Sixpenceand I made the best of it. Did you think him a “I’m sorry I broke down,” she said. “I’m gladgentleman? She ought never to have married you didn’t go away. ”him.”She sat down. I did not at all know what to say.“Is it absolutely final?”I felt a certain shyness at referring to matters“There’s only one thing for her to do, and which were no concern of mine. I did not thenthat’s to divorce him. That’s what I was telling know the besetting sin of woman, the passion toher when you came in. ‘Fire in with your petition,my dear Amy,’ I said. `You owe it to your-willing to listen. Mrs. Strickland seemed to makediscuss her private affairs with anyone who isself and you owe it to the children.’ He’d betternot let me catch sight of him. I’d thrash him “Are people talking about it?” she asked.an effort over herself.within an inch of his life.”I was taken aback by her assumption that II could not help thinking that Colonel knew all about her domestic misfortune.MacAndrew might have some difficulty in doing “I’ve only just come back. The only person I’vethis, since Strickland had struck me as a hefty seen is Rose Waterford.”fellow, but I did not say anything. It is always Mrs. Strickland clasped her hands.distressing when outraged morality does not “ Tell me exactly what she said.” And when Ipossess the strength of arm to administer direct hesitated, she insisted. “I particularly want tochastisement on the sinner. I was making up my know. ”mind to another attempt at going when Mrs. “ You know the way people talk. She’s not veryStrickland came back. She had dried her eyes reliable, is she? She said your husband had leftand powdered her nose.you.”32

Somerset Maugham“Is that all?”Chapter IXI did not choose to repeat Rose Waterford’sparting reference to a girl from a tea-shop. I lied. “THIS IS A TERRIBLE THING, ” he said, the moment“She didn’t say anything about his going with we got out into the street.anyone?”I realised that he had come away with me in“No.”order to discuss once more what he had been“That’s all I wanted to know. ”already discussing for hours with his sister-in-law.I was a little puzzled, but at all events I understoodthat I might now take my leave. When I he said. “All we know is that the blackguard’s“ We don’t know who the woman is, you know, ”shook hands with Mrs. Strickland I told her that gone to Paris.”if I could be of any use to her I should be very “I thought they got on so well.”glad. She smiled wanly.“So they did. Why, just before you came in Amy“Thank you so much. I don’t know that anybodycan do anything for me.”their married life. You know Amy. There neversaid they’d never had a quarrel in the whole ofToo shy to express my sympathy, I turned to was a better woman in the world.”say good-bye to the Colonel. He did not take my Since these confidences were thrust on me, Ihand.saw no harm in asking a few questions.“I’m just coming. If you’re walking up Victoria “But do you mean to say she suspected nothing?”Street, I’ll come along with you.”“All right,” I said. “Come on.”“Nothing. He spent August with her and thechildren in Norfolk. He was just the same as he’d33

The Moon and Sixpencealways been. We went down for two or three have led her to suspect that all was not well withdays, my wife and I, and I played golf with him. their married life. The Colonel caught me up.He came back to town in September to let his “Of course, there was no explanation he couldpartner go away, and Amy stayed on in the country.They’d taken a house for six weeks, and at suppose he thought she could find that out forgive except that he’d gone off with a woman. Ithe end of her tenancy she wrote to tell him on herself. That’s the sort of chap he was.”which day she was arriving in London. He answeredfrom Paris. He said he’d made up his “ Well, the first thing is to get our proofs. I’m“What is Mrs. Strickland going to do?”mind not to live with her any more.”going over to Paris myself.”“What explanation did he give?”“And what about his business?”“My dear fellow, he gave no explanation. I’ve “That’s where he’s been so artful. He’s beenseen the letter. It wasn’t more than ten lines.” drawing in his horns for the last year. ”“But that’s extraordinary. ”“Did he tell his partner he was leaving?”We happened then to cross the street, and the “Not a word.”traffic prevented us from speaking. What ColonelMacAndrew had told me seemed very imedgeof business matters, and I had none at all,Colonel MacAndrew had a very sketchy knowlprobable,and I suspected that Mrs. Strickland, so I did not quite understand under what conditionsStrickland had left his affairs. I gatheredfor reasons of her own, had concealed from himsome part of the facts. It was clear that a man that the deserted partner was very angry andafter seventeen years of wedlock did not leave threatened proceedings. It appeared that whenhis wife without certain occurrences which must everything was settled he would be four or five34

Somerset Maughamhundred pounds out of pocket.Chapter X“It’s lucky the furniture in the flat is in Amy’sname. She’ll have that at all events.”A DAY OR TWO LATER Mrs. Strickland sent me round“Did you mean it when you said she wouldn’t a note asking if I could go and see her thathave a bob?”evening after dinner. I found her alone. Her black“Of course I did. She’s got two or three hundredpounds and the furniture.”reaved condition, and I was innocently aston-dress, simple to austerity, suggested her be-“But how is she going to live?”ished that notwithstanding a real emotion she“God knows.”was able to dress the part she had to play accordingto her notions of seemliness.The affair seemed to grow more complicated,and the Colonel, with his expletives and his indignation,confused rather than informed me. I you wouldn’t mind doing it,” she remarked.“ You said that if I wanted you to do anythingwas glad that, catching sight of the clock at the “It was quite true.”Army and Navy Stores, he remembered an engagementto play cards at his club, and so left “I?”“Will you go over to Paris and see Charlie?”me to cut across St. James Park.I was taken aback. I reflected that I had onlyseen him once. I did not know what she wantedme to do.“Fred is set on going.” Fred was ColonelMacAndrew. “But I’m sure he’s not the man togo. He’ll only make things worse. I don’t know35

The Moon and Sixpencewho else to ask.”concern me. Why don’t you go and see him yourself?”Her voice trembled a little, and I felt a bruteeven to hesitate.“ You forget he isn’t alone.”“But I’ve not spoken ten words to your husband.He doesn’t know me. He’ll probably just Charles Strickland and sending in my card; I sawI held my tongue. I saw myself calling ontell me to go to the devil.”him come into the room, holding it between fingerand thumb:“That wouldn’t hurt you,” said Mrs.Strickland, smiling.“ To what do I owe this honour?”“What is it exactly you want me to do?” “I’ve come to see you about your wife.”She did not answer directly.“Really. When you are a little older you will“I think it’s rather an advantage that he doubtless learn the advantage of minding yourdoesn’t know you. You see, he never really liked own business. If you will be so good as to turnFred; he thought him a fool; he didn’t understandsoldiers. Fred would fly into a passion, and door. I wish you good-afternoon.”your head slightly to the left, you will see thethere’d be a quarrel, and things would be worse I foresaw that it would be difficult to make myinstead of better. If you said you came on my exit with dignity, and I wished to goodness thatbehalf, he couldn’t refuse to listen to you.” I had not returned to London till Mrs. Strickland“I haven’t known you very long,” I answered. had composed her difficulties. I stole a glance at“I don’t see how anyone can be expected to her. She was immersed in thought. Presently shetackle a case like this unless he knows all the looked up at me, sighed deeply, and smiled.details. I don’t want to pry into what doesn’t “It was all so unexpected,” she said. “We ’ d36

Somerset Maughambeen married seventeen years. I sever dreamed of the recent past, then of their first meetingthat Charlie was the sort of man to get infatuatedwith anyone. We always got on very well a fairly coherent picture of their lives; and itand their marriage; but presently I began to formtogether. Of course, I had a great many interests seemed to me that my surmises had not beenthat he didn’t share.”incorrect. Mrs. Strickland was the daughter of“Have you found out who” — I did not quite an Indian civilian, who on his retirement hadknow how to express myself — “who the person, settled in the depths of the country, but it waswho it is he’s gone away with?”his habit every August to take his family to“No. No one seems to have an idea. It’s so Eastbourne for change of air; and it was here,strange. Generally when a man falls in love with when she was twenty, that she met Charlessomeone people see them about together, lunchingor something, and her friends always come together, walked on the front together, listenedStrickland. He was twenty-three. They playedand tell the wife. I had no warning — nothing. together to the nigger minstrels; and she hadHis letter came like a thunderbolt. I thought he made up her mind to accept him a week beforewas perfectly happy. ”he proposed to her. They lived in London, first inShe began to cry, poor thing, and I felt very Hampstead, and then, as he grew more prosperous,in town. Two children were born to them.sorry for her. But in a little while she grew calmer.“It’s no good making a fool of myself,” she “He always seemed very fond of them. Even ifsaid, drying her eyes. “The only thing is to decidewhat is the best thing to do.”heart to leave them. It’s all so incredible. Evenhe was tired of me, I wonder that he had theShe went on, talking somewhat at random, now now I can hardly believe it’s true.”37

The Moon and SixpenceAt last she showed me the letter he had written.I was curious to see it, but had not ventured “There’s only one explanation, and that is thatstances,” I replied.to ask for it.he’s not himself. I don’t know who this womanis who’s got hold of him, but she’s made him“ My Dear Amy,into another man. It’s evidently been going ona long time.”“I think you will find everything all right in “What makes you think that?”the flat. I have given Anne your instructions, and “Fred found that out. My husband said he wentdinner will be ready for you and the children to the club three or four nights a week to playwhen you come. I shall not be there to meet you. bridge. Fred knows one of the members, and saidI have made up my mind to live apart from you, something about Charles being a great bridgeplayer.The man was surprised. He said he’dand I am going to Paris in the morning. I shallpost this letter on my arrival. I shall not come never even seen Charles in the card-room. It’sback. My decision is irrevocable.quite clear now that when I thought Charles wasat his club he was with her. ”“ Yours always,I was silent for a moment. Then I thought of“ Charles Strickland.”the children.“It must have been difficult to explain to Robert,”I said.“Not a word of explanation or regret. Don’tyou think it’s inhuman?”“Oh, I never said a word to either of them. You“It’s a very strange letter under the circum-see, we only came up to town the day before38

Somerset Maughamthey had to go back to school. I had the presence never be able to marry that woman. I’m as obstinateas he is, and I’ll never divorce him. I haveof mind to say that their father had been calledaway on business.”to think of my children.”It could not have been very easy to be bright I think she added this to explain her attitudeand careless with that sudden secret in her heart, to me, but I thought it was due to a very naturalnor to give her attention to all the things that jealousy rather than to maternal solicitude.needed doing to get her children comfortably “Are you in love with him still?”packed off. Mrs. Strickland’s voice broke again. “I don’t know. I want him to come back. If“And what is to happen to them, poor darlings? he’ll do that we’ll let bygones be bygones. Afterall, we’ve been married for seventeen years.How are we going to live?”She struggled for self-control, and I saw her I’m a broadminded woman. I wouldn’t havehands clench and unclench spasmodically. It was minded what he did as long as I knew nothingdreadfully painful.about it. He must know that his infatuation“Of course I’ll go over to Paris if you think I won’t last. If he’ll come back now everythingcan do any good, but you must tell me exactly can be smoothed over, and no one will know anythingabout it.”what you want me to do.”“I want him to come back.”It chilled me a little that Mrs. Strickland should“I understood from Colonel MacAndrew that be concerned with gossip, for I did not know thenyou’d made up your mind to divorce him.” how great a part is played in women’s life by“I’ll never divorce him,” she answered with a the opinion of others. It throws a shadow of insincerityover their most deeply felt sudden violence. “Tell him that from me. He’llemotions.39

The Moon and SixpenceIt was known where Strickland was staying. erything is just the same, and yet everything isHis partner, in a violent letter, sent to his bank, different. I can’t live without him. I’d soonerhad taunted him with hiding his whereabouts: kill myself. Talk to him about the past, and alland Strickland, in a cynical and humourous reply,had told his partner exactly where to find to the children when they ask for him? His roomwe’ve gone through together. What am I to sayhim. He was apparently living in an Hotel. is exactly as it was when he left it. It’s waiting“I’ve never heard of it,” said Mrs. Strickland. for him. We’re all waiting for him.”“But Fred knows it well. He says it’s very expensive.”gave me elaborate answers to every possibleNow she told me exactly what I should say. SheShe flushed darkly. I imagined that she saw her observation of his.husband installed in a luxurious suite of rooms, “ You will do everything you can for me?” shedining at one smart restaurant after another, and said pitifully. “Tell him what a state I’m in.”she pictured his days spent at race-meetings and I saw that she wished me to appeal to his sympathiesby every means in my power. She washis evenings at the play.“It can’t go on at his age,” she said. “After weeping freely. I was extraordinarily touched. Iall, he’s forty. I could understand it in a young felt indignant at Strickland’s cold cruelty, and Iman, but I think it’s horrible in a man of his promised to do all I could to bring him back. Iyears, with children who are nearly grown up. agreed to go over on the next day but one, andHis health will never stand it.”to stay in Paris till I had achieved something.Anger struggled in her breast with misery. Then, as it was growing late and we were both“ Tell him that our home cries out for him. Ev-exhausted by so much emotion, I left her.40

Somerset MaughamChapter XIdid not know how much pose there is in the sincere,how much baseness in the noble, nor howDURING THE JOURNEY I thought over my errand with much goodness in the reprobate.misgiving. Now that I was free from the spectacleof Mrs. Strickland’s distress I could con-my trip, and my spirits rose as I approached Paris.But there was something of an adventure insider the matter more calmly. I was puzzled by I saw myself, too, from the dramatic standpoint,the contradictions that I saw in her behaviour. and I was pleased with my role of the trustedShe was very unhappy, but to excite my sympathyshe was able to make a show of her unhappi-forgiving wife. I made up my mind to seefriend bringing back the errant husband to hisness. It was evident that she had been prepared Strickland the following evening, for I felt instinctivelythat the hour must be chosen with deli-to weep, for she had provided herself with a sufficiencyof handkerchiefs; I admired her forethought,but in retrospect it made her tears per-be effectual before luncheon. My own thoughtscacy. An appeal to the emotions is little likely tohaps less moving. I could not decide whether she were then constantly occupied with love, but Idesired the return of her husband because she never could imagine connubial bliss till after tea.loved him, or because she dreaded the tongue of I enquired at my hotel for that in which Charlesscandal; and I was perturbed by the suspicion Strickland was living. It was called the Hotel desthat the anguish of love contemned was alloyed Belges. But the concierge, somewhat to my surprise,had never heard of it. I had understoodin her broken heart with the pangs, sordid tomy young mind, of wounded vanity. I had not from Mrs. Strickland that it was a large andyet learnt how contradictory is human nature; I sumptuous place at the back of the Rue de Rivoli.41

The Moon and SixpenceWe looked it out in the directory. The only hotel was the Hotel des Belges. My own hotel was modestenough, but it was magnificent in compari-of that name was in the Rue des Moines. Thequarter was not fashionable; it was not even respectable.I shook my head.cannot have been painted for years, and it hadson with this. It was a tall, shabby building, that“I’m sure that’s not it,” I said.so bedraggled an air that the houses on each sideThe concierge shrugged his shoulders. There of it looked neat and clean. The dirty windowswas no other hotel of that name in Paris. It occurredto me that Strickland had concealed his Strickland lived in guilty splendour with the un-were all shut. It was not here that Charlesaddress, after all. In giving his partner the one I known charmer for whose sake he had abandonedhonour and duty. I was vexed, for I feltknew he was perhaps playing a trick on him. Ido not know why I had an inkling that it would that I had been made a fool of, and I nearly turnedappeal to Strickland’s sense of humour to bring away without making an enquiry. I went in onlya furious stockbroker over to Paris on a fool’s to be able to tell Mrs. Strickland that I had doneerrand to an ill-famed house in a mean street. my best.Still, I thought I had better go and see. Next day The door was at the side of a shop. It stoodabout six o’clock I took a cab to the Rue des open, and just within was a sign: Bureau au premier.I walked up narrow stairs, and on the land-Moines, but dismissed it at the corner, since Ipreferred to walk to the hotel and look at it beforeI went in. It was a street of small shops sub-were a desk and a couple of chairs. There was aing found a sort of box, glassed in, within whichservient to the needs of poor people, and about bench outside, on which it might be presumedthe middle of it, on the left as I walked down, the night porter passed uneasy nights. There was42

Somerset Maughamno one about, but under an electric bell was writtenGarcon. I rang, and presently a waiter ap-hair, opened a door and looked at me silently asup a Woman in a dressing-gown, with touzledpeared. He was a young man with furtive eyes I passed. At length I reached the sixth floor, andand a sullen look. He was in shirt-sleeves and knocked at the door numbered thirty-two. Therecarpet slippers.was a sound within, and the door was partlyI do not know why I made my enquiry as casualas possible.uttered not a word. He evidently did not knowopened. Charles Strickland stood before me. He“Does Mr. Strickland live here by any chance?” me.I asked.I told him my name. I tried my best to assume“Number thirty-two. On the sixth floor. ” an airy manner.I was so surprised that for a moment I did not “ You don’t remember me. I had the pleasureanswer.of dining with you last July. ”“Is he in?”“Come in,” he said cheerily. “I’m delighted toThe waiter looked at a board in the bureau. see you. Take a pew. ”“He hasn’t left his key. Go up and you’ll see.” I entered. It was a very small room, overcrowdedwith furniture of the style which theI thought it as well to put one more question.“Madame est la?”French know as Louis Philippe. There was a large“Monsieur est seul.”wooden bedstead on which was a billowing redThe waiter looked at me suspiciously as I made eiderdown, and there was a large wardrobe, amy way upstairs. They were dark and airless. round table, a very small washstand, and twoThere was a foul and musty smell. Three flights stuffed chairs covered with red rep. Everything43

The Moon and Sixpencewas dirty and shabby. There was no sign of the “ We might dine together. You owe me a dinner,abandoned luxury that Colonel MacAndrew had you know. ”so confidently described. Strickland threw on the “Certainly. Are you alone?”floor the clothes that burdened one of the chairs, I flattered myself that I had got in that importantquestion very naturally.and I sat down on it.“What can I do for you?” he asked.“Oh yes. In point of fact I’ve not spoken to aIn that small room he seemed even bigger than soul for three days. My French isn’t exactly brilliant.”I remembered him. He wore an old Norfolk jacket,and he had not shaved for several days. When I wondered as I preceded him downstairs whatlast I saw him he was spruce enough, but he had happened to the little lady in the tea-shop.looked ill at ease: now, untidy and ill-kempt, he Had they quarrelled already, or was his infatuationpassed? It seemed hardly likely if, as ap-looked perfectly at home. I did not know how hewould take the remark I had prepared.peared, he had been taking steps for a year to“I’ve come to see you on behalf of your wife.” make his desperate plunge. We walked to the“I was just going out to have a drink before Avenue de Clichy, and sat down at one of thedinner. You’d better come too. Do you like absinthe?”tables on the pavement of a large cafe.“I can drink it.”“Come on, then.”He put on a bowler hat much in need of brushing.44

Somerset MaughamChapter XII“I thought I’d better tell you at once why Ihad come to see you,” I said, not without embarrassment.THE AVENUE DE CLICHY was crowded at that hour,and a lively fancy might see in the passers-by His eyes twinkled. “I thought somebody wouldthe personages of many a sordid romance. There come along sooner or later. I’ve had a lot of lettersfrom Amy. ”were clerks and shopgirls; old fellows who mighthave stepped out of the pages of Honore de “Then you know pretty well what I’ve got toBalzac; members, male and female, of the professionswhich make their profit of the frailties “I’ve not read them.”say. ”of mankind. There is in the streets of the poorer I lit a cigarette to give myself a moment’s time.quarters of Paris a thronging vitality which excitesthe blood and prepares the soul for the un-mission. The eloquent phrases I had arranged,I did not quite know now how to set about myexpected.pathetic or indignant, seemed out of place on“Do you know Paris well?” I asked.the Avenue de Clichy. Suddenly he gave a chuckle.“No. We came on our honeymoon. I haven’t “Beastly job for you this, isn’t it?”been since.”“Oh, I don’t know,” I answered.“How on earth did you find out your hotel?” “ Well, look here, you get it over, and then we’ll“It was recommended to me. I wanted somethingcheap.”I hesitated.have a jolly evening.”The absinthe came, and with due solemnity we “Has it occurred to you that your wife is frightfullydropped water over the melting sugar.unhappy?”45

The Moon and Sixpence“She’ll get over it.”my feet. It made my position complicated, notI cannot describe the extraordinary callousness to say ludicrous. I was prepared to be persuasive,touching, and hortatory, admonitory andwith which he made this reply. It disconcertedme, but I did my best not to show it. I adopted expostulating, if need be vituperative even, indignantand sarcastic; but what the devil does athe tone used by my Uncle Henry, a clergyman,when he was asking one of his relatives for a mentor do when the sinner makes no bones aboutsubscription to the Additional Curates Society. confessing his sin? I had no experience, since my“ You don’t mind my talking to you frankly?” own practice has always been to deny everything.He shook his head, smiling.“What, then?” asked Strickland.“Has she deserved that you should treat her I tried to curl my lip.like this?”“ Well, if you acknowledge that, there doesn’t“No.”seem much more to be said.”“Have you any complaint to make against “I don’t think there is.”her?”I felt that I was not carrying out my embassy“None.”with any great skill. I was distinctly nettled.“Then, isn’t it monstrous to leave her in this “Hang it all, one can’t leave a woman withoutfashion, after seventeen years of married life, a bob.”without a fault to find with her?”“Why not?”“Monstrous.”“How is she going to live?”I glanced at him with surprise. His cordial agreementwith all I said cut the ground from under shouldn’t she support herself for a“I’ve supported her for seventeen years. Whychange?”46

Somerset Maugham“She can’t.”the streets.“Let her try. ”“They’ve had a good many years of comfort.Of course there were many things I might have It’s much more than the majority of childrenanswered to this. I might have spoken of the economicposition of woman, of the contract, tacit When it comes to the point, the MacAndrews willhave. Besides, somebody will look after them.and overt, which a man accepts by his marriage, pay for their schooling.”and of much else; but I felt that there was only “But aren’t you fond of them? They’re suchone point which really signified.awfully nice kids. Do you mean to say you don’t“Don’t you care for her any more?”want to have anything more to do with them?”“Not a bit,” he replied.“I liked them all right when they were kids,The matter was immensely serious for all the but now they’re growing up I haven’t got anyparties concerned, but there was in the manner particular feeling for them.”of his answer such a cheerful effrontery that I “It’s just inhuman.”had to bite my lips in order not to laugh. I remindedmyself that his behaviour was abomi-“ You don’t seem in the least ashamed.”“I dare say. ”nable. I worked myself up into a state of moral “I’m not.”indignation.I tried another tack.“Damn it all, there are your children to think “Everyone will think you a perfect swine.”of. They’ve never done you any harm. They “Let them.”didn’t ask to be brought into the world. If you “ Won’t it mean anything to you to know thatchuck everything like this, they’ll be thrown on people loathe and despise you?”47

The Moon and Sixpence“No.”any money. I’ve got about a hundred pounds.”His brief answer was so scornful that it made I began to be more puzzled than before. It wasmy question, natural though it was, seem absurd.I reflected for a minute or two.ened circumstances.true that his hotel pointed to the most strait-“I wonder if one can live quite comfortably “What are you going to do when you’ve spentwhen one’s conscious of the disapproval of one’s that?”fellows? Are you sure it won’t begin to worry “Earn some.”you? Everyone has some sort of a conscience, and He was perfectly cool, and his eyes kept thatsooner or later it will find you out. Supposing mocking smile which made all I said seem ratheryour wife died, wouldn’t you be tortured by remorse?”I had better say next. But it was he who spokefoolish. I paused for a little while to consider whatHe did not answer, and I waited for some time first.for him to speak. At last I had to break the silencemyself.paratively young, and she’s not unattractive. I“Why doesn’t Amy marry again? She’s com-“What have you to say to that?”can recommend her as an excellent wife. If she“Only that you’re a damned fool.”wants to divorce me I don’t mind giving her the“At all events, you can be forced to support necessary grounds.”your wife and children,” I retorted, somewhat Now it was my turn to smile. He was very cunning,but it was evidently this that he was aim-piqued. “I suppose the law has some protectionto offer them.”ing at. He had some reason to conceal the fact“Can the law get blood out of a stone? I haven’t that he had run away with a woman, and he was48

Somerset Maughamusing every precaution to hide her whereabouts. “Poor Amy,” he grinned.I answered with decision.Then his face grew bitterly scornful.“ Your wife says that nothing you can do will “What poor minds women have got! Love. It’sever induce her to divorce you. She’s quite made always love. They think a man leaves only becausehe wants others. Do you think I should beup her mind. You can put any possibility of thatdefinitely out of your head.”such a fool as to do what I’ve done for aHe looked at me with an astonishment that was woman?”certainly not feigned. The smile abandoned his “Do you mean to say you didn’t leave yourlips, and he spoke quite seriously.wife for another woman?”“But, my dear fellow, I don’t care. It doesn’t “Of course not.”matter a twopenny damn to me one way or the “On your word of honour?”other. ”I don’t know why I asked for that. It was veryI laughed.ingenuous of me.“Oh, come now; you mustn’t think us such “On my word of honour. ”fools as all that. We happen to know that you “Then, what in God’s name have you left hercame away with a woman.”for?”He gave a little start, and then suddenly burst “I want to paint.”into a shout of laughter. He laughed so uproariouslythat people sitting near us looked round, understand. I thought he was mad. It must beI looked at him for quite a long time. I did notand some of them began to laugh too.remembered that I was very young, and I looked“I don’t see anything very amusing in that.” upon him as a middle-aged man. I forgot every-49

The Moon and Sixpencething but my own amazement.any good when he starts at your age? Most men“But you’re forty. ”begin painting at eighteen.”“That’s what made me think it was high time “I can learn quicker than I could when I wasto begin.”eighteen.”“Have you ever painted?”“What makes you think you have any talent?”“I rather wanted to be a painter when I was a He did not answer for a minute. His gaze restedboy, but my father made me go into business on the passing throng, but I do not think he sawbecause he said there was no money in art. I it. His answer was no answer.began to paint a bit a year ago. For the last year “I’ve got to paint.”I’ve been going to some classes at night.” “Aren’t you taking an awful chance?”“ Was that where you went when Mrs. He looked at me. His eyes had somethingStrickland thought you were playing bridge at strange in them, so that I felt rather uncomfortable.your club?”“That’s it.”“How old are you? Twenty-three?”“Why didn’t you tell her?”It seemed to me that the question was beside“I preferred to keep it to myself.”the point. It was natural that I should take“Can you paint?”chances; but he was a man whose youth was past,“Not yet. But I shall. That’s why I’ve come a stockbroker with a position of respectability, aover here. I couldn’t get what I wanted in London.Perhaps I can here.”been natural for me was absurd for him. I wishedwife and two children. A course that would have“Do you think it’s likely that a man will do to be quite fair.50

Somerset Maugham“Of course a miracle may happen, and you may of myself I was impressed. I seemed to feel inbe a great painter, but you must confess the him some vehement power that was strugglingchances are a million to one against it. It’ll be within him; it gave me the sensation of somethingvery strong, overmastering, that held him,an awful sell if at the end you have to acknowledgeyou’ve made a hash of it.”as it were, against his will. I could not understand.He seemed really to be possessed of a devil,“I’ve got to paint,” he repeated.“Supposing you’re never anything more than and I felt that it might suddenly turn and rendthird-rate, do you think it will have been worth him. Yet he looked ordinary enough. My eyes,while to give up everything? After all, in any resting on him curiously, caused him no embarrassment.I wondered what a stranger wouldother walk in life it doesn’t matter if you’renot very good; you can get along quite comfortablyif you’re just adequate; but it’s different Norfolk jacket and his unbrushed bowler; hishave taken him to be, sitting there in his oldwith an artist.”trousers were baggy, his hands were not clean;“ You blasted fool,” he said.and his face, with the red stubble of the unshaved“I don’t see why, unless it’s folly to say the chin, the little eyes, and the large, aggressiveobvious.”nose, was uncouth and coarse. His mouth was“I tell you I’ve got to paint. I can’t help myself.When a man falls into the water it doesn’t not have placed him.large, his lips were heavy and sensual. No; I couldmatter how he swims, well or badly: he’s got to “ You won’t go back to your wife?” I said atget out or else he’ll drown.”last.There was real passion in his voice, and in spite “Never. ”51

The Moon and Sixpence“She’s willing to forget everything that’s happenedand start afresh. She’ll never make you aChapter XIIIsingle reproach.”I DARE SAY it would have been more seemly to“She can go to hell.”decline this proposal. I think perhaps I should“ You don’t care if people think you an utter have made a show of the indignation I really felt,blackguard? You don’t care if she and your childrenhave to beg their bread?”would have thought well of me if I had been ableand I am sure that Colonel MacAndrew at least“Not a damn.”to report my stout refusal to sit at the same tableI was silent for a moment in order to give with a man of such character. But the fear of notgreater force to my next remark. I spoke as deliberatelyas I could.ways made me shy of assuming the moral atti-being able to carry it through effectively has al-“ You are a most unmitigated cad.”tude; and in this case the certainty that my sentimentswould be lost on Strickland made it pe-“Now that you’ve got that off your chest, let’sgo and have dinner. ”culiarly embarrassing to utter them. Only thepoet or the saint can water an asphalt pavementin the confident anticipation that lilies will rewardhis labour.I paid for what we had drunk, and we madeour way to a cheap restaurant, crowded and gay,where we dined with pleasure. I had the appetiteof youth and he of a hardened conscience.52

Somerset MaughamThen we went to a tavern to have coffee and not seem to care much about the Paris he wasliqueurs.now seeing for the first time (I did not count theI had said all I had to say on the subject that visit with his wife), and he accepted sights whichhad brought me to Paris, and though I felt it in a must have been strange to him without any sensemanner treacherous to Mrs. Strickland not to of astonishment. I have been to Paris a hundredpursue it, I could not struggle against his indifference.It requires the feminine temperament excitement; I can never walk its streets withouttimes, and it never fails to give me a thrill ofto repeat the same thing three times with unabatedzest. I solaced myself by thinking that it Strickland remained placid. Looking back, I thinkfeeling myself on the verge of adventure.would be useful for me to find out what I could now that he was blind to everything but to someabout Strickland’s state of mind. It also interestedme much more. But this was not an easy One rather absurd incident took place. Theredisturbing vision in his soul.thing to do, for Strickland was not a fluent talker. were a number of harlots in the tavern: someHe seemed to express himself with difficulty, as were sitting with men, others by themselves; andthough words were not the medium with which presently I noticed that one of these was lookinghis mind worked; and you had to guess the intentionsof his soul by hackneyed phrases, slang, smiled. I do not think he saw her. In a little whileat us. When she caught Strickland’s eye sheand vague, unfinished gestures. But though he she went out, but in a minute returned and, passingour table, very politely asked us to buy hersaid nothing of any consequence, there was somethingin his personality which prevented him something to drink. She sat down and I began tofrom being dull. Perhaps it was sincerity. He did chat with her; but, it was plain that her interest53

The Moon and Sixpencewas in Strickland. I explained that he knew no seemed to me a little ungracious to decline anmore than two words of French. She tried to talk invitation of that sort, and I ascribed his refusalto him, partly by signs, partly in pidgin French, to lack of money.which, for some reason, she thought would be “But I like him,” she said. “Tell him it’s formore comprehensible to him, and she had half a love.”dozen phrases of English. She made me translatewhat she could only express in her own shoulders impatiently.When I translated this, Strickland shrugged histongue, and eagerly asked for the meaning of “ Tell her to go to hell,” he said.his replies. He was quite good-tempered, a little His manner made his answer quite plain, andamused, but his indifference was obvious. the girl threw back her head with a sudden gesture.Perhaps she reddened under her paint. She“I think you’ve made a conquest,” I laughed.“I’m not flattered.”rose to her feet.In his place I should have been more embarrassedand less calm. She had laughing eyes and She walked out of the inn. I was slightly vexed.“ Monsieur n’est pas poli,” she said.a most charming mouth. She was young. I wonderedwhat she found so attractive in Strickland. can see,” I said. “After all, it was rather a com-“There wasn’t any need to insult her that IShe made no secret of her desires, and I was biddento translate.“That sort of thing makes me sick,” he saidpliment she was paying you.”“She wants you to go home with her. ”roughly.“I’m not taking any,” he replied.I looked at him curiously. There was a real distastein his face, and yet it was the face of I put his answer as pleasantly as I could. Ita54

Somerset Maughamcoarse and sensual man. I suppose the girl hadChapter XIVbeen attracted by a certain brutality in it.I could have got all the women I wanted in London.I didn’t come here for that.”much of Strickland. I tried to set in order what IDURING THE JOURNEY back to England I thoughthad to tell his wife. It was unsatisfactory, and Icould not imagine that she would be content withme; I was not content with myself. Stricklandperplexed me. I could not understand his motives.When I had asked him what first gave himthe idea of being a painter, he was unable orunwilling to tell me. I could make nothing of it. Itried to persuade myself than an obscure feelingof revolt had been gradually coming to a head inhis slow mind, but to challenge this was the undoubtedfact that he had never shown any impatiencewith the monotony of his life. If, seized byan intolerable boredom, he had determined tobe a painter merely to break with irksome ties,it would have been comprehensible, and commonplace;but commonplace is precisely what Ifelt he was not. At last, because I was romantic,55

The Moon and SixpenceI devised an explanation which I acknowledged and the love of women for the painful austeritiesof the cloister. Conversion may come underto be far-fetched, but which was the only one thatin any way satisfied me. It was this: I asked myselfwhether there was not in his soul some deep-many ways. With some men it needs a cataclysm,many shapes, and it may be brought about inrooted instinct of creation, which the circumstancesof his life had obscured, but which grew fury of a torrent; but with some it comes gradu-as a stone may be broken to fragments by therelentlessly, as a cancer may grow in the living ally, as a stone may be worn away by the ceaselessfall of a drop of water. Strickland had thetissues, till at last it took possession of his wholebeing and forced him irresistibly to action. The directness of the fanatic and the ferocity of thecuckoo lays its egg in the strange bird’s nest, apostle.and when the young one is hatched it shoulders But to my practical mind it remained to be seenits foster-brothers out and breaks at last the nest whether the passion which obsessed him wouldthat has sheltered it.be justified of its works. When I asked him whatBut how strange it was that the creative instinctshould seize upon this dull stockbroker, to attended in London thought of his painting, hehis brother-students at the night classes he hadhis own ruin, perhaps, and to the misfortune of answered with a grin:such as were dependent on him; and yet no “They thought it a joke.”stranger than the way in which the spirit of God “Have you begun to go to a studio here?”has seized men, powerful and rich, pursuing “ Yes. The blighter came round this morning —them with stubborn vigilance till at last, conquered,they have abandoned the joy of the world he just raised his eyebrows and walkedthe master, you know; when he saw my drawingon.”56

Somerset MaughamStrickland chuckled. He did not seem discouraged.He was independent of the opinion of his exposed herself to the slings and arrows of outabilityas the unconventional woman who hasfellows.raged propriety. I do not believe the people whoAnd it was just that which had most disconcertedme in my dealings with him. When people opinion of their fellows. It is the bravado of igno-tell me they do not care a row of pins for thesay they do not care what others think of them, rance. They mean only that they do not fear reproachesfor peccadillos which they are convincedfor the most part they deceive themselves. Generallythey mean only that they will do as they none will discover.choose, in the confidence that no one will know But here was a man who sincerely did not mindtheir vagaries; and at the utmost only that they what people thought of him, and so conventionare willing to act contrary to the opinion of the had no hold on him; he was like a wrestler whosemajority because they are supported by the approvalof their neighbours. It is not difficult to gave him a freedom which was an outrage. I re-body is oiled; you could not get a grip on him; itbe unconventional in the eyes of the world when member saying to him:your unconventionality is but the convention of “Look here, if everyone acted like you, theyour set. It affords you then an inordinate world couldn’t go on.”amount of self-esteem. You have the self-satisfactionof courage without the inconvenience of doesn’t want to act like me. The great majority“That’s a damned silly thing to say. Everyonedanger. But the desire for approbation is perhaps are perfectly content to do the ordinary thing.”the most deeply seated instinct of civilised man. And once I sought to be satirical.No one runs so hurriedly to the cover of respect-“ You evidently don’t believe in the maxim: Act57

The Moon and Sixpenceso that every one of your actions is capable of place the good of society before his own. It is thebeing made into a universal rule.”very strong link that attaches the individual to“I never heard it before, but it’s rotten nonsense.”has persuaded himself are greater than his own,the whole. And man, subservient to interests he“ Well, it was Kant who said it.”makes himself a slave to his taskmaster. He sits“I don’t care; it’s rotten nonsense.”him in a seat of honour. At last, like a courtierNor with such a man could you expect the appealto conscience to be effective. You might as shoulders, he prides himself on the sensitivenessfawning on the royal stick that is laid about hiswell ask for a rejection without a mirror. I take it of his conscience. Then he has no words hardthat conscience is the guardian in the individual enough for the man who does not recognise itsof the rules which the community has evolved sway; for, a member of society now, he realisesfor its own preservation. It is the policeman in accurately enough that against him he is powerless.When I saw that Strickland was really indif-all our hearts, set there to watch that we do notbreak its laws. It is the spy seated in the central ferent to the blame his conduct must excite, Istronghold of the ego. Man’s desire for the approvalof his fellows is so strong, his dread of ster of hardly human shape.could only draw back in horror as from a mon-their censure so violent, that he himself has The last words he said to me when I bade himbrought his enemy within his gates; and it keeps good-night were:watch over him, vigilant always in the interests “ Tell Amy it’s no good coming after me. Anyhow,I shall change my hotel, so she wouldn’tof its master to crush any half-formed desire tobreak away from the herd. It will force him to be able to find me.”58

Somerset Maugham“My own impression is that she’s well rid ofChapter XVyou,” I said.“My dear fellow, I only hope you’ll be able to WHEN I REACHED LONDON I found waiting for me anmake her see it. But women are very unintelligent.”Strickland’s as soon after dinner as I could. Iurgent request that I should go to Mrs.found her with Colonel MacAndrew and his wife.Mrs. Strickland’s sister was older than she, notunlike her, but more faded; and she had the efficientair, as though she carried the British Empirein her pocket, which the wives of senior officersacquire from the consciousness of belongingto a superior caste. Her manner was brisk,and her good-breeding scarcely concealed herconviction that if you were not a soldier youmight as well be a counter-jumper. She hated theGuards, whom she thought conceited, and shecould not trust herself to speak of their ladies,who were so remiss in calling. Her gown wasdowdy and expensive.Mrs. Strickland was plainly nervous.“ Well, tell us your news,” she said.59

The Moon and Sixpence“I saw your husband. I’m afraid he’s quite wifely instincts having got the better of her dismay;and it no longer bore that deserted look,made up his mind not to return.” I paused a little.“He wants to paint.”like a furnished house long to let, which I had“What do you mean?” cried Mrs. Strickland, noticed on my first visit after the catastrophe.with the utmost astonishment.But now that I had seen Strickland in Paris it“Did you never know that he was keen on that was difficult to imagine him in those surroundings.I thought it could hardly have failed to strikesort of thing.”“He must be as mad as a hatter,” exclaimed them that there was something incongruous inthe Colonel.him.Mrs. Strickland frowned a little. She was searchingamong her recollections.he say so?” asked Mrs. Strickland at last. “I“But if he wanted to be an artist, why didn’t“I remember before we were married he used should have thought I was the last person to beto potter about with a paint-box. But you never unsympathetic to — to aspirations of that kind.”saw such daubs. We used to chaff him. He had Mrs. MacAndrew tightened her lips. I imagineabsolutely no gift for anything like that.” that she had never looked with approval on her“Of course it’s only an excuse,” said Mrs. sister’s leaning towards persons who cultivatedMacAndrew.the arts. She spoke of “culchaw” derisively.Mrs. Strickland pondered deeply for some time. Mrs. Strickland continued:It was quite clear that she could not make head “After all, if he had any talent I should be theor tail of my announcement. She had put some first to encourage it. I wouldn’t have mindedorder into the drawing-room by now, her house-sacrifices. I’d much rather be married to a60

Somerset Maughampainter than to a stockbroker. If it weren’t for Colonel MacAndrew and his wife uttered expressionsof incredulity, and Mrs. Stricklandthe children, I wouldn’t mind anything. I couldbe just as happy in a shabby studio in Chelsea as sprang to her feet.in this flat.”“Do you mean to say you never saw her?”“My dear, I have no patience with you,” cried “There’s no one to see. He’s quite alone.”Mrs. MacAndrew. “You don’t mean to say you “That’s preposterous,” cried Mrs. MacAndrew.believe a word of this nonsense?”“I knew I ought to have gone over myself,”“But I think it’s true,” I put in mildly.said the Colonel. “You can bet your boots I’dShe looked at me with good-humoured contempt.“I wish you had gone over,” I replied, some-have routed her out fast enough.”“A man doesn’t throw up his business and what tartly. “You’d have seen that every one ofleave his wife and children at the age of forty to your suppositions was wrong. He’s not at a smartbecome a painter unless there’s a woman in it. I hotel. He’s living in one tiny room in the mostsuppose he met one of your —artistic friends, and squalid way. If he’s left his home, it’s not toshe’s turned his head.”live a gay life. He’s got hardly any money. ”A spot of colour rose suddenly to Mrs. “Do you think he’s done something that weStrickland’s pale cheeks.don’t know about, and is lying doggo on account“What is she like?”of the police?”I hesitated a little. I knew that I had a bombshell.breasts, but I would have nothing to do with it.The suggestion sent a ray of hope in all their“There isn’t a woman.”“If that were so, he would hardly have been61

The Moon and Sixpencesuch a fool as to give his partner his address,” I come back to London, and no great harm willretorted acidly. “Anyhow, there’s one thing I’m have been done.”positive of, he didn’t go away with anyone. He’s “I wouldn’t do that,” said Mrs. MacAndrew.not in love. Nothing is farther from his thoughts.” “I’d give him all the rope he wants. He’ll comeThere was a pause while they reflected over back with his tail between his legs and settlemy words.down again quite comfortably.” Mrs. MacAndrew“ Well, if what you say is true,” said Mrs. looked at her sister coolly. “Perhaps you weren’tMacAndrew at last, “things aren’t so bad as I very wise with him sometimes. Men are queerthought.”creatures, and one has to know how to manageMrs. Strickland glanced at her, but said nothing.Mrs. MacAndrew shared the common opinionthem.”She was very pale now, and her fine brow was of her sex that a man is always a brute to leave adark and lowering. I could not understand the woman who is attached to him, but that a womanexpression of her face. Mrs. MacAndrew continued:que la raison ne connait pas.is much to blame if he does. Le coeur a ses raisons“If it’s just a whim, he’ll get over it.” Mrs. Strickland looked slowly from one to another“Why don’t you go over to him, Amy?” of us.hazarded the Colonel. “There’s no reason why “He’ll never come back,” she said.you shouldn’t live with him in Paris for a year. “Oh, my dear, remember what we’ve justWe’ll look after the children. I dare say he’d heard. He’s been used to comfort and to havinggot stale. Sooner or later he’ll be quite ready to someone to look after him. How long do you think62

Somerset Maughamit’ll be before he gets tired of a scrubby room in ately in love with someone and gone off witha scrubby hotel? Besides, he hasn’t any money. her. I should have thought that natural. IHe must come back.”shouldn’t really have blamed him. I should have“As long as I thought he’d run away with some thought he was led away. Men are so weak, andwoman I thought there was a chance. I don’t women are so unscrupulous. But this is different.I hate him. I’ll never forgive him now. ”believe that sort of thing ever answers. He’dhave got sick to death of her in three months. Colonel MacAndrew and his wife began to talkBut if he hasn’t gone because he’s in love, then to her together. They were astonished. They toldit’s finished.”her she was mad. They could not understand.“Oh, I think that’s awfully subtle,” said the Mrs. Strickland turned desperately to me.Colonel, putting into the word all the contempt “Don’t you see?” she cried.he felt for a quality so alien to the traditions of “I’m not sure. Do you mean that you couldhis calling. “Don’t you believe it. He’ll come have forgiven him if he’d left you for a woman,back, and, as Dorothy says, I dare say he’ll be but not if he’s left you for an idea? You thinknone the worse for having had a bit of a fling.” you’re a match for the one, but against the other“But I don’t want him back,” she said. you’re helpless?”“Amy!”Mrs. Strickland gave mt a look in which I readIt was anger that had seized Mrs. Strickland, no great friendliness, but did not answer. PerhapsI had struck home. She went on in a lowand her pallor was the pallor of a cold and suddenrage. She spoke quickly now, with little gasps. and trembling voice:“I could have forgiven it if he’d fallen desper-“I never knew it was possible to hate anyone63

The Moon and Sixpenceas much as I hate him. Do you know, I’ve been to do whatever is necessary to make it possible.”comforting myself by thinking that however long “Why should I give him his freedom?”it lasted he’d want me at the end? I knew when “I don’t think he wants it. He merely thoughthe was dying he’d send for me, and I was ready it might be more convenient to you.”to go; I’d have nursed him like a mother, and at Mrs. Strickland shrugged her shoulders impatiently.I think I was a little disappointed in her. Ithe last I’d have told him that it didn’t matter,I’d loved him always, and I forgave him everything.”I do now, and I was distressed to find so muchexpected then people to be more of a piece thanI have always been a little disconcerted by the vindictiveness in so charming a creature. I didpassion women have for behaving beautifully at not realise how motley are the qualities that gothe death-bed of those they love. Sometimes it to make up a human being. Now I am well awareseems as if they grudge the longevity which postponestheir chance of an effective scene. hatred and love, can find place side by side inthat pettiness and grandeur, malice and charity,“But now — now it’s finished. I’m as indifferentto him as if he were a stranger. I should like I wondered if there was anything I could saythe same human heart.him to die miserable, poor, and starving, withouta friend. I hope he’ll rot with some loath-which at present tormented Mrs. Strickland. Ithat would ease the sense of bitter humiliationsome disease. I’ve done with him.”thought I would try.I thought it as well then to say what Strickland “ You know, I’m not sure that your husband ishad suggested.quite responsible for his actions. I do not think“If you want to divorce him, he’s quite willing he is himself. He seems to me to be possessed by64

Somerset Maughamsome power which is using him for its own ends, The Colonel stared into vacancy, and I wonderedand in whose hold he is as helpless as a fly in a whether anyone could be quite so innocent ofspider’s web. It’s as though someone had cast guile as he looked.a spell over him. I’m reminded of those strange “But that doesn’t prevent the fact that Charlesstories one sometimes hears of another personalityentering into a man and driving out the old me severely. “I can tell you why he left his wifeStrickland is a heartless beast.” She looked atone. The soul lives unstably in the body, and is — from pure selfishness and nothing else whatever.”capable of mysterious transformations. In the olddays they would say Charles Strickland had a “That is certainly the simplest explanation,” Idevil.”said. But I thought it explained nothing. When,Mrs. MacAndrew smoothed down the lap of her saying I was tired, I rose to go, Mrs. Stricklandgown, and gold bangles fell over her wrists. made no attempt to detain me.“All that seems to me very far-fetched,” shesaid acidly. “I don’t deny that perhaps Amytook 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 havesuspected something was the matter. I don’tthink that Alec could have something on hismind for a year or more without my having apretty shrewd idea of it.”65

The Moon and SixpenceChapter XVI“In that case he has a positive genius for coveringup his tracks.”WHAT FOLLOWED showed that Mrs. Strickland was She looked away and slightly coloured.a woman of character. Whatever anguish she “What I mean is, if anyone talks to you aboutsuffered she concealed. She saw shrewdly that it, please don’t contradict it if they say he elopedthe world is quickly bored by the recital of misfortune,and willingly avoids the sight of distress. “Of course not.”with somebody. ”Whenever she went out — and compassion for her She changed the conversation as though it weremisadventure made her friends eager to entertain a matter to which she attached no importance. Iher — she bore a demeanour that was perfect. She discovered presently that a peculiar story waswas brave, but not too obviously; cheerful, but circulating among her friends. They said thatnot brazenly; and she seemed more anxious to Charles Strickland had become infatuated withlisten to the troubles of others than to discuss her a French dancer, whom he had first seen in theown. Whenever she spoke of her husband it was ballet at the Empire, and had accompanied herwith pity. Her attitude towards him at first perplexedme. One day she said to me:but, singularly enough, it created much sympa-to Paris. I could not find out how this had arisen,“ You know, I’m convinced you were mistaken thy for Mrs. Strickland, and at the same timeabout Charles being alone. From what I’ve been gave her not a little prestige. This was not withoutits use in the calling which she had decidedable to gather from certain sources that I can’ttell you, I know that he didn’t leave England by to follow. Colonel MacAndrew had not exaggeratedwhen he said she would be penniless, himself.”and66

Somerset Maughamit was necessary for her to earn her own livingChapter XVIIas quickly as she could. She made up her mindto profit by her acquaintance with so many writers,and without loss of time began to learn short-live in Paris for a while. I was growing stale inIT WAS ABOUT FIVE YEARS after this that I decided tohand and typewriting. Her education made it London. I was tired of doing much the same thinglikely that she would be a typist more efficient every day. My friends pursued their course withthan the average, and her story made her claims uneventfulness; they had no longer any surprisesappealing. Her friends promised to send her for me, and when I met them I knew pretty wellwork, and took care to recommend her to all what they would say; even their love-affairs hadtheirs.a tedious banality. We were like tram-cars runningon their lines from terminus to terminus,The MacAndrews, who were childless and ineasy circumstances, arranged to undertake the and it was possible to calculate within small limitsthe number of passengers they would carry.care of the children, and Mrs. Strickland had onlyherself to provide for. She let her flat and sold Life was ordered too pleasantly. I was seized withher furniture. She settled in two tiny rooms in panic. I gave up my small apartment, sold myWestminster, and faced the world anew. She was few belongings, and resolved to start afresh.so efficient that it was certain she would make a I called on Mrs. Strickland before I left. I hadsuccess of the adventure.not seen her for some time, and I noticed changesin her; it was not only that she was older, thinner,and more lined; I think her character hadaltered. She had made a success of her business,67

The Moon and Sixpenceand now had an office in Chancery Lane; she did she spoke of the rush of dances to which herlittle typing herself, but spent her time correctingthe work of the four girls she employed. She very stupid thing.daughter, just out, was invited. I suppose I said ahad had the idea of giving it a certain daintiness,and she made much use of blue and red “Oh no; I wouldn’t let her do that,” Mrs.“Is she going into your business?” I asked.inks; she bound the copy in coarse paper, that Strickland answered. “She’s so pretty. I’m surelooked vaguely like watered silk, in various pale she’ll marry well.”colours; and she had acquired a reputation for “I should have thought it would be a help toneatness and accuracy. She was making money. you.”But she could not get over the idea that to earn “Several people have suggested that she shouldher living was somewhat undignified, and she go on the stage, but of course I couldn’t consentwas inclined to remind you that she was a lady to that, I know all the chief dramatists, and Iby birth. She could not help bringing into her could get her a part to-morrow, but I shouldn’tconversation the names of people she knew like her to mix with all sorts of people.”which would satisfy you that she had not sunk I was a little chilled by Mrs. Strickland’s exclusiveness.in the social scale. She was a little ashamed ofher courage and business capacity, but delighted “Do you ever hear of your husband?”that she was going to dine the next night with a “No; I haven’t heard a word. He may be deadK.C. who lived in South Kensington. She was for all I know. ”pleased to be able to tell you that her son was at “I may run across him in Paris. Would you likeCambridge, and it was with a little laugh that me to let you know about him?”68

Somerset MaughamShe hesitated a minute.Chapter XVIII“If he’s in any real want I’m prepared to helphim a little. I’d send you a certain sum of money, IN POINT OF FACT, I met Strickland before I had beenand you could give it him gradually, as he needed a fortnight in Paris.it.”I quickly found myself a tiny apartment on the“That’s very good of you,” I said.fifth floor of a house in the Rue des Dames, andBut I knew it was not kindness that prompted for a couple of hundred francs bought at a second-handdealer’s enough furniture to make itthe offer. It is not true that suffering ennoblesthe character; happiness does that sometimes, habitable. I arranged with the concierge to makebut suffering, for the most part, makes men petty my coffee in the morning and to keep the placeand vindictive.clean. Then I went to see my friend Dirk Stroeve.Dirk Stroeve was one of those persons whom,according to your character, you cannot think ofwithout derisive laughter or an embarrassedshrug of the shoulders. Nature had made him abuffoon. He was a painter, but a very bad one,whom I had met in Rome, and I still rememberedhis pictures. He had a genuine enthusiasm forthe commonplace. His soul palpitating with loveof art, he painted the models who hung aboutthe stairway of Bernini in the Piazza de Spagna,69

The Moon and Sixpenceundaunted by their obvious picturesqueness; and pictures not only in Holland, but in Norway andhis studio was full of canvases on which were Sweden and Denmark? It’s mostly merchantsportrayed moustachioed, large-eyed peasants in who buy them, and rich tradesmen. You can’tpeaked hats, urchins in becoming rags, and imagine what the winters are like in those countries,so long and dark and cold. They like to thinkwomen in bright petticoats. Sometimes theylounged at the steps of a church, and sometimes that Italy is like my pictures. That’s what theydallied among cypresses against a cloudless sky; expect. That’s what I expected Italy to be beforeI came here.”sometimes they made love by a Renaissance wellhead,and sometimes they wandered through the And I think that was the vision that had remainedwith him always, dazzling his eyes soCampagna by the side of an ox-waggon. Theywere carefully drawn and carefully painted. A that he could not see the truth; and notwithstandingthe brutality of fact, he continued to see withphotograph could not have been more exact. Oneof the painters at the Villa Medici had called him the eyes of the spirit an Italy of romantic brigandsand picturesque ruins. It was an ideal thatLe Maitre de la Boite a Chocoloats. To look at hispictures you would have thought that Monet, he painted — a poor one, common and shop-soiled,Manet, and the rest of the Impressionists had but still it was an ideal; and it gave his characternever been.a peculiar charm.“I don’t pretend to be a great painter,” he said, It was because I felt this that Dirk Stroeve was“I’m not a Michael Angelo, no, but I have something.I sell. I bring romance into the homes of cule. His fellow-painters made no secret of theirnot to me, as to others, merely an object of ridi-all sorts of people. Do you know, they buy my contempt for his work, but he earned a fair70

Somerset Maughamamount of money, and they did not hesitate to learned by experience, and had no sooner recoveredfrom his pain than he tenderly placed it oncemake free use of his purse. He was generous,and the needy, laughing at him because he believedso naively their stories of distress, bortenin the terms of knockabout farce. Because Imore in his bosom. His life was a tragedy writrowedfrom him with effrontery. He was very did not laugh at him he was grateful to me, andemotional, yet his feeling, so easily aroused, had he used to pour into my sympathetic ear the longin it something absurd, so that you accepted his list of his troubles. The saddest thing about themkindness, but felt no gratitude. To take money was that they were grotesque, and the morefrom him was like robbing a child, and you despisedhim because he was so foolish. I imagine laugh.pathetic they were, the more you wanted tothat a pickpocket, proud of his light fingers, must But though so bad a painter, he had a very delicatefeeling for art, and to go with him to pic-feel a sort of indignation with the careless womanwho leaves in a cab a vanity-bag with all her jewelsin it. Nature had made him a butt, but had was sincere and his criticism acute. He was cathoture-gallerieswas a rare treat. His enthusiasmdenied him insensibility. He writhed under the lic. He had not only a true appreciation of thejokes, practical and otherwise, which were perpetuallymade at his expense, and yet never He was quick to discover talent, and his praiseold masters, but sympathy with the moderns.ceased, it seemed wilfully, to expose himself to was generous. I think I have never known a manthem. He was constantly wounded, and yet his whose judgment was surer. And he was bettergood-nature was such that he could not bear educated than most painters. He was not, likemalice: the viper might sting him, but he never most of them, ignorant of kindred arts, and his71

The Moon and Sixpencetaste for music and literature gave depth andChapter XIXvariety to his comprehension of painting. To ayoung man like myself his advice and guidance I HAD NOT ANNOUNCED my arrival to Stroeve, andwere of incomparable value.when I rang the bell of his studio, on openingWhen I left Rome I corresponded with him, and the door himself, for a moment he did not knowabout once in two months received from him long me. Then he gave a cry of delighted surprise andletters in queer English, which brought before drew me in. It was charming to be welcomedme vividly his spluttering, enthusiastic, gesticulatingconversation. Some time before I went to the stove at her sewing, and she rose as I camewith so much eagerness. His wife was seated nearParis he had married an Englishwoman, and was in. He introduced me.now settled in a studio in Montmartre. I had not “Don’t you remember?” he said to her. “I’veseen him for four years, and had never met his talked to you about him often.” And then to me:wife.“But why didn’t you let me know you were coming?How long have you been here? How longare you going to stay? Why didn’t you come anhour earlier, and we would have dined together?”He bombarded me with questions. He sat medown in a chair, patting me as though I were acushion, pressed cigars upon me, cakes, wine.He could not let me alone. He was heart-brokenbecause he had no whisky, wanted to make cof-72

Somerset Maughamfee for me, racked his brain for something he had gone to the expense of buying it? — and hecould possibly do for me, and beamed and would have helped me to move in. He really lookedlaughed, and in the exuberance of his delight upon it as unfriendly that I had not given him thesweated at every pore.opportunity of making himself useful to me. Meanwhile,Mrs. Stroeve sat quietly mending her stock-“ You haven’t changed,” I said, smiling, as Ilooked at him.ings, without talking, and she listened to all heHe had the same absurd appearance that I remembered.He was a fat little man, with short “So, you see, I’m married,” he said suddenly;said with a quiet smile on her lips.legs, young still — he could not have been more “what do you think of my wife?”than thirty — but prematurely bald. His face was He beamed at her, and settled his spectaclesperfectly round, and he had a very high colour, a on the bridge of his nose. The sweat made themwhite skin, red cheeks, and red lips. His eyes were constantly slip down.blue and round too, he wore large gold-rimmed “What on earth do you expect me to say tospectacles, and his eyebrows were so fair that that?” I laughed.you could not see them. He reminded you of those “Really, Dirk,” put in Mrs. Stroeve, smiling.jolly, fat merchants that Rubens painted.“But isn’t she wonderful? I tell you, my boy,When I told him that I meant to live in Paris lose no time; get married as soon as ever youfor a while, and had taken an apartment, he reproachedme bitterly for not having let him know. ting there. Doesn’t she make a picture? Chardin,can. I’m the happiest man alive. Look at her sit-He would have found me an apartment himself, eh? I’ve seen all the most beautiful women inand lent me furniture — did I really mean that I the world; I’ve never seen anyone more beauti-73

The Moon and Sixpenceful than Madame Dirk Stroeve.”and in missing it was not even pretty. But when“If you don’t be quiet, Dirk, I shall go away. ” Stroeve spoke of Chardin it was not without reason,and she reminded me curiously of that pleas-“ Mon petit chou”, he said.She flushed a little, embarrassed by the passionin his tone. His letters had told me that he the great painter has immortalised. I could imaganthousewife in her mob-cap and apron whomwas very much in love with his wife, and I saw ine her sedately busy among her pots and pans,that he could hardly take his eyes off her. I could making a ritual of her household duties, so thatnot tell if she loved him. Poor pantaloon, he was they acquired a moral significance; I did not supposethat she was clever or could ever be amus-not an object to excite love, but the smile in hereyes was affectionate, and it was possible that ing, but there was something in her grave intentnesswhich excited my interest. Her reserveher reserve concealed a very deep feeling. Shewas not the ravishing creature that his love-sick was not without mystery. I wondered why shefancy saw, but she had a grave comeliness. She had married Dirk Stroeve. Though she was English,I could not exactly place her, and it waswas rather tall, and her gray dress, simple andquite well-cut, did not hide the fact that her figurewas beautiful. It was a figure that might have what had been her upbringing, or how she hadnot obvious from what rank in society she sprang,appealed more to the sculptor than to the costumier.Her hair, brown and abundant, was plainly but when she spoke it was with a pleasant voice,lived before her marriage. She was very silent,done, her face was very pale, and her features and her manners were natural.were good without being distinguished. She had I asked Stroeve if he was working.quiet gray eyes. She just missed being beautiful, “ Working? I’m painting better than I’ve ever74

Somerset Maughampainted before.”“Shall I?”We sat in the studio, and he waved his hand to Though he had suffered so much from the ridiculeof his friends, Dirk Stroeve, eager for praisean unfinished picture on an easel. I gave a littlestart. He was painting a group of Italian peasants,in the costume of the Campagna, lounging playing his work. He brought out a picture ofand naively self-satisfied, could never resist dis-on the steps of a Roman church.two curly-headed Italian urchins playing marbles.“Is that what you’re doing now?” I asked. “Aren’t they sweet?” said Mrs. Stroeve.“ Yes. I can get my models here just as well as And then he showed me more. I discovered thatin Rome.”in Paris he had been painting just the same stale,“Don’t you think it’s very beautiful?” said obviously picturesque things that he had paintedMrs. Stroeve.for years in Rome. It was all false, insincere,“This foolish wife of mine thinks I’m a great shoddy; and yet no one was more honest, sincere,and frank than Dirk Stroeve. Who could re-artist,” said he.His apologetic laugh did not disguise the pleasurethat he felt. His eyes lingered on his picture. I do not know what put it into my head to ask:solve the contradiction?It was strange that his critical sense, so accurate “I say, have you by any chance run across aand unconventional when he dealt with the work painter called Charles Strickland?”of others, should be satisfied in himself with what “ You don’t mean to say you know him?” criedwas hackneyed and vulgar beyond belief. Stroeve.“Show him some more of your pictures,” she “Beast,” said his wife.said.Stroeve laughed.75

The Moon and Sixpence“ Ma pauvre cherie.” He went over to her and ‘Thanks,’ and walked out.”kissed bothDirk Stroeve, telling the story, had such a lookher hands. “She doesn’t like him. How strange of blank astonishment on his round, foolish facethat you should know Strickland!”that it was almost impossible not to laugh.“I don’t like bad manners,” said Mrs. Stroeve. “I shouldn’t have minded if he’d said my pictureswere bad, but he said nothing — nothing.”Dirk, laughing still, turned to me to explain.“ You see, I asked him to come here one day “And you will tell the story, Dirk,” Said his wife.and look at my pictures. Well, he came, and I It was lamentable that one was more amusedshowed him everything I had.” Stroeve hesitated by the ridiculous figure cut by the Dutchmana moment with embarrassment. I do not know than outraged by Strickland’s brutal treatmentwhy he had begun the story against himself; he of him.felt an awkwardness at finishing it. “He looked “I hope I shall never see him again,” said Mrs.at — at my pictures, and he didn’t say anything. Stroeve.I thought he was reserving his judgment till the Stroeve smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Heend. And at last I said: `There, that’s the lot!’ had already recovered his good-humour.He said: `I came to ask you to lend me twenty “The fact remains that he’s a great artist, afrancs.’”very great artist.”“And Dirk actually gave it him,” said his wife “Strickland?” I exclaimed. “It can’t be theindignantly.same man.”“I was so taken aback. I didn’t like to refuse. “A big fellow with a red beard. CharlesHe put the money in his pocket, just nodded, said Strickland. An Englishman.”76

Somerset Maugham“He had no beard when I knew him, but if he take you to see him. He goes to a cafe in thehas grown one it might well be red. The man Avenue de Clichy at seven o’clock every evening.I’m thinking of only began painting five years If you like we’ll go there to-morrow. ”ago.”“I’m not sure if he’ll wish to see me. I think I“That’s it. He’s a great artist.”may remind him of a time he prefers to forget.“Impossible.”But I’ll come all the same. Is there any chance“Have I ever been mistaken?” Dirk asked me. of seeing any of his pictures?”“I tell you he has genius. I’m convinced of it. In “Not from him. He won’t show you a thing.a hundred years, if you and I are remembered at There’s a little dealer I know who has two orall, it will be because we knew Charles three. But you mustn’t go without me; youStrickland.”wouldn’t understand. I must show them to youI was astonished, and at the same time I was myself.”very much excited. I remembered suddenly my “Dirk, you make me impatient,” said Mrs.last talk with him.Stroeve. “How can you talk like that about his“Where can one see his work?” I asked. “Is he pictures when he treated you as he did?” Shehaving any success? Where is he living?” turned to me. “Do you know, when some Dutch“No; he has no success. I don’t think he’s ever people came here to buy Dirk’s pictures he triedsold a picture. When you speak to men about him to persuade them to buy Strickland’s? He insistedon bringing them here to show. ”they only laugh. But I know he’s a great artist.After all, they laughed at Manet. Corot never sold “What did you think of them?” I asked her,a picture. I don’t know where he lives, but I can smiling.77

The Moon and Sixpence“They were awful.”Stroeve’s lips trembled a little.“Ah, sweetheart, you don’t understand.” “Go to bed, my precious. I will walk a few steps“ Well, your Dutch people were furious with you. with our friend, and then I will come back.”They thought you were having a joke withthem.”Dirk Stroeve took off his spectacles and wipedthem. His flushed face was shining with excitement.“Why should you think that beauty, which isthe most precious thing in the world, lies like astone on the beach for the careless passer-by topick up idly? Beauty is something wonderful andstrange that the artist fashions out of the chaosof the world in the torment of his soul. And whenhe has made it, it is not given to all to know it.To recognize it you must repeat the adventureof the artist. It is a melody that he sings to you,and to hear it again in your own heart you wantknowledge and sensitiveness and imagination.”“Why did I always think your pictures beautiful,Dirk? I admired them the very first time Isaw them.”78

Somerset MaughamChapter XXcame to him.“Strickland.”DIRK STROEVE agreed to fetch me on the following He looked up.evening and take me to the cafe at which “Hulloa, fatty. What do you want?”Strickland was most likely to be found. I was interestedto learn that it was the same as that at Strickland gave me a glance, and evidently did“I’ve brought an old friend to see you.”which Strickland and I had drunk absinthe when not recognise me. He resumed his scrutiny of theI had gone over to Paris to see him. The fact that chessboard.he had never changed suggested a sluggishness “Sit down, and don’t make a noise,” he said.of habit which seemed to me characteristic. He moved a piece and straightway became absorbedin the game. Poor Stroeve gave me a“There he is,” said Stroeve, as we reached thecafe.troubled look, but I was not disconcerted by soThough it was October, the evening was warm, little. I ordered something to drink, and waitedand the tables on the pavement were crowded. I quietly till Strickland had finished. I welcomedran my eyes over them, but did not see the opportunity to examine him at my ease. IStrickland.certainly should never have known him. In the“Look. Over there, in the corner. He’s playing first place his red beard, ragged and untrimmed,chess.”hid much of his face, and his hair was long; butI noticed a man bending over a chess-board, the most surprising change in him was his extremethinness. It made his great nose protrudebut could see only a large felt hat and a red beard.We threaded our way among the tables till we more arrogantly; it emphasized his cheekbones;79

The Moon and Sixpenceit made his eyes seem larger. There were deep then, calling for the waiter, paid for the drinks,hollows at his temples. His body was cadaverous.He wore the same suit that I had seen him “Now I suppose we can talk,” he said.and left. Stroeve drew his chair closer to the table.in five years before; it was torn and stained, Strickland’s eyes rested on him, and there wasthreadbare, and it hung upon him loosely, as in them a malicious expression. I felt sure he wasthough it had been made for someone else. I seeking for some gibe, could think of none, andnoticed his hands, dirty, with long nails; they so was forced to silence.were merely bone and sinew, large and strong; “I’ve brought an old friend to see you,” repeatedStroeve, beaming cheerfully.but I had forgotten that they were so shapely.He gave me an extraordinary impression as he Strickland looked at me thoughtfully for nearlysat there, his attention riveted on his game — an a minute. I did not speak.impression of great strength; and I could not “I’ve never seen him in my life,” he said.understand why it was that his emaciation somehowmade it more striking.tain I had caught a gleam of recognition in hisI do not know why he said this, for I felt cer-Presently, after moving, he leaned back and eyes. I was not so easily abashed as I had beengazed with a curious abstraction at his antagonist.This was a fat, bearded Frenchman. The “I saw your wife the other day,” I said. “I feltsome years earlier.Frenchman considered the position, then broke sure you’d like to have the latest news of her. ”suddenly into jovial expletives, and with an impatientgesture, gathering up the pieces, flung “ We had a jolly evening together,” he said.He gave a short laugh. His eyes twinkled.them into their box. He cursed Strickland freely, “How long ago is it?”80

Somerset Maugham“Five years.”“Are you making a good living?” I asked, smiling.He called for another absinthe. Stroeve, with He chuckled.voluble tongue, explained how he and I had met, “Do I look it?”and by what an accident we discovered that we “ You look half starved.”both knew Strickland. I do not know if Strickland “I am half starved.”listened. He glanced at me once or twice reflectively,but for the most part seemed occupied with “Why do you ask me?”“Then come and let’s have a bit of dinner. ”his own thoughts; and certainly without “Not out of charity,” I answered coolly. “I don’tStroeve’s babble the conversation would have really care a twopenny damn if you starve orbeen difficult. In half an hour the Dutchman, lookingat his watch, announced that he must go. He His eyes lit up again.not.”asked whether I would come too. I thought, alone, “Come on, then,” he said, getting up. “I’d likeI might get something out of Strickland, and so a decent meal.”answered that I would stay.When the fat man had left I said:“Dirk Stroeve 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.”81

The Moon and SixpenceChapter XXIthat now and then his eyes rested on me with afaint smile of amusement. I waited patiently.I LET HIM take me to a restaurant of his choice, “What have you been up to since I saw youbut on the way I bought a paper. When we had last?” he asked at length.ordered our dinner, I propped it against a bottle I had not very much to say. It was a record ofof St. Galmier and began to read. We ate in silence.I felt him looking at me now and again, in this direction and in that; of the gradual ac-hard work and of little adventure; of experimentsbut I took no notice. I meant to force him to conversation.I took care to ask Strickland nothing about hisquisition of the knowledge of books and of men.“Is there anything in the paper?” he said, as own doings. I showed not the least interest inwe approached the end of our silent meal. him, and at last I was rewarded. He began toI fancied there was in his tone a slight note of talk of himself. But with his poor gift of expressionhe gave but indications of what he had goneexasperation.“I always like to read the feuilleton on the through, and I had to fill up the gaps with mydrama,” I said.own imagination. It was tantalising to get noI folded the paper and put it down beside me. more than hints into a character that interested“I’ve enjoyed my dinner,” he remarked. me so much. It was like making one’s way“I think we might have our coffee here, don’t through a mutilated manuscript. I received theyou?”impression of a life which was a bitter struggle“ Yes.”against every sort of difficulty; but I realised thatWe lit our cigars. I smoked in silence. I noticed much which would have seemed horrible to most82

Somerset Maughampeople did not in the least affect him. Strickland brought with him from London came to an endwas distinguished from most Englishmen by his he suffered from no dismay. He sold no pictures;perfect indifference to comfort; it did not irk him I think he made little attempt to sell any; he setto live always in one shabby room; he had no about finding some way to make a bit of money.need to be surrounded by beautiful things. I do He told me with grim humour of the time henot suppose he had ever noticed how dingy was had spent acting as guide to Cockneys whothe paper on the wall of the room in which on wanted to see the night side of life in Paris; itmy first visit I found him. He did not want armchairsto sit in; he really felt more at his ease on temper and somehow or other he had acquiredwas an occupation that appealed to his sardonica kitchen chair. He ate with appetite, but was a wide acquaintance with the more disreputableindifferent to what he ate; to him it was only quarters of the city. He told me of the long hoursfood that he devoured to still the pangs of hunger;and when no food was to be had he seemed Madeleine on the look-out for Englishmen, pref-he spent walking about the Boulevard de lacapable of doing without. I learned that for six erably the worse for liquor, who desired to seemonths he had lived on a loaf of bread and a things which the law forbade. When in luck hebottle of milk a day. He was a sensual man, and was able to make a tidy sum; but the shabbinessyet was indifferent to sensual things. He looked of his clothes at last frightened the sight-seers,upon privation as no hardship. There was somethingimpressive in the manner in which he lived to trust themselves to him. Then he happenedand he could not find people adventurous enougha life wholly of the spirit.on a job to translate the advertisements of patentWhen the small sum of money which he medicines which were sent broadcast to the83

The Moon and Sixpencemedical profession in England. During a strike erything in his effort to get what he saw withhe had been employed as a house-painter. the mind’s eye; and then, having finished, notMeanwhile he had never ceased to work at his the picture perhaps, for I had an idea that heart; but, soon tiring of the studios, entirely by seldom brought anything to completion, but thehimself. He had never been so poor that he could passion that fired him, he lost all care for it. Henot buy canvas and paint, and really he needed was never satisfied with what he had done; itnothing else. So far as I could make out, he seemed to him of no consequence compared withpainted with great difficulty, and in his unwillingnessto accept help from anyone lost much “Why don’t you ever send your work to exhi-the vision that obsessed his mind.time in finding out for himself the solution of bitions?” I asked. “I should have thought you’dtechnical problems which preceding generations like to know what people thought about it.”had already worked out one by one. He was aimingat something, I knew not what, and perhaps I cannot describe the unmeasurable contempt“ Would you?”he hardly knew himself; and I got again more he put into the two words.strongly the impression of a man possessed. He “Don’t you want fame? It’s something thatdid not seem quite sane. It seemed to me that most artists haven’t been indifferent to.”he would not show his pictures because he was “Children. How can you care for the opinion ofreally not interested in them. He lived in a dream, the crowd, when you don’t care twopence forand the reality meant nothing to him. I had the the opinion of the individual?”feeling that he worked on a canvas with all the “ We’re not all reasonable beings,” I laughed.force of his violent personality, oblivious of ev-“Who makes fame? Critics, writers, stockbro-84

Somerset Maughamkers, women.”He did not express himself quite like this. He“ Wouldn’t it give you a rather pleasing sensationto think of people you didn’t know and had halted. I have put into my own words what I thinkused gestures instead of adjectives, and henever seen receiving emotions, subtle and passionate,from the work of your hands? Everyone “Looking back on the last five years, do youhe wanted to say.likes power. I can’t imagine a more wonderful think it was worth it?” I asked.exercise of it than to move the souls of men to He looked at me, and I saw that he did not knowpity or terror. ”what I meant. I explained.“Melodrama.”“ You gave up a comfortable home and a life as“Why do you mind if you paint well or badly?” happy as the average. You were fairly prosperous.You seem to have had a rotten time in Paris.“I don’t. I only want to paint what I see.”“I wonder if I could write on a desert island, If you had your time over again would you dowith the certainty that no eyes but mine would what you did?”ever see what I had written.”“Rather. ”Strickland did not speak for a long time, but “Do you know that you haven’t asked anythinghis eyes shone strangely, as though he saw somethingthat kindled his soul to ecstasy.of them?”about your wife and children? Do you never think“Sometimes I’ve thought of an island lost in a “No.”boundless sea, where I could live in some hidden “I wish you weren’t so damned monosyllabic.valley, among strange trees, in silence. There I Have you never had a moment’s regret for allthink I could find what I want.”the unhappiness you caused them?”85

The Moon and SixpenceHis lips broke into a smile, and he shook his I’m interested in his mental processes.”head.“It’s a purely professional interest you take in“I should have thought sometimes you me?”couldn’t help thinking of the past. I don’t mean “Purely. ”the past of seven or eight years ago, but further “It’s only right that you shouldn’t disapproveback still, when you first met your wife, and loved of me. You have a despicable character. ”her, and married her. Don’t you remember the “Perhaps that’s why you feel at home withjoy with which you first took her in your arms?” me,” I retorted.“I don’t think of the past. The only thing that He smiled dryly, but said nothing. I wish I knewmatters is the everlasting present.”how to describe his smile. I do not know that itI thought for a moment over this reply. It was was attractive, but it lit up his face, changingobscure, perhaps, but I thought that I saw dimly the expression, which was generally sombre, andhis meaning.gave it a look of not ill-natured malice. It was a“Are you happy?” I asked.slow smile, starting and sometimes ending in the“ Yes.”eyes; it was very sensual, neither cruel nor kindly,I was silent. I looked at him reflectively. He held but suggested rather the inhuman glee of themy stare, and presently a sardonic twinkle lit up satyr. It was his smile that made me ask him:his eyes.“Haven’t you been in love since you came to“I’m afraid you disapprove of me?”Paris?”“Nonsense,” I answered promptly; “I don’t “I haven’t got time for that sort of nonsense.disapprove of the boa-constrictor; on the contrary, Life isn’t long enough for love and art.”86

Somerset Maugham“ Your appearance doesn’t suggest the anchorite.”it. And you find some woman, coarse and lowing in the mud. And you want to roll yourself in“All that business fills me with disgust.” and vulgar, some beastly creature in whom all“Human nature is a nuisance, isn’t it?” I said. the horror of sex is blatant, and you fall upon“Why are you sniggering at me?”her like a wild animal. You drink till you’re blind“Because I don’t believe you.”with rage.”“Then you’re a damned fool.”He stared at me without the slightest movement.I held his eyes with mine. I spoke veryI paused, and I looked at him searchingly.“What’s the good of trying to humbug me?” I slowly.said.“I’ll tell you what must seem strange, that“I don’t know what you mean.”when it’s over you feel so extraordinarily pure.I smiled.You feel like a disembodied spirit, immaterial;“Let me tell you. I imagine that for months and you seem to be able to touch beauty asthe matter never comes into your head, and though it were a palpable thing; and you feel anyou’re able to persuade yourself that you’ve intimate communion with the breeze, and withfinished with it for good and all. You rejoice in the trees breaking into leaf, and with the iridescenceof the river. You feel like God. Can you ex-your freedom, and you feel that at last you cancall your soul your own. You seem to walk with plain that to me?”your head among the stars. And then, all of a He kept his eyes fixed on mine till I had finished,and then he turned away. There was onsudden you can’t stand it any more, and younotice that all the time your feet have been walk-his face a strange look, and I thought that so87

The Moon and Sixpencemight a man look when he had died under theChapter XXIItorture. He was silent. I knew that our conversationwas ended.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 gardensof the Luxembourg or sauntering through thestreets. I spent long hours in the Louvre, the mostfriendly of all galleries and the most convenientfor meditation; or idled on the quays, fingeringsecond-hand books that I never meant to buy. Iread a page here and there, and made acquaintancewith a great many authors whom I wascontent to know thus desultorily. In the eveningsI went to see my friends. I looked in often on theStroeves, and sometimes shared their modestfare. Dirk Stroeve flattered himself on his skillin cooking Italian dishes, and I confess that hisspaghetti were very much better than his pictures.It was a dinner for a King when he broughtin a huge dish of it, succulent with tomatoes,and we ate it together with the good household88

Somerset Maughambread and a bottle of red wine. I grew more intimatewith Blanche Stroeve, and I think, because puckered in dismay as he saw that she was an-His round eyes grew rounder still, and his browI was English and she knew few English people, gry.she was glad to see me. She was pleasant and “Sweetheart, have I vexed you? I’ll never takesimple, but she remained always rather silent, another. It was only because I was bilious. I leadand I knew not why, gave me the impression that a sedentary life. I don’t take enough exercise.she was concealing something. But I thought that For three days I hadn’t ...”was perhaps no more than a natural reserve accentuatedby the verbose frankness of her husterrupted,tears of annoyance in her eyes.“For goodness sake, hold your tongue,” she inband.Dirk never concealed anything. He discussedthe most intimate matters with a com-child. He gave me a look of appeal, so that I mightHis face fell, and he pouted his lips like a scoldedplete lack of self-consciousness. Sometimes he put things right, but, unable to control myself, Iembarrassed his wife, and the only time I saw shook with helpless laughter.her put out of countenance was when he insisted We went one day to the picture-dealer in whoseon telling me that he had taken a purge, and shop Stroeve thought he could show me at leastwent into somewhat realistic details on the subject.The perfect seriousness with which he nar-we arrived were told that Strickland himself hadtwo or three of Strickland’s pictures, but whenrated his misfortunes convulsed me with laughter,and this added to Mrs. Stroeve’s irritation. “But don’t imagine to yourself that I make my-taken them away. The dealer did not know why.“ You seem to like making a fool of yourself,” self bad blood on that account. I took them toshe said.oblige Monsieur Stroeve, and I said I would sell89

The Moon and Sixpencethem if I could. But really —” He shrugged his “There is only one way — by success.”shoulders. “I’m interested in the young men, “Philistine,” cried Dirk.but voyons, you yourself, Monsieur Stroeve, you “But think of the great artists of the past —don’t think there’s any talent there.”Raphael, Michael Angelo, Ingres, Delacroix —“I give you my word of honour, there’s no one they were all successful.”painting to-day in whose talent I am more convinced.Take my word for it, you are missing a this man.”“Let us go,” said Stroeve to me, “or I shall killgood affair. Some day those pictures will be worthmore than all you have in your shop. RememberMonet, who could not get anyone to buy his picturesfor a hundred francs. What are they worthnow?”“ True. But there were a hundred as good paintersas Monet who couldn’t sell their pictures atthat time, and their pictures are worth nothingstill. How can one tell? Is merit enough to bringsuccess? Don’t believe it. Du reste, it has still tobe proved that this friend of yours has merit. Noone claims it for him but Monsieur Stroeve.”“And how, then, will you recognise merit?”asked Dirk, red in the face with anger.90

Somerset MaughamChapter XXIIIOur relations were peculiar. One day he askedme to lend him fifty francs.I SAW STRICKLAND not infrequently, and now and “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied.then played chess with him. He was of uncertaintemper. Sometimes he would sit silent and “It wouldn’t amuse me.”“Why not?”abstracted, taking no notice of anyone; and at “I’m frightfully hard up, you know. ”others, when he was in a good humour, he would “I don’t care.”talk in his own halting way. He never said a clever “ You don’t care if I starve?”thing, but he had a vein of brutal sarcasm which “Why on earth should I?” I asked in my turn.was not ineffective, and he always said exactly He looked at me for a minute or two, pullingwhat he thought. He was indifferent to the susceptibilitiesof others, and when he wounded “What are you amused at?” he said, with ahis untidy beard. I smiled at him.them was amused. He was constantly offending gleam of anger in his eyes.Dirk Stroeve so bitterly that he flung away, vowinghe would never speak to him again; but there No one is under any obligation to you.”“ You’re so simple. You recognise no obligations.was a solid force in Strickland that attracted the “ Wouldn’t it make you uncomfortable if I wentfat Dutchman against his will, so that he came and hanged myself because I’d been turned outback, fawning like a clumsy dog, though he knew of my room as I couldn’t pay the rent?”that his only greeting would be the blow he “Not a bit.”dreaded.He chuckled.I do not know why Strickland put up with me. “ You’re bragging. If I really did you’d be over-91

The Moon and Sixpencewhelmed with remorse.”“That’s better,” I laughed.“ Try it, and we’ll see,” I retorted.We began to play. We were both absorbed inA smile flickered in his eyes, and he stirred his the game. When it was finished I said to him:absinthe in silence.“Look here, if you’re hard up, let me see your“ Would you like to play chess?” I asked. pictures. If there’s anything I like I’ll buy it.”“I don’t mind.”“Go to hell,” he answered.We set up the pieces, and when the board was He got up and was about to go away. I stoppedready he considered it with a comfortable eye. him.There is a sense of satisfaction in looking at your “ You haven’t paid for your absinthe,” I said,men all ready for the fray.smiling.“Did you really think I’d lend you money?” I He cursed me, flung down the money and left.asked.I did not see him for several days after that,“I didn’t see why you shouldn’t.”but one evening, when I was sitting in the cafe,“ You surprise me.”reading a paper, he came up and sat beside me.“Why?”“ You haven’t hanged yourself after all,” I remarked.“It’s disappointing to find that at heart youare sentimental. I should have liked you better “No. I’ve got a commission. I’m painting the portraitof a retired plumber for two hundred francs.”*if you hadn’t made that ingenuous appeal to mysympathies.”*This picture, formerly in the possession of a wealthymanufacturer at Lille, who fled from that city on the“I should have despised you if you’d beenapproach of the Germans, is now in the Nationalmoved by it,” he answered.Gallery at Stockholm. The Swede is adept at thegentle pastime of fishing in troubled waters.92

Somerset Maugham“How did you manage that?”that, though you hated Strickland, and the exhibitionwas horrible, it was impossible not to laugh.“The woman where I get my bread recommendedme. He’d told her he was looking out Dirk Stroeve was one of those unlucky personsfor someone to paint him. I’ve got to give her whose most sincere emotions are ridiculous.twenty francs.”But after all when I look back upon that winter“What’s he like?”in Paris, my pleasantest recollection is of Dirk“Splendid. He’s got a great red face like a leg Stroeve. There was something very charming inof mutton, and on his right cheek there’s an enormousmole with long hairs growing out of it.” ture which the imagination gratefully dwelthis little household. He and his wife made a pic-Strickland was in a good humour, and when upon, and the simplicity of his love for her had aDirk Stroeve came up and sat down with us he deliberate grace. He remained absurd, but theattacked him with ferocious banter. He showed sincerity of his passion excited one’s sympathy.a skill I should never have credited him with in I could understand how his wife must feel forfinding the places where the unhappy Dutchman him, and I was glad that her affection was sowas most sensitive. Strickland employed not the tender. If she had any sense of humour, it mustrapier of sarcasm but the bludgeon of invective. amuse her that he should place her on a pedestaland worship her with such an honest idola-The attack was so unprovoked that Stroeve, takenunawares, was defenceless. He reminded you of try, but even while she laughed she must havea frightened sheep running aimlessly hither and been pleased and touched. He was the constantthither. He was startled and amazed. At last the lover, and though she grew old, losing hertears ran from his eyes. And the worst of it was rounded lines and her fair comeliness, to him she93

The Moon and Sixpencewould certainly never alter. To him she wouldChapter XXIValways be the loveliest woman in the world.There was a pleasing grace in the orderliness of SHORTLY BEFORE Christmas Dirk Stroeve came totheir lives. They had but the studio, a bedroom, ask me to spend the holiday with him. He had aand a tiny kitchen. Mrs. Stroeve did all the houseworkherself; and while Dirk painted bad pic-wanted to pass it among his friends with suit-characteristic sentimentality about the day andtures, she went marketing, cooked the luncheon, able ceremonies. Neither of us had seensewed, occupied herself like a busy ant all the Strickland for two or three weeks — I because Iday; and in the evening sat in the studio, sewing had been busy with friends who were spendingagain, while Dirk played music which I am sure a little while in Paris, and Stroeve because, havingquarreled with him more violently than usual,was far beyond her comprehension. He playedwith taste, but with more feeling than was alwaysjustified, and into his music poured all his to do with him. Strickland was impossible, andhe had made up his mind to have nothing morehonest, sentimental, exuberant soul.he swore never to speak to him again. But theTheir life in its own way was an idyl, and it managedto achieve a singular beauty. The absurdity hated the thought of Strickland spending Christ-season touched him with gentle feeling, and hethat clung to everything connected with Dirk mas Day by himself; he ascribed his own emotionsto him, and could not bear that on an occa-Stroeve gave it a curious note, like an unresolveddiscord, but made it somehow more modern, more sion given up to good-fellowship the lonelyhuman; like a rough joke thrown into a serious scene, painter should be abandoned to his own melancholy.Stroeve had set up a Christmas-tree in it heightened the poignancy which all beauty has.his94

Somerset Maughamstudio, and I suspected that we should both find “Why didn’t he write and tell me? How stupidof me to quarrel with him. We must go toabsurd little presents hanging on its festivebranches; but he was shy about seeing Strickland him at once. He can have no one to look afteragain; it was a little humiliating to forgive so him. Where does he live?”easily insults so outrageous, and he wished me “I have no idea,” said the Frenchman.to be present at the reconciliation on which he We discovered that none of us knew how to findwas determined.him. Stroeve grew more and more distressed.We walked together down the Avenue de Clichy, “He might die, and not a soul would know anythingabout it. It’s dreadful. I can’t bear thebut Strickland was not in the cafe. It was toocold to sit outside, and we took our places on thought. We must find him at once.”leather benches within. It was hot and stuffy, and I tried to make Stroeve understand that it wasthe air was gray with smoke. Strickland did not absurd to hunt vaguely about Paris. We must firstcome, but presently we saw the French painter think of some plan.who occasionally played chess with him. I had “ Yes; but all this time he may be dying, andformed a casual acquaintance with him, and he when we get there it may be too late to do anything.”sat down at our table. Stroeve asked him if hehad seen Strickland.“Sit still and let us think,” I said impatiently.“He’s ill,” he said. “Didn’t you know?” The only address I knew was the Hotel des“Seriously?”Belges, but Strickland had long left that, and they“ Very, I understand.”would have no recollection of him. With thatStroeve’s face grew white.queer idea of his to keep his whereabouts secret,95

The Moon and Sixpenceit was unlikely that, on leaving, he had said houses opposite. Luck favoured us, and in thewhere he was going. Besides, it was more than first we tried the concierge told us that we shouldfive years ago. I felt pretty sure that he had not find him on the top floor.moved far. If he continued to frequent the same “It appears that he’s ill,” said Stroeve.cafe as when he had stayed at the hotel, it was “It may be,” answered the concierge indifferently.“En effet, I have not seen him for severalprobably because it was the most convenient.Suddenly I remembered that he had got his commissionto paint a portrait through the baker Stroeve ran up the stairs ahead of me, and whendays.”from whom he bought his bread, and it struck I reached the top floor I found him talking to ame that there one might find his address. I called workman in his shirt-sleeves who had opened afor a directory and looked out the bakers. There door at which Stroeve had knocked. He pointedwere five in the immediate neighbourhood, and to another door. He believed that the person whothe only thing was to go to all of them. Stroeve lived there was a painter. He had not seen himaccompanied me unwillingly. His own plan was for a week. Stroeve made as though he wereto run up and down the streets that led out of about to knock, and then turned to me with athe Avenue de Clichy and ask at every house if gesture of helplessness. I saw that he was panicstricken.Strickland lived there. My commonplace schemewas, after all, effective, for in the second shop “Supposing he’s dead?”we asked at the woman behind the counter acknowledgedthat she knew him. She was not cer-I knocked. There was no answer. I tried the“Not he,” I said.tain where he lived, but it was in one of the three handle, and found the door unlocked. I walked96

Somerset Maughamin, and Stroeve followed me. The room was in bed, canvases with their faces to the wall, andarkness. I could only see that it was an attic, easel, a table, and a chair. There was no carpetwith a sloping roof; and a faint glimmer, no more on the floor. There was no fire-place. On the table,than a less profound obscurity, came from a skylight.of all kinds, was the end of a candle. I lit it.crowded with paints, palette-knives, and litter“Strickland,” I called.Strickland was lying in the bed, uncomfortablyThere was no answer. It was really rather mysterious,and it seemed to me that Stroeve, stand-all his clothes over him for warmth. It was obvi-because it was too small for him, and he had puting just behind, was trembling in his shoes. For ous at a glance that he was in a high fever.a moment I hesitated to strike a light. I dimly Stroeve, his voice cracking with emotion, wentperceived a bed in the corner, and I wondered up to him.whether the light would disclose lying on it a “Oh, my poor friend, what is the matter withdead body.you? I had no idea you were ill. Why didn’t you“Haven’t you got a match, you fool?”let me know? You must know I’d have done anythingin the world for you. Were you thinking ofStrickland’s voice, coming out of the darkness,harshly, made me start.what I said? I didn’t mean it. I was wrong. ItStroeve cried out.was stupid of me to take offence.”“Oh, my God, I thought you were dead.” “Go to hell,” said Strickland.I struck a match, and looked about for a candle. “Now, be reasonable. Let me make you comfortable.Haven’t you anyone to look after you?”I had a rapid glimpse of a tiny apartment, halfroom, half studio, in which was nothing but a He looked round the squalid attic in dismay.97

The Moon and SixpenceHe tried to arrange the bed-clothes. Strickland, and a few grapes, and some bread. Stroeve, gladbreathing laboriously, kept an angry silence. He to make himself useful, clattered down the stairs.gave me a resentful glance. I stood quite quietly, “Damned fool,” muttered Strickland.looking at him.I felt his pulse. It was beating quickly and feebly.I asked him one or two questions, but he“If you want to do something for me, you canget me some milk,” he said at last. “I haven’t would not answer, and when I pressed him hebeen able to get out for two days.” There was an turned his face irritably to the wall. The onlyempty bottle by the side of the bed, which had thing was to wait in silence. In ten minutescontained milk, and in a piece of newspaper a Stroeve, panting, came back. Besides what I hadfew crumbs.suggested, he brought candles, and meat-juice,“What have you been having?” I asked. and a spirit-lamp. He was a practical little fellow,“Nothing.”and without delay set about making bread-andmilk.I took Strickland’s temperature. It was a“For how long?” cried Stroeve. “Do you meanto say you’ve had nothing to eat or drink for hundred and four. He was obviously very ill.two days? It’s horrible.”“I’ve had water. ”His eyes dwelt for a moment on a large canwithin reach of an outstretched arm.“I’ll go immediately,” said Stroeve. “Is thereanything you fancy?”I suggested that he should get a thermometer,98

Somerset MaughamChapter XXV“Strickland is very ill. He may be dying. He isalone in a filthy attic, and there is not a soul toPRESENTLY WE LEFT HIM. Dirk was going home to dinner,and I proposed to find a doctor and bring here.”look after him. I want you to let me bring himhim to see Strickland; but when we got down She withdrew her hands quickly, I had neverinto the street, fresh after the stuffy attic, the seen her make so rapid a movement; and herDutchman begged me to go immediately to his cheeks flushed.studio. He had something in mind which he “Oh no.”would not tell me, but he insisted that it was “Oh, my dear one, don’t refuse. I couldn’t bearvery necessary for me to accompany him. Since to leave him where he is. I shouldn’t sleep aI did not think a doctor could at the moment do wink for thinking of him.”any more than we had done, I consented. We “I have no objection to your nursing him.”found Blanche Stroeve laying the table for dinner.Dirk went up to her, and took both her hands. “But he’ll die.”Her voice was cold and distant.“Dear one, I want you to do something for me,” “Let him.”he said.Stroeve gave a little gasp. He wiped his face.She looked at him with the grave cheerfulness He turned to me for support, but I did not knowwhich was one of her charms. His red face was what to say.shining with sweat, and he had a look of comic “He’s a great artist.”agitation, but there was in his round, surprised “What do I care? I hate him.”eyes an eager light.“Oh, my love, my precious, you don’t mean99

The Moon and Sixpencethat. I beseech you to let me bring him here. We “Oh, my poor dear, you’re thinking of that daycan make him comfortable. Perhaps we can save he came here to look at my pictures. What doeshim. He shall be no trouble to you. I will do everything.We’ll make him up a bed in the stu-was stupid of me to show them to him. I dareit matter if he didn’t think them any good? Itdio. We can’t let him die like a dog. It would be say they’re not very good.”inhuman.”He looked round the studio ruefully. On the easelwas a half-finished picture of a smiling Ital-“Why can’t he go to a hospital?”“A hospital! He needs the care of loving hands. ian peasant, holding a bunch of grapes over theHe must be treated with infinite tact.”head of a dark-eyed girl.I was surprised to see how moved she was. She “Even if he didn’t like them he should havewent on laying the table, but her hands trembled. been civil. He needn’t have insulted you. He“I have no patience with you. Do you think if showed that he despised you, and you lick hisyou were ill he would stir a finger to help you?” hand. Oh, I hate him.”“But what does that matter? I should have you “Dear child, he has genius. You don’t think Ito nurse me. It wouldn’t be necessary. And besides,I’m different; I’m not of any importance.” when I see it, and I honour it with all my heart.believe that I have it. I wish I had; but I know it“ You have no more spirit than a mongrel cur. It’s the most wonderful thing in the world. It’sYou lie down on the ground and ask people to a great burden to its possessors. We should betrample on you.”very tolerant with them, and very patient.”Stroeve gave a little laugh. He thought he understoodthe reason of his wife’s attitude. domestic scene, and wondered why StroeveI stood apart, somewhat embarrassed by thehad100

Somerset Maughaminsisted on my coming with him. I saw that his Then at last the tears came. She sank into awife was on the verge of tears.chair, and buried her face in her hands. Her shouldersshook convulsively. In a moment Dirk was“But it’s not only because he’s a genius that Iask you to let me bring him here; it’s because on his knees beside her, with his arms round her,he’s a human being, and he is ill and poor. ” kissing her, calling her all sorts of pet names,“I will never have him in my house — never. ” and the facile tears ran down his own cheeks.Stroeve turned to me.Presently she released herself and dried her eyes.“ Tell her that it’s a matter of life and death. It’s “Leave me alone,” she said, not unkindly; andimpossible to leave him in that wretched hole.” then to me, trying to smile: “What must you“It’s quite obvious that it would be much think of me?”easier to nurse him here,” I said, “but of course Stroeve, looking at her with perplexity, hesitated.His forehead was all puckered, and his redit would be very inconvenient. I have an idea thatsomeone will have to be with him day and night.” mouth set in a pout. He reminded me oddly of“My love, it’s not you who would shirk a little an agitated guinea-pig.trouble.”“Then it’s No, darling?” he said at last.“If he comes here, I shall go,” said Mrs. Stroeve She gave a gesture of lassitude. She was exhausted.violently.“I don’t recognize you. You’re so good and “The studio is yours. Everything belongs to you.kind.”If you want to bring him here, how can I prevent“Oh, for goodness sake, let me be. You drive you?”me to distraction.”A sudden smile flashed across his round face.101

The Moon and Sixpence“Then you consent? I knew you would. Oh, my “No, no. I know I’m right. Something terribleprecious.”will happen to us.”Suddenly she pulled herself together. She “Because we do a good action?”looked at him with haggard eyes. She clasped She was panting now, and in her face was aher hands over her heart as though its beating terror which was inexplicable. I do not knowwere intolerable.what she thought. I felt that she was possessed“Oh, Dirk, I’ve never since we met asked you by some shapeless dread which robbed her of allto do anything for me.”self-control. As a rule she was so calm; her agitationnow was amazing. Stroeve looked at her for“ You know there’s nothing in the world that Iwouldn’t do for you.”a while with puzzled consternation.“I beg you not to let Strickland come here. Anyoneelse you like. Bring a thief, a drunkard, any anyone in the world. No one shall come here with-“ You are my wife; you are dearer to me thanoutcast off the streets, and I promise you I’ll do out your entire consent.”everything I can for them gladly. But I beseech She closed her eyes for a moment, and I thoughtyou not to bring Strickland here.”she was going to faint. I was a little impatient“But why?”with her; I had not suspected that she was so“I’m frightened of him. I don’t know why, but neurotic a woman. Then I heard Stroeve’s voicethere’s something in him that terrifies me. He’ll again. It seemed to break oddly on the silence.do us some great harm. I know it. I feel it. If you “Haven’t you been in bitter distress once whenbring him here it can only end badly. ”a helping hand was held out to you? You know“But how unreasonable!”how much it means. Couldn’t you like to do102

Somerset Maughamsomeone a good turn when you have the “Don’t be affectionate before strangers, Dirk,”chance?”she said. “It makes me feel such a fool.”The words were ordinary enough, and to my Her manner was quite normal again, and nomind there was in them something so hortatory one could have told that so shortly before shethat I almost smiled. I was astonished at the effectthey had on Blanche Stroeve. She started ahad been shaken by such a great emotion.little, and gave her husband a long look. His eyeswere fixed on the ground. I did not know why heseemed embarrassed. A faint colour came intoher cheeks, and then her face became white —more than white, ghastly; you felt that the bloodhad shrunk away from the whole surface of herbody; and even her hands were pale. A shiverpassed through her. The silence of the studioseemed to gather body, so that it became an almostpalpable presence. I was bewildered.“Bring Strickland here, Dirk. I’ll do my bestfor him.”“My precious,” he smiled.He wanted to take her in his arms, but sheavoided him.103

The Moon and SixpenceChapter XXVIor his needs with a jibe, a sneer, or an oath. Ifound him detestable, and as soon as he was outNEXT DAY we moved Strickland. It needed a good of danger I had no hesitation in telling him so.deal of firmness and still more patience to inducehim to come, but he was really too ill to Dirk Stroeve, giving up his work entirely, nursed“Go to hell,” he answered briefly.offer any effective resistance to Stroeve’s entreatiesand to my determination. We dressed was dexterous to make him comfortable, and heStrickland with tenderness and sympathy. Hehim, while he feebly cursed us, got him downstairs,into a cab, and eventually to Stroeve’s thought him capable to induce him to take theexercised a cunning of which I should never havestudio. He was so exhausted by the time we arrivedthat he allowed us to put him to bed with-too much trouble for him. Though his means weremedicines prescribed by the doctor. Nothing wasout a word. He was ill for six weeks. At one time adequate to the needs of himself and his wife,it looked as though he could not live more than a he certainly had no money to waste; but now hefew hours, and I am convinced that it was only was wantonly extravagant in the purchase ofthrough the Dutchman’s doggedness that he delicacies, out of season and dear, which mightpulled through. I have never known a more difficultpatient. It was not that he was exacting and never forget the tactful patience with which hetempt Strickland’s capricious appetite. I shallquerulous; on the contrary, he never complained, persuaded him to take nourishment. He washe asked for nothing, he was perfectly silent; but never put out by Strickland’s rudeness; if it washe seemed to resent the care that was taken of merely sullen, he appeared not to notice it; if ithim; he received all inquiries about his feelings was aggressive, he only chuckled. When104

Somerset MaughamStrickland, recovering somewhat, was in a good sary that someone should stay with him all night,humour and amused himself by laughing at him, and she took turns at watching with her husband.I wondered what she thought during thehe deliberately did absurd things to excite hisridicule. Then he would give me little happy long darkness as she sat by the bedside.glances, so that I might notice in how much betterform the patient was. Stroeve was sublime. thinner than ever, with his ragged red beard andStrickland was a weird figure as he lay there,But it was Blanche who most surprised me. She his eyes staring feverishly into vacancy; his illnessseemed to have made them larger, and theyproved herself not only a capable, but a devotednurse. There was nothing in her to remind you had an unnatural brightness.that she had so vehemently struggled against “Does he ever talk to you in the night?” I askedher husband’s wish to bring Strickland to the her once.studio. She insisted on doing her share of the “Never. ”offices needful to the sick. She arranged his bed “Do you dislike him as much as you did?”so that it was possible to change the sheet withoutdisturbing him. She washed him. When I re-She looked at me with her calm gray eyes. Her“More, if anything.”marked on her competence, she told me with expression was so placid, it was hard to believethat pleasant little smile of hers that for a while that she was capable of the violent emotion Ishe had worked in a hospital. She gave no sign had witnessed.that she hated Strickland so desperately. She did “Has he ever thanked you for what you do fornot speak to him much, but she was quick to him?”forestall his wants. For a fortnight it was neces-“No,” she smiled.105

The Moon and Sixpence“He’s inhuman.”strange perplexity, and perhaps — but why? —“He’s abominable.”alarm. In a moment Strickland looked away andStroeve was, of course, delighted with her. He idly surveyed the ceiling, but she continued tocould not do enough to show his gratitude for stare at him, and now her look was quite inexplicable.the whole-hearted devotion with which she hadaccepted the burden he laid on her. But he was a In a few days Strickland began to get up. Helittle puzzled by the behaviour of Blanche and was nothing but skin and bone. His clothes hungStrickland towards one another.upon him like rags on a scarecrow. With his untidybeard and long hair, his features, always a“Do you know, I’ve seen them sit there forhours together without saying a word?” little larger than life, now emphasised by illness,On one occasion, when Strickland was so much he had an extraordinary aspect; but it was sobetter that in a day or two he was to get up, I sat odd that it was not quite ugly. There was somethingmonumental in his ungainliness. I do notwith them in the studio. Dirk and I were talking.Mrs. Stroeve sewed, and I thought I recognised know how to express precisely the impressionthe shirt she was mending as Strickland’s. He he made upon me. It was not exactly spiritualitylay on his back; he did not speak. Once I saw that was obvious, though the screen of the fleshthat his eyes were fixed on Blanche Stroeve, and seemed almost transparent, because there wasthere was in them a curious irony. Feeling their in his face an outrageous sensuality; but, thoughgaze, she raised her own, and for a moment they it sounds nonsense, it seemed as though his sensualitywere curiously spiritual. There was in himstared at one another. I could not quite understandher expression. Her eyes had in them a something primitive. He seemed to partake of106

Somerset Maughamthose obscure forces of nature which the Greeks in his choice of books he showed pleasantly thepersonified in shapes part human and part beast, irreconcilable sides of his fantastic nature. It wasthe satyr and the faun. I thought of Marsyas, singular to notice that even in the weak state ofwhom the god flayed because he had dared to his body he had no thought for its comfort.rival him in song. Strickland seemed to bear in Stroeve liked his ease, and in his studio were ahis heart strange harmonies and unadventured couple of heavily upholstered arm-chairs and apatterns, and I foresaw for him an end of torture large divan. Strickland would not go near them,and despair. I had again the feeling that he was not from any affectation of stoicism, for I foundpossessed of a devil; but you could not say that him seated on a three-legged stool when I wentit was a devil of evil, for it was a primitive force into the studio one day and he was alone, butthat existed before good and ill.because he did not like them. For choice he satHe was still too weak to paint, and he sat in on a kitchen chair without arms. It often exasperatedme to see him. I never knew a man sothe studio, silent, occupied with God knows whatdreams, or reading. The books he liked were entirely indifferent to his surroundings.queer; sometimes I would find him poring overthe poems of Mallarme, and he read them as achild reads, forming the words with his lips, andI wondered what strange emotion he got fromthose subtle cadences and obscure phrases; andagain I found him absorbed in the detective novelsof Gaboriau. I amused myself by thinking that107

The Moon and SixpenceChapter XXVIIsmile was rueful.“Why are you idling in this disgraceful fashion?”I asked gaily.TWO OR THREE weeks passed. One morning, havingcome to a pause in my work, I thought I would “It’s a long time since I was at the Louvre. Igive myself a holiday, and I went to the Louvre. I thought I’d come and see if they had anythingwandered about looking at the pictures I knew new. ”so well, and let my fancy play idly with the emotionsthey suggested. I sauntered into the long ished this week.”“But you told me you had to get a picture fin-gallery, and there suddenly saw Stroeve. I smiled, “Strickland’s painting in my studio.”for his appearance, so rotund and yet so startled, “ Well?”could never fail to excite a smile, and then as I “I suggested it myself. He’s not strong enoughcame nearer I noticed that he seemed singularly to go back to his own place yet. I thought wedisconsolate. He looked woebegone and yet ridiculous,like a man who has fallen into the wa-Quarter share a studio. I thought it would be fun.could both paint there. Lots of fellows in theter with all his clothes on, and, being rescued I’ve always thought it would be jolly to havefrom death, frightened still, feels that he only someone to talk to when one was tired of work.”looks a fool. Turning round, he stared at me, but He said all this slowly, detaching statementI perceived that he did not see me. His round from statement with a little awkward silence,blue eyes looked harassed behind his glasses. and he kept his kind, foolish eyes fixed on mine.“Stroeve,” I said.They were full of tears.He gave a little start, and then smiled, but his “I don’t think I understand,” I said.108

Somerset Maugham“Strickland can’t work with anyone else in the “I don’t know. ”studio.”I gazed at Stroeve with perplexity. He stood like“Damn it all, it’s your studio. That’s his lookout.”“Shall I get rid of Strickland for you?” I asked.a schoolboy with whom a master is finding fault.He looked at me pitifully. His lips were trembling.very red.He gave a little start, and his shining face grew“What happened?” I asked, rather sharply. “No. You’d better not do anything.”He hesitated and flushed. He glanced unhappilyat one of the pictures on the wall.that for some reason he did not want to discussHe nodded to me and walked away. It was clear“He wouldn’t let me go on painting. He told the matter. I did not understand.me to get out.”“But why didn’t you tell him to go to hell?”“He turned me out. I couldn’t very wellstruggle with him. He threw my hat after me,and locked the door. ”I was furious with Strickland, and was indignantwith myself, because Dirk Stroeve cut suchan absurd figure that I felt inclined to laugh.“But what did your wife say?”“She’d gone out to do the marketing.”“Is he going to let her in?”109

The Moon and SixpenceChapter XXVIIIin disorder. He looked suddenly bedraggled. I wasconvinced he had been drinking, and I smiled. ITHE EXPLANATION came a week later. It was about was on the point of chaffing him on his state.ten o’ clock at night; I had been dining by myselfat a restaurant, and having returned to my came here earlier, but you weren’t in.”“I didn’t know where to go,” he burst out. “Ismall apartment, was sitting in my parlour, readingI heard the cracked tinkling of the bell, and, I changed my mind: it was not liquor that had“I dined late,” I said.going into the corridor, opened the door. Stroeve driven him to this obvious desperation. His face,stood before me.usually so rosy, was now strangely mottled. His“Can I come in?” he asked.hands trembled.In the dimness of the landing I could not see “Has anything happened?” I asked.him very well, but there was something in his “My wife has left me.”voice that surprised me. I knew he was of abstemioushabit or I should have thought he had been little gasp, and the tears began to trickle downHe could hardly get the words out. He gave adrinking. I led the way into my sitting room and his round cheeks. I did not know what to say. Myasked him to sit down.first thought was that she had come to the end“Thank God I’ve found you,” he said.of her forbearance with his infatuation for“What’s the matter?” I asked in astonishment Strickland, and, goaded by the latter’s cynicalat his vehemence.behaviour, had insisted that he should be turnedI was able now to see him well. As a rule he out. I knew her capable of temper, for all the calmnessof her manner; and if Stroeve still was neat in his person, but now his clothes wererefused,110

Somerset Maughamshe might easily have flung out of the studio with head that his wife cared for Strickland, and withvows never to return. But the little man was so his genius for blundering he might quite welldistressed that I could not smile.have offended her so that, to anger him, perhaps,“My dear fellow, don’t be unhappy. She’ll she had taken pains to foster his suspicion.come back. You mustn’t take very seriously what “Look here,” I said, “let’s go back to your studio.If you’ve made a fool of yourself you mustwomen say when they’re in a passion.”“ You don’t understand. She’s in love with eat humble pie. Your wife doesn’t strike me asStrickland.”the sort of woman to bear malice.”“What!” I was startled at this, but the idea had “How can I go back to the studio?” he saidno sooner taken possession of me than I saw it wearily. “They’re there. I’ve left it to them.”was absurd. “How can you be so silly? You don’t “Then it’s not your wife who’s left you; it’smean to say you’re jealous of Strickland?” I almostlaughed. “You know very well that she “For God’s sake don’t talk to me like that.”you who’ve left your wife.”can’t bear the sight of him.”Still I could not take him seriously. I did not for“ You don’t understand,” he moaned.a moment believe what he had told me. But he“ You’re an hysterical ass,” I said a little impatiently.“Let me give you a whisky-and-soda, and “ Well, you’ve come here to talk to me aboutwas in very real distress.you’ll feel better. ”it. You’d better tell me the whole story. ”I supposed that for some reason or other — and “This afternoon I couldn’t stand it any more. IHeaven knows what ingenuity men exercise to went to Strickland and told him I thought he wastorment themselves — Dirk had got it into his quite well enough to go back to his own place. I111

The Moon and Sixpencewanted the studio myself.”“`I’m going with Strickland, Dirk,’ she said.“No one but Strickland would have needed telling,”I said. “What did he say?”“I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.`I can’t live with you any more.’“He laughed a little; you know how he laughs, Strickland didn’t say anything. He went on whistlingas though it had nothing to do with him.”not as though he were amused, but as thoughyou were a damned fool, and said he’d go at once. Stroeve stopped again and mopped his face. IHe began to put his things together. You rememberI fetched from his room what I thought he astounded. But all the same I could not under-kept quite still. I believed him now, and I wasneeded, and he asked Blanche for a piece of paperand some string to make a parcel.”Then he told me, in a trembling voice, withstand.Stroeve stopped, gasping, and I thought he was the tears pouring down his cheeks, how he hadgoing to faint. This was not at all the story I had gone up to her, trying to take her in his arms,expected him to tell me.but she had drawn away and begged him not to“She was very pale, but she brought the paper touch her. He implored her not to leave him. Heand the string. He didn’t say anything. He made told her how passionately he loved her, and remindedher of all the devotion he had lavishedthe parcel and he whistled a tune. He took nonotice of either of us. His eyes had an ironic smile upon her. He spoke to her of the happiness ofin them. My heart was like lead. I was afraid their life. He was not angry with her. He did notsomething was going to happen, and I wished I reproach her.hadn’t spoken. He looked round for his hat. Then “Please let me go quietly, Dirk,” she said atshe spoke:last. “Don’t you understand that I love112

Somerset MaughamStrickland? Where he goes I shall go.”Stroeve picked himself up. He noticed that his“But you must know that he’ll never make you wife had remained perfectly still, and to be madehappy. For your own sake don’t go. You don’t ridiculous before her increased his humiliation.know what you’ve got to look forward to.” His spectacles had tumbled off in the struggle,“It’s your fault. You insisted on his coming and he could not immediately see them. Shehere.”picked them up and silently handed them to him.He turned to Strickland.He seemed suddenly to realise his unhappiness,“Have mercy on her,” he implored him. “You and though he knew he was making himself stillcan’t let her do anything so mad.”more absurd, he began to cry. He hid his face in“She can do as she chooses,” said Strickland. his hands. The others watched him without a“She’s not forced to come.”word. They did not move from where they stood.“My choice is made,” she said, in a dull voice. “Oh, my dear,” he groaned at last, “how canStrickland’s injurious calm robbed Stroeve of you be so cruel?”the rest of his self-control. Blind rage seized him, “I can’t help myself, Dirk,” she answered.and without knowing what he was doing he flung “I’ve worshipped you as no woman was everhimself on Strickland. Strickland was taken by worshipped before. If in anything I did I displeasedsurprise and he staggered, but he was very you, why didn’t you tell me, and I’d havestrong, even after his illness, and in a moment, changed. I’ve done everything I could for you.”he did not exactly know how, Stroeve found himselfon the floor.saw that he was only boring her. She put on aShe did not answer. Her face was set, and he“ You funny little man,” said Strickland. coat and her hat. She moved towards the door,113

The Moon and Sixpenceand he saw that in a moment she would be gone. He gulped, and put his hand to his heart toHe went up to her quickly and fell on his knees ease its painful beating.before her, seizing her hands: he abandoned all “I’m not going to ask you to change your mind,self-respect.but I want you to listen to me for a minute. It’s“Oh, don’t go, my darling. I can’t live withoutyou; I shall kill myself. If I’ve done anything me that.”the last thing I shall ever ask you. Don’t refuseto offend you I beg you to forgive me. Give me She paused, looking at him with those reflectiveeyes of hers, which now were so different toanother chance. I’ll try harder still to make youhappy. ”him. She came back into the studio and leaned“Get up, Dirk. You’re making yourself a perfectfool.”“ Well?”against the table.He staggered to his feet, but still he would not Stroeve made a great effort to collect himself.let her go.“ You must be a little reasonable. You can’t live“Where are you going?” he said hastily. “You on air, you know. Strickland hasn’t got a penny. ”don’t know what Strickland’s place is like. You “I know. ”can’t live there. It would be awful.”“ You’ll suffer the most awful privations. You“If I don’t care, I don’t see why you should.” know why he took so long to get well. He was“Stay a minute longer. I must speak. After all, half starved.”you can’t grudge me that.”“I can earn money for him.”“What is the good? I’ve made up my mind. “How?”Nothing that you can say will make me alter it.” “I don’t know. I shall find a way. ”114

Somerset MaughamA horrible thought passed through the He went to the drawer in which he kept hisDutchman’s mind, and he shuddered.money and took out several bank-notes.“I think you must be mad. I don’t know what “I would like to give you half what I’ve gothas come over you.”here.”She shrugged her shoulders.He put them on the table. Neither Strickland“Now may I go?”nor his wife spoke.“ Wait one second longer. ”Then he recollected something else.He looked round his studio wearily; he had “Will you pack up my clothes and leave themloved it because her presence had made it gay with the concierge? I’ll come and fetch them tomorrow.”He tried to smile.” Good-bye, my dear.and homelike; he shut his eyes for an instant;then he gave her a long look as though to impresson his mind the picture of her. He got up in the past.”I’m grateful for all the happiness you gave meand took his hat.He walked out and closed the door behind him.“No; I’ll go.”With my mind’s eye I saw Strickland throw his“ You?”hat on a table, and, sitting down, begin to smokeShe was startled. She did not know what he a cigarette.meant.“I can’t bear to think of you living in that horrible,filthy attic. After all, this is your home justas much as mine. You’ll be comfortable here.You’ll be spared at least the worst privations.”115

The Moon and SixpenceChapter XXIXmore than ever then. When she’s alone and humiliatedand broken it would be dreadful if sheI KEPT SILENCE for a little while, thinking of what had nowhere to go.”Stroeve had told me. I could not stomach his He seemed to bear no resentment. I suppose itweakness, and he saw my disapproval. “You was commonplace in me that I felt slightly outragedat his lack of spirit. Perhaps he guessedknow as well as I do how Strickland lived,” hesaid tremulously. “I couldn’t let her live in those what was in my mind, for he said:circumstances — I simply couldn’t.”“I couldn’t expect her to love me as I loved“That’s your business,” I answered.her. I’m a buffoon. I’m not the sort of man that“What would you have done?” he asked. women love. I’ve always known that. I can’t“She went with her eyes open. If she had to blame her if she’s fallen in love with Strickland.”put up with certain inconveniences it was her “ You certainly have less vanity than any manown lookout.”I’ve ever known,” I said.“ Yes; but, you see, you don’t love her. ”“I love her so much better than myself. It seems“Do you love her still?”to me that when vanity comes into love it can“Oh, more than ever. Strickland isn’t the man only be because really you love yourself best. Afterall, it constantly happens that a man whento make a woman happy. It can’t last. I wanther to know that I shall never fail her. ”he’s married falls in love with somebody else;“Does that mean that you’re prepared to take when he gets over it he returns to his wife, andher back?”she takes him back, and everyone thinks it very“I shouldn’t hesitate. Why, she’ll want me natural. Why should it be different with women?”116

Somerset Maugham“I dare say that’s logical,” I smiled, “but most packing?”men are made differently, and they can’t.” “I couldn’t believe it. It seemed so improbable.But while I talked to Stroeve I was puzzling She couldn’t bear the sight of him. It was moreover the suddenness of the whole affair. I could than improbable; it was incredible. I thought itnot imagine that he had had no warning. I rememberedthe curious look I had seen in Blanche jealous, but I trained myself never to show it; Iwas merely jealousy. You see, I’ve always beenStroeve’s eyes; perhaps its explanation was that was jealous of every man she knew; I was jealousof you. I knew she didn’t love me as I lovedshe was growing dimly conscious of a feeling inher heart that surprised and alarmed her. her. That was only natural, wasn’t it? But she“Did you have no suspicion before to-day that allowed me to love her, and that was enough tothere was anything between them?” I asked. make me happy. I forced myself to go out forHe did not answer for a while. There was a pencilon the table, and unconsciously he drew a head selves; I wanted to punish myself for suspicionshours together in order to leave them by them-on the blotting-paper.which were unworthy of me; and when I came“Please say so, if you hate my asking you questions,”I said.Strickland, he didn’t care if I was there or not,back I found they didn’t want me — not“It eases me to talk. Oh, if you knew the frightfulanguish in my heart.” He threw the pencil her. When at last I was certain I didn’t knowbut Blanche. She shuddered when I went to kissdown. “Yes, I’ve known it for a fortnight. I knew what to do; I knew they’d only laugh at me if Iit before she did.”made a scene. I thought if I held my tongue and“Why on earth didn’t you send Strickland pretended not to see, everything would come117

The Moon and Sixpenceright. I made up my mind to get him away quietly,without quarrelling. Oh, if you only knew poor child, what have I driven her to?”all right. I shouldn’t have been so impatient. Oh,what I’ve suffered!”I shrugged my shoulders, but did not speak. IThen he told me again of his asking Strickland had no sympathy for Blanche Stroeve, but knewto go. He chose his moment carefully, and tried to that it would only pain poor Dirk if I told himmake his request sound casual; but he could not exactly what I thought of her.master the trembling of his voice; and he felt himselfthat into words that he wished to seem jovial he could not stop talking. He went over againHe had reached that stage of exhaustion whenand friendly there crept the bitterness of his jealousy.He had not expected Strickland to take him to him that he had not told me before; now heevery word of the scene. Now something occurredup on the spot and make his preparations to go discussed what he ought to have said instead ofthere and then; above all, he had not expected what he did say; then he lamented his blindness.his wife’s decision to go with him. I saw that now He regretted that he had done this, and blamedhe wished with all his heart that he had held his himself that he had omitted the other. It grewtongue. He preferred the anguish of jealousy to later and later, and at last I was as tired as he.the anguish of separation.“What are you going to do now?” I said finally.“I wanted to kill him, and I only made a fool of “What can I do? I shall wait till she sends formyself.”me.”He was silent for a long time, and then he said “Why don’t you go away for a bit?”what I knew was in his mind.“No, no; I must be at hand when she wants“If I’d only waited, perhaps it would have gone me.”118

Somerset MaughamFor the present he seemed quite lost. He hadChapter XXXmade no plans. When I suggested that he shouldgo to bed he said he could not sleep; he wanted BUT THE BED I made up for myself was sufficientlyto go out and walk about the streets till day. He uncomfortable to give me a wakeful night, and Iwas evidently in no state to be left alone. I persuadedhim to stay the night with me, and I put man had told me. I was not so much puzzled bythought a good deal of what the unlucky Dutch-him into my own bed. I had a divan in my sitting-room,and could very well sleep on that. He the result of a physical appeal. I do not supposeBlanche Stroeve’s action, for I saw in that merelywas by now so worn out that he could not resist she had ever really cared for her husband, andmy firmness. I gave him a sufficient dose of what I had taken for love was no more than theveronal to insure his unconsciousness for several feminine response to caresses and comfort whichhours. I thought that was the best service I could in the minds of most women passes for it. It is arender him.passive feeling capable of being roused for anyobject, as the vine can grow on any tree; and thewisdom of the world recognises its strength whenit urges a girl to marry the man who wants herwith the assurance that love will follow. It is anemotion made up of the satisfaction in security,pride of property, the pleasure of being desired,the gratification of a household, and it is only byan amiable vanity that women ascribe to it spiri-119

The Moon and Sixpencetual value. It is an emotion which is defenceless perhaps she felt in him, too, that sinister elementwhich had made me think of those wildagainst passion. I suspected that BlancheStroeve’s violent dislike of Strickland had in it beings of the world’s early history when matter,retaining its early connection with the earth,from the beginning a vague element of sexualattraction. Who am I that I should seek to unravelthe mysterious intricacies of sex? Perhaps affected her at all, it was inevitable that sheseemed to possess yet a spirit of its own. If heStroeve’s passion excited without satisfying that should love or hate him. She hated him.part of her nature, and she hated Strickland becauseshe felt in him the power to give her what the sick man moved her strangely. She raised hisAnd then I fancy that the daily intimacy withshe needed. I think she was quite sincere when head to give him food, and it was heavy againstshe struggled against her husband’s desire to her hand; when she had fed him she wiped hisbring him into the studio; I think she was frightenedof him, though she knew not why; and I his limbs; they were covered with thick hair; andsensual mouth and his red beard. She washedremembered how she had foreseen disaster. I when she dried his hands, even in his weaknessthink in some curious way the horror which she they were strong and sinewy. His fingers werefelt for him was a transference of the horror long; they were the capable, fashioning fingerswhich she felt for herself because he so strangely of the artist; and I know not what troublingtroubled her. His appearance was wild and uncouth;there was aloofness in his eyes and senetly,without a movement, so that he might havethoughts they excited in her. He slept very quisualityin his mouth; he was big and strong; he been dead, and he was like some wild creaturegave the impression of untamed passion; and of the woods, resting after a long chase; and she120

Somerset Maughamwondered what fancies passed through his ness, to find then that she was powerless in adreams. Did he dream of the nymph flying snare of her own contriving. How did I know whatthrough the woods of Greece with the satyr in were the thoughts and emotions behind thathot pursuit? She fled, swift of foot and desperate,but he gained on her step by step, till she But if one could be certain of nothing in deal-placid brow and those cool gray eyes?felt his hot breath on her neck; and still she fled ing with creatures so incalculable as human beings,there were explanations of Blanchesilently, and silently he pursued, and when atlast he seized her was it terror that thrilled her Stroeve’s behaviour which were at all eventsheart or was it ecstasy?plausible. On the other hand, I did not understandBlanche Stroeve was in the cruel grip of appetite.Perhaps she hated Strickland still, but she no way account for an action so contrary to myStrickland at all. I racked my brain, but could inhungered for him, and everything that had made conception of him. It was not strange that heup her life till then became of no account. She should so heartlessly have betrayed his friends’ceased to be a woman, complex, kind and petulant,considerate and thoughtless; she was a gratify a whim at the cost of another’s misery.confidence, nor that he hesitated not at all toMaenad. She was desire.That was in his character. He was a man withoutBut perhaps this is very fanciful; and it may be any conception of gratitude. He had no compassion.The emotions common to most of us sim-that she was merely bored with her husband andwent to Strickland out of a callous curiosity. She ply did not exist in him, and it was as absurd tomay have had no particular feeling for him, but blame him for not feeling them as for blamingsuccumbed to his wish from propinquity or idle-the tiger because he is fierce and cruel. But it121

The Moon and Sixpencewas the whim I could not understand.devoid of sentimentality, and Strickland was theI could not believe that Strickland had fallen in least inclined to that infirmity of any man I havelove with Blanche Stroeve. I did not believe him known. I could not believe that he would evercapable of love. That is an emotion in which tendernessis an essential part, but Strickland had he could never endure a foreign yoke. I believedsuffer that possession of himself which love is;no tenderness either for himself or for others; him capable of uprooting from his heart, thoughthere is in love a sense of weakness, a desire to it might be with agony, so that he was left batteredand ensanguined, anything that came be-protect, an eagerness to do good and to give pleasure— if not unselfishness, at all events a selfishnesswhich marvellously conceals itself; it has ing that urged him constantly to he knew nottween himself and that uncomprehended crav-in it a certain diffidence. These were not traits what. If I have succeeded at all in giving the complicatedimpression that Strickland made on me,which I could imagine in Strickland. Love is absorbing;it takes the lover out of himself; the most it will not seem outrageous to say that I felt heclear-sighted, though he may know, cannot realise was at once too great and too small for love.that his love will cease; it gives body to what he But I suppose that everyone’s conception ofknows is illusion, and, knowing it is nothing else, the passion is formed on his own idiosyncrasies,he loves it better than reality. It makes a man a and it is different with every different person. Alittle more than himself, and at the same time a man like Strickland would love in a manner peculiarto himself. It was vain to seek the analysislittle less. He ceases to be himself. He is no longeran individual, but a thing, an instrument to some of his emotion.purpose foreign to his ego. Love is never quite122

Somerset MaughamChapter XXXIhe had committed towards her; he told her heloved her devotedly and begged her to return toNEXT DAY, though I pressed him to remain, Stroeve him. She would not answer; she walked hurriedly,left me. I offered to fetch his things from the with averted face. I imagined him with his fatstudio, but he insisted on going himself; I think little legs trying to keep up with her. Panting ahe hoped they had not thought of getting them little in his haste, he told her how miserable hetogether, so that he would have an opportunity was; he besought her to have mercy on him; heof seeing his wife again and perhaps inducing promised, if she would forgive him, to do everythingshe wanted. He offered to take her for aher to come back to him. But he found his trapswaiting for him in the porter’s lodge, and the journey. He told her that Strickland would soonconcierge told him that Blanche had gone out. I tire of her. When he repeated to me the wholedo not think he resisted the temptation of givingher an account of his troubles. I found that neither sense nor dignity. He had omitted noth-sordid little scene I was outraged. He had shownhe was telling them to everyone he knew; he ing that could make his wife despise him. Thereexpected sympathy, but only excited ridicule. is no cruelty greater than a woman’s to a manHe bore himself most unbecomingly. Knowing who loves her and whom she does not love; sheat what time his wife did her shopping, one day, has no kindness then, no tolerance even, she hasunable any longer to bear not seeing her, he only an insane irritation. Blanche Stroeve stoppedwaylaid her in the street. She would not speak suddenly, and as hard as she could slapped herto him, but he insisted on speaking to her. He husband’s face. She took advantage of his confusionto escape, and ran up the stairs to spluttered out words of apology for any wrongthe123

The Moon and Sixpencestudio. No word had passed her lips.I begged Stroeve to behave more wisely. HisWhen he told me this he put his hand to his want of spirit was exasperating.cheek as though he still felt the smart of the blow, “ You’re doing no good at all by going on likeand in his eyes was a pain that was heartrending this,” I said. “I think you’d have been wiser ifand an amazement that was ludicrous. He looked you’d hit her over the head with a stick. Shelike an overblown schoolboy, and though I felt so wouldn’t have despised you as she does now. ”sorry for him, I could hardly help laughing. I suggested that he should go home for a while.Then he took to walking along the street which He had often spoken to me of the silent town,she must pass through to get to the shops, and somewhere up in the north of Holland, wherehe would stand at the corner, on the other side, his parents still lived. They were poor people.as she went along. He dared not speak to her His father was a carpenter, and they dwelt in aagain, but sought to put into his round eyes the little old red-brick house, neat and clean, by theappeal that was in his heart. I suppose he had side of a sluggish canal. The streets were widesome idea that the sight of his misery would and empty; for two hundred years the place hadtouch her. She never made the smallest sign that been dying, but the houses had the homely statelinessof their time. Rich merchants, sendingshe saw him. She never even changed the hourof her errands or sought an alternative route. I their wares to the distant Indies, had lived inhave an idea that there was some cruelty in her them calm and prosperous lives, and in their decentdecay they kept still an aroma of their splen-indifference. Perhaps she got enjoyment out ofthe torture she inflicted. I wondered why she did past. You could wander along the canal tillhated him so much.you came to broad green fields, with windmills124

Somerset Maughamhere and there, in which cattle, black and white, sorrow had no effect on it. He looked more thangrazed lazily. I thought that among those surroundings,with their recollections of his boy-man’s exterior should tally so little sometimesever like a prosperous bagman. It is hard that ahood, Dirk Stroeve would forget his unhappiness. with his soul. Dirk Stroeve had the passion ofBut he would not go.Romeo in the body of Sir Toby Belch. He had a“I must be here when she needs me,” he repeated.“It would be dreadful if something ter-blundering; a real feeling for what was beautifulsweet and generous nature, and yet was alwaysrible happened and I were not at hand.” and the capacity to create only what was commonplace;a peculiar delicacy of sentiment and“What do you think is going to happen?” Iasked.gross manners. He could exercise tact when dealingwith the affairs of others, but none when“I don’t know. But I’m afraid.”I shrugged my shoulders.dealing with his own. What a cruel practical jokeFor all his pain, Dirk Stroeve remained a ridiculousobject. He might have excited sympathy if tradictory elements together, and left the manold Nature played when she flung so many con-he had grown worn and thin. He did nothing of face to face with the perplexing callousness ofthe kind. He remained fat, and his round, red the universe.cheeks shone like ripe apples. He had great neatnessof person, and he continued to wear hisspruce black coat and his bowler hat, always alittle too small for him, in a dapper, jaunty manner.He was getting something of a paunch, and125

The Moon and SixpenceChapter XXXIIsaid he. “I thought you must be away. ”His cordiality was proof that he knew I had noI DID NOT SEE Strickland for several weeks. I was wish to speak to him. He was not a man withdisgusted with him, and if I had had an opportunityshould have been glad to tell him so, but I “No,” I said; “I haven’t been away. ”whom it was worth while wasting politeness.saw no object in seeking him out for the purpose. “Why haven’t you been here?”I am a little shy of any assumption of moral indignation;there is always in it an element of self-which to trifle away an idle hour. ”“There are more cafes in Paris than one, atsatisfaction which makes it awkward to anyone Blanche then held out her hand and bade mewho has a sense of humour. It requires a very good-evening. I do not know why I had expectedlively passion to steel me to my own ridicule. her to be somehow changed; she wore the sameThere was a sardonic sincerity in Strickland gray dress that she wore so often, neat and becoming,and her brow was as candid, her eyes aswhich made me sensitive to anything that mightsuggest a pose.untroubled, as when I had been used to see herBut one evening when I was passing along the occupied with her household duties in the studio.Avenue de Clichy in front of the cafe which “Come and have a game of chess,” saidStrickland frequented and which I now avoided, Strickland.I ran straight into him. He was accompanied by I do not know why at the moment I could thinkBlanche Stroeve, and they were just going to of no excuse. I followed them rather sulkily toStrickland’s favourite corner.the table at which Strickland always sat, and he“Where the devil have you been all this time?” called for the board and the chessmen. They both126

Somerset Maughamtook the situation so much as a matter of course which the care she took of her home and herthat I felt it absurd to do otherwise. Mrs. Stroeve love of good housewifery made not a little remarkable.She must be a woman of complicatedwatched the game with inscrutable face. She wassilent, but she had always been silent. I looked character, and there was something dramatic inat her mouth for an expression that could give the contrast of that with her demure appearance.me a clue to what she felt; I watched her eyes I was excited by the encounter, and my fancyfor some tell-tale flash, some hint of dismay or worked busily while I sought to concentratebitterness; I scanned her brow for any passing myself on the game I was playing. I always triedline that might indicate a settling emotion. Her my best to beat Strickland, because he was aface was a mask that told nothing. Her hands player who despised the opponent he vanquished;his exultation in victory made defeatlay on her lap motionless, one in the other looselyclasped. I knew from what I had heard that she more difficult to bear. On the other hand, if hewas a woman of violent passions; and that injuriousblow that she had given Dirk, the man who humour. He was a bad winner and a good loser.was beaten he took it with complete good-had loved her so devotedly, betrayed a sudden Those who think that a man betrays his characternowhere more clearly than when he is play-temper and a horrid cruelty. She had abandonedthe safe shelter of her husband’s protection and ing a game might on this draw subtle inferences.the comfortable ease of a well-provided establishmentfor what she could not but see was an for the drinks, and left them. The meeting hadWhen he had finished I called the waiter to payextreme hazard. It showed an eagerness for adventure,a readiness for the hand-to-mouth, to give me anything to think about, and anybeen devoid of incident. No word had been saidsur-127

The Moon and Sixpencemises I might make were unwarranted. I wasChapter XXXIIIintrigued. I could not tell how they were gettingon. I would have given much to be a disembodiedspirit so that I could see them in the privacy “I hear you’ve seen Blanche,” he said.TWO OR THREE DAYS later Dirk Stroeve called on me.of the studio and hear what they talked about. I “How on earth did you find out?”had not the smallest indication on which to let “I was told by someone who saw you sittingmy imagination work.with them. Why didn’t you tell me?”“I thought it would only pain you.”“What do I care if it does? You must know thatI want to hear the smallest thing about her. ”I waited for him to ask me questions.“What does she look like?” he said.“Absolutely unchanged.”“Does she seem happy?”I shrugged my shoulders.“How can I tell? We were in a cafe; we wereplaying chess; I had no opportunity to speak toher. ”“Oh, but couldn’t you tell by her face?”I shook my head. I could only repeat that by noword, by no hinted gesture, had she given an128

Somerset Maughamindication of her feelings. He must know better to leave him, and her husband was waiting humblyto forgive and forget. I was not prepared tothan I how great were her powers of self-control.He clasped his hands emotionally.feel any great sympathy for her.“Oh, I’m so frightened. I know something is “ You see, you don’t love her,” said Stroeve.going to happen, something terrible, and I can “After all, there’s nothing to prove that she isdo nothing to stop it.”unhappy. For all we know they may have settled“What sort of thing?” I asked.down into a most domestic couple.”“Oh, I don’t know,” he moaned, seizing his Stroeve gave me a look with his woeful eyes.head with his hands. “I foresee some terrible catastrophe.”to me it’s so serious, so intensely serious.”“Of course it doesn’t much matter to you, butStroeve had always been excitable, but now he I was sorry if I had seemed impatient or flippant.was beside himself; there was no reasoning withhim. I thought it probable enough that Blanche “Will you do something for me?” asked Stroeve.Stroeve would not continue to find life with “Willingly. ”Strickland tolerable, but one of the falsest of proverbsis that you must lie on the bed that you “Why can’t you write yourself?”“Will you write to Blanche for me?”have made. The experience of life shows that “I’ve written over and over again. I didn’t expecther to answer. I don’t think she reads thepeople are constantly doing things which mustlead to disaster, and yet by some chance manageto evade the result of their folly. When “ You make no account of feminine curiosity. Doletters.”Blanche quarrelled with Strickland she had only you think she could resist?”129

The Moon and Sixpence“She could — mine.”unaltered. You will always find him at the followingaddress:I looked at him quickly. He lowered his eyes.That answer of his seemed to me strangely humiliating.He was conscious that she regardedhim with an indifference so profound that thesight of his handwriting would have not theslightest effect on her.“Do you really believe that she’ll ever comeback to you?” I asked.“I want her to know that if the worst comes tothe worst she can count on me. That’s what Iwant you to tell her. ”I took a sheet of paper.“What is it exactly you wish me to say?”This is what I wrote:DEAR MRS. STROEVE, Dirk wishes me to tell youthat if at any time you want him he will be gratefulfor the opportunity of being of service to you.He has no ill-feeling towards you on account ofanything that has happened. His love for you is130

Somerset MaughamChapter XXXIVin which the concierge had brought me my cafeau lait and the fragment of croissant which I hadBUT THOUGH I was no less convinced than Stroeve not had appetite enough to eat. I heard the conciergein the next room emptying my bath. Therethat the connection between Strickland andBlanche would end disastrously, I did not expect was a tinkle at my bell, and I left her to open thethe issue to take the tragic form it did. The summercame, breathless and sultry, and even at ing if I was in. Without moving, I shouted to himdoor. In a moment I heard Stroeve’s voice ask-night there was no coolness to rest one’s jaded to come. He entered the room quickly, and camenerves. The sun-baked streets seemed to give back up to the table at which I sat.the heat that had beat down on them during the “She’s killed herself,” he said hoarsely.day, and the passers-by dragged their feet along “What do you mean?” I cried, startled.them wearily. I had not seen Strickland for weeks. He made movements with his lips as thoughOccupied with other things, I had ceased to think he were speaking, but no sound issued fromof him and his affairs. Dirk, with his vain lamentations,had begun to bore me, and I avoided his thumped against my ribs, and, I do not knowthem. He gibbered like an idiot. My heartsociety. It was a sordid business, and I was not why, I flew into a temper.inclined to trouble myself with it further.“For God’s sake, collect yourself, man,” I said.One morning I was working. I sat in my “What on earth are you talking about?”Pyjamas. My thoughts wandered, and I thought He made despairing gestures with his hands,of the sunny beaches of Brittany and the freshnessof the sea. By my side was the empty bowl have been struck dumb. I do not know whatbut still no words came from his mouth. He mightcame131

The Moon and Sixpenceover me; I took him by the shoulders and shook ritation. I attempted a smile.him. Looking back, I am vexed that I made such “I’m sorry. Take your time. Don’t hurry,a fool of myself; I suppose the last restless nights there’s a good fellow. ”had shaken my nerves more than I knew.His round blue eyes behind the spectacles were“Let me sit down,” he gasped at length. ghastly with terror. The magnifying-glasses heI filled a glass with St. Galmier, and gave it to wore distorted them.him to drink. I held it to his mouth as though he “When the concierge went up this morning towere a child. He gulped down a mouthful, and take a letter she could get no answer to her ring.some of it was spilt on his shirt-front.She heard someone groaning. The door wasn’t“Who’s killed herself?”locked, and she went in. Blanche was lying onI do not know why I asked, for I knew whom the bed. She’d been frightfully sick. There washe meant. He made an effort to collect himself. a bottle of oxalic acid on the table.”“They had a row last night. He went away. ” Stroeve hid his face in his hands and swayed“Is she dead?”backwards and forwards, groaning.“No; they’ve taken her to the hospital.” “ Was she conscious?”“Then what are you talking about?” I cried impatiently.“Why did you say she’d killed her-can’t bear it. I can’t bear it.”“ Yes. Oh, if you knew how she’s suffering! Iself?”His voice rose to a shriek.“Don’t be cross with me. I can’t tell you anythingif you talk to me like that.”cried impatiently. “She’s got to bear it.”“Damn it all, you haven’t got to bear it,” II clenched my hands, seeking to control my ir-“How can you be so cruel?”132

Somerset Maugham“What have you done?”the sordid promiscuity of a ward. On our way he“They sent for a doctor and for me, and they explained to me why he desired my presence; iftold the police. I’d given the concierge twenty she still refused to see him, perhaps she wouldfrancs, and told her to send for me if anything see me. He begged me to repeat to her that hehappened.”loved her still; he would reproach her for nothing,but desired only to help her; he made noHe paused a minute, and I saw that what hehad to tell me was very hard to say.claim on her, and on her recovery would not seek“When I went she wouldn’t speak to me. She to induce her to return to him; she would be perfectlyfree.told them to send me away. I swore that I forgaveher everything, but she wouldn’t listen. But when we arrived at the hospital, a gaunt,She tried to beat her head against the wall. The cheerless building, the mere sight of which wasdoctor told me that I mustn’t remain with her. enough to make one’s heart sick, and after beingdirected from this official to that, up endlessShe kept on saying, `Send him away!’ I went,and waited in the studio. And when the ambulancecame and they put her on a stretcher, they the doctor in charge of the case, we were toldstairs and through long, bare corridors, foundmade me go in the kitchen so that she shouldn’t that the patient was too ill to see anyone thatknow I was there.”day. The doctor was a little bearded man in white,While I dressed — for Stroeve wished me to go with an offhand manner. He evidently lookedat once with him to the hospital — he told me upon a case as a case, and anxious relatives as athat he had arranged for his wife to have a privateroom, so that she might at least be spared Moreover, to him the affair was commonplace;nuisance which must be treated with firmness.it133

The Moon and Sixpencewas just an hysterical woman who had quarrelled tempted suicides in the city of Paris during thewith her lover and taken poison; it was constantly current year. He was busy, and could waste nohappening. At first he thought that Dirk was the more time on us. He told us that if we came at acause of the disaster, and he was needlessly certain hour next day, should Blanche be better,brusque with him. When I explained that he was it might be possible for her husband to see her.the husband, anxious to forgive, the doctorlooked at him suddenly, with curious, searchingeyes. I seemed to see in them a hint of mockery;it was true that Stroeve had the head of the husbandwho is deceived. The doctor faintlyshrugged his shoulders.“There is no immediate danger,” he said, inanswer to our questioning. “One doesn’t knowhow much she took. It may be that she will getoff with a fright. Women are constantly tryingto commit suicide for love, but generally theytake care not to succeed. It’s generally a gestureto arouse pity or terror in their lover. ”There was in his tone a frigid contempt. It wasobvious that to him Blanche Stroeve was only aunit to be added to the statistical list of at-134

Somerset MaughamChapter XXXVsee her husband. We heard voices in the room inwhich she lay, and presently the nurse returnedI SCARCELY KNOW how we got through that day. to say that the patient refused to see anyone.Stroeve could not bear to be alone, and I exhaustedmyself in efforts to distract him. I took the nurse was to ask if she would see me, butWe had told her that if she refused to see Dirkhim to the Louvre, and he pretended to look at this she refused also. Dirk’s lips trembled.pictures, but I saw that his thoughts were constantlywith his wife. I forced him to eat, and ill. Perhaps in a day or two she may change her“I dare not insist,” said the nurse. “She is tooafter luncheon I induced him to lie down, but he mind.”could not sleep. He accepted willingly my invitationto remain for a few days in my apartment. I Dirk, in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.“Is there anyone else she wants to see?” askedgave him books to read, but after a page or two “She says she only wants to be left in peace.”he would put the book down and stare miserably Dirk’s hands moved strangely, as though theyinto space. During the evening we played innumerablegames of piquet, and bravely, not to dismentof their own.had nothing to do with his body, with a moveappointmy efforts, he tried to appear interested. “Will you tell her that if there is anyone elseFinally I gave him a draught, and he sank into she wishes to see I will bring him? I only wantuneasy slumber.her to be happy. ”When we went again to the hospital we saw a The nurse looked at him with her calm, kindnursing sister. She told us that Blanche seemed eyes, which had seen all the horror and pain ofa little better, and she went in to ask if she would the world, and yet, filled with the vision of a135

The Moon and Sixpenceworld without sin, remained serene.“No. She won’t speak. She lies on her back“I will tell her when she is a little calmer. ” quite quietly. She doesn’t move for hours at aDirk, filled with compassion, begged her to take time. But she cries always. Her pillow is all wet.the message at once.She’s too weak to use a handkerchief, and the“It may cure her. I beseech you to ask her now. ” tears just run down her face.”With a faint smile of pity, the nurse went back It gave me a sudden wrench of the heartstrings.I could have killed Strickland then, and Iinto the room. We heard her low voice, and then,in a voice I did not recognise the answer: knew that my voice was trembling when I bade“No. No. No.”the nurse goodbye.The nurse came out again and shook her head. I found Dirk waiting for me on the steps. He“ Was that she who spoke then?” I asked. “Her seemed to see nothing, and did not notice that Ivoice sounded so strange.”had joined him till I touched him on the arm. We“It appears that her vocal cords have been walked along in silence. I tried to imagine whatburnt by the acid.”had happened to drive the poor creature to thatDirk gave a low cry of distress. I asked him to dreadful step. I presumed that Strickland knewgo on and wait for me at the entrance, for I what had happened, for someone must have beenwanted to say something to the nurse. He did to see him from the police, and he must havenot ask what it was, but went silently. He seemed made his statement. I did not know where heto have lost all power of will; he was like an obedientchild.attic which served him as a studio. It was curi-was. I supposed he had gone back to the shabby“Has she told you why she did it?” I asked. ous that she should not wish to see him. Perhaps136

Somerset Maughamshe refused to have him sent for because sheChapter XXXVIknew he would refuse to come. I wondered whatan abyss of cruelty she must have looked into THE NEXT WEEK was dreadful. Stroeve went twicethat in horror she refused to live.a day to the hospital to enquire after his wife,who still declined to see him; and came away atfirst relieved and hopeful because he was toldthat she seemed to be growing better, and thenin despair because, the complication which thedoctor had feared having ensued, recovery wasimpossible. The nurse was pitiful to his distress,but she had little to say that could console him.The poor woman lay quite still, refusing to speak,with her eyes intent, as though she watched forthe coming of death. It could now be only thequestion of a day or two; and when, late oneevening, Stroeve came to see me I knew it wasto tell me she was dead. He was absolutely exhausted.His volubility had left him at last, andhe sank down wearily on my sofa. I felt that nowords of condolence availed, and I let him liethere quietly. I feared he would think it heart-137

The Moon and Sixpenceless if I read, so I sat by the window, smoking aChapter XXXVIIpipe, till he felt inclined to speak.“ You’ve been very kind to me,” he said at last. THE CIRCUMSTANCES of Blanche Stroeve’s death necessitatedall manner of dreadful formalities, but“Everyone’s been very kind.”“Nonsense,” I said, a little embarrassed. at last we were allowed to bury her. Dirk and I“At the hospital they told me I might wait. They alone followed the hearse to the cemetery. Wegave me a chair, and I sat outside the door. When went at a foot-pace, but on the way back we trotted,and there was something to my mind singu-she became unconscious they said I might go in.Her mouth and chin were all burnt by the acid. larly horrible in the way the driver of the hearseIt was awful to see her lovely skin all wounded. whipped up his horses. It seemed to dismiss theShe died very peacefully, so that I didn’t know dead with a shrug of the shoulders. Now and thenshe was dead till the sister told me.”I caught sight of the swaying hearse in front ofHe was too tired to weep. He lay on his back us, and our own driver urged his pair so that welimply, as though all the strength had gone out might not remain behind. I felt in myself, too,of his limbs, and presently I saw that he had the desire to get the whole thing out of my mind.fallen asleep. It was the first natural sleep he I was beginning to be bored with a tragedy thathad had for a week. Nature, sometimes so cruel, did not really concern me, and pretending tois sometimes merciful. I covered him and turned myself that I spoke in order to distract Stroeve, Idown the light. In the morning when I awoke he turned with relief to other subjects.was still asleep. He had not moved. His goldrimmedspectacles were still on his nose. bit?” I said. “There can be no object in your“Don’t you think you’d better go away for astay-138

Somerset Maughaming in Paris now. ”“No; I should prefer to be alone.”He did not answer, but I went on ruthlessly: “All right.”“Have you made any plans for the immediate I gave the driver the necessary direction, andfuture?”in renewed silence we drove on. Dirk had not“No.”been to the studio since the wretched morning“ You must try and gather together the threads on which they had taken Blanche to the hospital.I was glad he did not want me to accompanyagain. Why don’t you go down to Italy and startworking?”him, and when I left him at the door I walkedAgain he made no reply, but the driver of our away with relief. I took a new pleasure in thecarriage came to my rescue. Slackening his pace streets of Paris, and I looked with smiling eyesfor a moment, he leaned over and spoke. I could at the people who hurried to and fro. The daynot hear what he said, so I put my head out of was fine and sunny, and I felt in myself a morethe window. he wanted to know where we wished acute delight in life. I could not help it; I putto be set down. I told him to wait a minute. Stroeve and his sorrows out of my mind. I wanted“ You’d better come and have lunch with me,” to enjoy.I said to Dirk. “I’ll tell him to drop us in thePlace Pigalle.”“I’d rather not. I want to go to the studio.”I hesitated a moment.“ Would you like me to come with you?” I askedthen.139

The Moon and SixpenceChapter XXXVIII“I haven’t been home for five years. I thinkI’d forgotten it all; I seemed to have come so farI DID NOT SEE HIM again for nearly a week. Then he away from my father’s house that I was shy atfetched me soon after seven one evening and took the idea of revisiting it; but now I feel it’s myme out to dinner. He was dressed in the deepest only refuge.”mourning, and on his bowler was a broad black He was sore and bruised, and his thoughts wentband. He had even a black border to his handkerchief.His garb of woe suggested that he had lost ridicule he had endured for years seemed nowback to the tenderness of his mother’s love. Thein one catastrophe every relation he had in the to weigh him down, and the final blow ofworld, even to cousins by marriage twice removed.His plumpness and his red, fat cheeks siliency which had made him take it so gaily. HeBlanche’s treachery had robbed him of the re-made his mourning not a little incongruous. It could no longer laugh with those who laughedwas cruel that his extreme unhappiness should at him. He was an outcast. He told me of his childhoodin the tidy brick house, and of his mother’shave in it something of buffoonery.He told me he had made up his mind to go away, passionate orderliness. Her kitchen was a miraclethough not to Italy, as I had suggested, but to of clean brightness. Everything was always inHolland.its place, and no where could you see a speck of“I’m starting to-morrow. This is perhaps the dust. Cleanliness, indeed, was a mania with her.last time we shall ever meet.”I saw a neat little old woman, with cheeks likeI made an appropriate rejoinder, and he smiled apples, toiling away from morning to night,wanly.through the long years, to keep her house trim140

Somerset Maughamand spruce. His father was a spare old man, his a son to carry on the business after me.”hands gnarled after the work of a lifetime, silent Stroeve sighed a little and was silent. Hisand upright; in the evening he read the paper thoughts dwelt among pictures of what mightaloud, while his wife and daughter (now marriedto the captain of a fishing smack), unwillfusedfilled him with longing.have been, and the safety of the life he had reingto lose a moment, bent over their sewing. “The world is hard and cruel. We are here noneNothing ever happened in that little town, left knows why, and we go none knows whither. Webehind by the advance of civilisation, and one must be very humble. We must see the beautyyear followed the next till death came, like a of quietness. We must go through life so inconspicuouslythat Fate does not notice us. And letfriend, to give rest to those who had laboured sodiligently.us seek the love of simple, ignorant people. Their“My father wished me to become a carpenter ignorance is better than all our knowledge. Letlike himself. For five generations we’ve carried us be silent, content in our little corner, meekon the same trade, from father to son. Perhaps and gentle like them. That is the wisdom of life.”that is the wisdom of life, to tread in your To me it was his broken spirit that expressedfather’s steps, and look neither to the right nor itself, and I rebelled against his renunciation. Butto the left. When I was a little boy I said I would I kept my own counsel.marry the daughter of the harness-maker who “What made you think of being a painter?” Ilived next door. She was a little girl with blue asked.eyes and a flaxen pigtail. She would have kept He shrugged his shoulders.my house like a new pin, and I should have had “It happened that I had a knack for drawing. I141

The Moon and Sixpencegot prizes for it at school. My poor mother was “The dear soul thought she was doing a wonderfulthing for me when she made me an artist,very proud of my gift, and she gave me a box ofwater-colours as a present. She showed my but perhaps, after all, it would have been bettersketches to the pastor and the doctor and the for me if my father’s will had prevailed and Ijudge. And they sent me to Amsterdam to try were now but an honest carpenter. ”for a scholarship, and I won it. Poor soul, she “Now that you know what art can offer, wouldwas so proud; and though it nearly broke her you change your life? Would you have missed allheart to part from me, she smiled, and would the delight it has given you?”not show me her grief. She was pleased that her “Art is the greatest thing in the world,” heson should be an artist. They pinched and saved answered, after a pause.so that I should have enough to live on, and when He looked at me for a minute reflectively; hemy first picture was exhibited they came to seemed to hesitate; then he said:Amsterdam to see it, my father and mother and “Did you know that I had been to seemy sister, and my mother cried when she looked Strickland?”at it.” His kind eyes glistened. “And now on everywall of the old house there is one of my pic-I was astonished. I should have thought he“ You?”tures in a beautiful gold frame.”could not bear to set eyes on him. Stroeve smiledHe glowed with happy pride. I thought of those faintly.cold scenes of his, with their picturesque peasantsand cypresses and olive-trees. They mustlook queer in their garish frames on the walls ofthe peasant house.142“ You know already that I have no proper pride.”“What do you mean by that?”He told me a singular story.

Somerset MaughamChapter XXXIXSuddenly he could not believe that she was dead.What had happened could only be a dream, aWHEN I LEFT HIM, after we had buried poor Blanche, frightful dream; and when he turned the key andStroeve walked into the house with a heavy opened the door, he would see her bendingheart. Something impelled him to go to the studio,some obscure desire for self-torture, and yet the woman in Chardin’s Benedicite, which al-slightly over the table in the gracious attitude ofhe dreaded the anguish that he foresaw. He ways seemed to him so exquisite. Hurriedly hedragged himself up the stairs; his feet seemed took the key out of his pocket, opened, andunwilling to carry him; and outside the door he walked in.lingered for a long time, trying to summon up The apartment had no look of desertion. Hiscourage to go in. He felt horribly sick. He had an wife’s tidiness was one of the traits which hadimpulse to run down the stairs after me and beg so much pleased him; his own upbringing hadme to go in with him; he had a feeling that there given him a tender sympathy for the delight inwas somebody in the studio. He remembered orderliness; and when he had seen her instinctivedesire to put each thing in its appointed placehow often he had waited for a minute or two onthe landing to get his breath after the ascent, it had given him a little warm feeling in his heart.and how absurdly his impatience to see Blanche The bedroom looked as though she had just lefthad taken it away again. To see her was a delightthat never staled, and even though he had table, one on each side of the comb; someoneit: the brushes were neatly placed on the toilet-not been out an hour he was as excited at the had smoothed down the bed on which she hadprospect as if they had been parted for a month. spent her last night in the studio; and her night-143

The Moon and Sixpencedress in a little case lay on the pillow. It was impossibleto believe that she would never come bedroom and threw himself on the bed. He criedweak that he almost fell. He went back into theinto that room again.out her name.But he felt thirsty, and went into the kitchen to “Blanche. Blanche.”get himself some water. Here, too, was order. On The thought of her suffering was intolerable.a rack were the plates that she had used for dinneron the night of her quarrel with Strickland, kitchen — it was hardly larger than a cupboard —He had a sudden vision of her standing in theand they had been carefully washed. The knives washing the plates and glasses, the forks andand forks were put away in a drawer. Under a spoons, giving the knives a rapid polish on thecover were the remains of a piece of cheese, and knife-board; and then putting everything away,in a tin box was a crust of bread. She had done giving the sink a scrub, and hanging the dishclothup to dry — it was there still, a gray tornher marketing from day to day, buying only whatwas strictly needful, so that nothing was left over rag; then looking round to see that everythingfrom one day to the next. Stroeve knew from was clean and nice. He saw her roll down herthe enquiries made by the police that Strickland sleeves and remove her apron — the apron hunghad walked out of the house immediately after on a peg behind the door — and take the bottledinner, and the fact that Blanche had washed up of oxalic acid and go with it into the bedroom.the things as usual gave him a little thrill of horror.Her methodicalness made her suicide more out of the room. He went into the studio. It wasThe agony of it drove him up from the bed anddeliberate. Her self-possession was frightening. dark, for the curtains had been drawn over theA sudden pang seized him, and his knees felt so great window, and he pulled them quickly back;144

Somerset Maughambut a sob broke from him as with a rapid glance now the sight of it was like a stab in his heart,he took in the place where he had been so happy. without thinking what he was at, he changedNothing was changed here, either. Strickland was slightly the position of a Louis XV. table whichindifferent to his surroundings, and he had lived was one of his treasures. Suddenly he caughtin the other’s studio without thinking of alteringa thing. It was deliberately artistic. It repre-a much larger one than he himself was in thesight of a canvas with its face to the wall. It wassented Stroeve’s idea of the proper environment habit of using, and he wondered what it did there.for an artist. There were bits of old brocade on He went over to it and leaned it towards him sothe walls, and the piano was covered with a piece that he could see the painting. It was a nude. Hisof silk, beautiful and tarnished; in one corner was heart began to beat quickly, for he guessed ata copy of the Venus of Milo, and in another of once that it was one of Strickland’s pictures. Hethe Venus of the Medici. Here and there was an flung it back against the wall angrily — what didItalian cabinet surmounted with Delft, and here he mean by leaving it there? — but his movementcaused it to fall, face downwards, on theand there a bas-relief. In a handsome gold framewas a copy of Velasquez’ Innocent X., that ground. No mater whose the picture, he couldStroeve had made in Rome, and placed so as to not leave it there in the dust, and he raised it;make the most of their decorative effect were a but then curiosity got the better of him. Henumber of Stroeve’s pictures, all in splendid thought he would like to have a proper look at it,frames. Stroeve had always been very proud of so he brought it along and set it on the easel.his taste. He had never lost his appreciation for Then he stood back in order to see it at his ease.the romantic atmosphere of a studio, and though He gave a gasp. It was the picture of a woman145

The Moon and Sixpencelying on a sofa, with one arm beneath her head of a dinner-knife on the table between us, andand the other along her body; one knee was brandished it. He lifted his arm as though toraised, and the other leg was stretched out. The strike, and then, opening his hand, let it fall withpose was classic. Stroeve’s head swam. It was a clatter to the ground. He looked at me with aBlanche. Grief and jealousy and rage seized him, tremulous smile. He did not speak.and he cried out hoarsely; he was inarticulate; “Fire away,” I said.he clenched his fists and raised them threateninglyat an invisible enemy. He screamed at the just going to make a great hole in the picture, I“I don’t know what happened to me. I wastop of his voice. He was beside himself. He could had my arm all ready for the blow, when suddenlyI seemed to see it.”not bear it. That was too much. He looked roundwildly for some instrument; he wanted to hack “See what?”the picture to pieces; it should not exist another “The picture. It was a work of art. I couldn’tminute. He could see nothing that would serve touch it. I was afraid.”his purpose; he rummaged about his painting Stroeve was silent again, and he stared at methings; somehow he could not find a thing; he with his mouth open and his round blue eyeswas frantic. At last he came upon what he sought, starting out of his head.a large scraper, and he pounced on it with a cry “It was a great, a wonderful picture. I wasof triumph. He seized it as though it were a dagger,and ran to the picture.ful crime. I moved a little to see it better, and myseized with awe. I had nearly committed a dread-As Stroeve told me this he became as excited foot knocked against the scraper. I shuddered.”as when the incident occurred, and he took hold I really felt something of the emotion that had146

Somerset Maughamcaught him. I was strangely impressed. It was nal stars, where the soul, all naked, adventuredas though I were suddenly transported into a fearful to the discovery of new mysteries.world in which the values were changed. I stood If I am rhetorical it is because Stroeve was rhetorical.(Do we not know that man in momentsby, at a loss, like a stranger in a land where thereactions of man to familiar things are all differentfrom those he has known. Stroeve tried to terms of a novelette?) Stroeve was trying to ex-of emotion expresses himself naturally in thetalk to me about the picture, but he was incoherent,and I had to guess at what he meant. fore, and he did not know how to put it into compressa feeling which he had never known be-Strickland had burst the bonds that hitherto had mon terms. He was like the mystic seeking toheld him. He had found, not himself, as the describe the ineffable. But one fact he made clearphrase goes, but a new soul with unsuspected to me; people talk of beauty lightly, and havingpowers. It was not only the bold simplification no feeling for words, they use that one carelessly,of the drawing which showed so rich and so singulara personality; it was not only the painting, for, sharing its name with a hundred trivial ob-so that it loses its force; and the thing it standsthough the flesh was painted with a passionate jects, is deprived of dignity. They call beautiful asensuality which had in it something miraculous; dress, a dog, a sermon; and when they are faceit was not only the solidity, so that you felt extraordinarilythe weight of the body; there was emphasis with which they try to deck theirto face with Beauty cannot recognise it. The falsealso a spirituality, troubling and new, which led worthless thoughts blunts their susceptibilities.the imagination along unsuspected ways, and Like the charlatan who counterfeits a spiritualsuggested dim empty spaces, lit only by the eter-force he has sometimes felt, they lose the power147

The Moon and Sixpencethey have abused. But Stroeve, the unconquerablebuffoon, had a love and an understanding “He gave me the picture of Blanche.”some other phrase to indicate his refusal.of beauty which were as honest and sincere as I wondered why Strickland had done that. Butwas his own sincere and honest soul. It meant to I made no remark, and for some time we kepthim what God means to the believer, and when silence.he saw it he was afraid.“What have you done with all your things?” I“What did you say to Strickland when you saw said at last.him?”“I got a Jew in, and he gave me a round sum“I asked him to come with me to Holland.” for the lot. I’m taking my pictures home withI was dumbfounded. I could only look at Stroeve me. Beside them I own nothing in the world nowin stupid amazement.but a box of clothes and a few books.”“ We both loved Blanche. There would have “I’m glad you’re going home,” I said.been room for him in my mother’s house. I think I felt that his chance was to put all the pastthe company of poor, simple people would have behind him. I hoped that the grief which nowdone his soul a great good. I think he might have seemed intolerable would be softened by thelearnt from them something that would be very lapse of time, and a merciful forgetfulness woulduseful to him.”help him to take up once more the burden of life.“What did he say?”He was young still, and in a few years he would“He smiled a little. I suppose he thought me look back on all his misery with a sadness invery silly. He said he had other fish to fry. ” which there would be something notI could have wished that Strickland had used unpleasurable. Sooner or later he would marry148

Somerset Maughamsome honest soul in Holland, and I felt sure heChapter XLwould be happy. I smiled at the thought of thevast number of bad pictures he would paint beforehe died.I saw no one connected with this lamentableFOR THE NEXT MONTH, occupied with my own affairs,Next day I saw him off for Amsterdam. business, and my mind ceased to be occupiedwith it. But one day, when I was walking along,bent on some errand, I passed Charles Strickland.The sight of him brought back to me all the horrorwhich I was not unwilling to forget, and Ifelt in me a sudden repulsion for the cause of it.Nodding, for it would have been childish to cuthim, I walked on quickly; but in a minute I felt ahand on my shoulder.“ You’re in a great hurry,” he said cordially.It was characteristic of him to display genialitywith anyone who showed a disinclination tomeet him, and the coolness of my greeting canhave left him in little doubt of that.“I am,” I answered briefly.“I’ll walk along with you,” he said.“Why?” I asked.149

The Moon and Sixpence“For the pleasure of your society. ”“ Your way,” he smiled.I did not answer, and he walked by my side “I’m going home.”silently. We continued thus for perhaps a quarterof a mile. I began to feel a little ridiculous. At “ You might wait for an invitation,” I retorted“I’ll come along with you and smoke a pipe.”last we passed a stationer’s, and it occurred to frigidly.me that I might as well buy some paper. It would “I would if I thought there was any chance ofbe an excuse to be rid of him.getting one.”“I’m going in here,” I said. “Good-bye.” “Do you see that wall in front of you?” I said,“I’ll wait for you.”pointing.I shrugged my shoulders, and went into the “ Yes.”shop. I reflected that French paper was bad, and “In that case I should have thought you couldthat, foiled of my purpose, I need not burden see also that I don’t want your company. ”myself with a purchase that I did not need. I “I vaguely suspected it, I confess.”asked for something I knew could not be provided,and in a minute came out into the street. fects of my character that I cannot altogetherI could not help a chuckle. It is one of the de-“Did you get what you wanted?” he asked. dislike anyone who makes me laugh. But I pulled“No.”myself together.We walked on in silence, and then came to a “I think you’re detestable. You’re the mostplace where several streets met. I stopped at the loathsome beast that it’s ever been my misfortuneto meet. Why do you seek the society ofcurb.“Which way do you go?” I enquired.someone who hates and despises you?”150

Somerset Maugham“My dear fellow, what the hell do you suppose and another defect of my character is that I enjoythe company of those, however depraved,I care what you think of me?”“Damn it all,” I said, more violently because I who can give me a Roland for my Oliver. I beganhad an inkling my motive was none too creditable,“I don’t want to know you.”only be sustained by an effort on my part. Ito feel that my abhorrence for Strickland could“Are you afraid I shall corrupt you?”recognised my moral weakness, but saw that myHis tone made me feel not a little ridiculous. I disapprobation had in it already something of aknew that he was looking at me sideways, with pose; and I knew that if I felt it, his own keena sardonic smile.instinct had discovered it, too. He was certainly“I suppose you are hard up,” I remarked insolently.word, and sought refuge in a shrug of the shoul-laughing at me up his sleeve. I left him the last“I should be a damned fool if I thought I had ders and taciturnity.any chance of borrowing money from you.”“ You’ve come down in the world if you canbring yourself to flatter. ”He grinned.“ You’ll never really dislike me so long as I giveyou the opportunity to get off a good thing nowand then.”I had to bite my lip to prevent myself fromlaughing. What he said had a hateful truth in it,151

The Moon and SixpenceChapter XLIwhy he had come.Until long habit has blunted the sensibility,WE ARRIVED at the house in which I lived. I would there is something disconcerting to the writernot ask him to come in with me, but walked up in the instinct which causes him to take an interestin the singularities of human nature so ab-the stairs without a word. He followed me, andentered the apartment on my heels. He had not sorbing that his moral sense is powerless againstbeen in it before, but he never gave a glance at it. He recognises in himself an artistic satisfactionin the contemplation of evil which a littlethe room I had been at pains to make pleasingto the eye. There was a tin of tobacco on the startles him; but sincerity forces him to confesstable, and, taking out his pipe, he filled it. He sat that the disapproval he feels for certain actionsdown on the only chair that had no arms and is not nearly so strong as his curiosity in theirtilted himself on the back legs.reasons. The character of a scoundrel, logical and“If you’re going to make yourself at home, why complete, has a fascination for his creator whichdon’t you sit in an arm-chair?” I asked irritably. is an outrage to law and order. I expect that“Why are you concerned about my comfort?” Shakespeare devised Iago with a gusto which he“I’m not,” I retorted, “but only about my own. never knew when, weaving moonbeams with hisIt makes me uncomfortable to see someone sit fancy, he imagined Desdemona. It may be thaton an uncomfortable chair. ”in his rogues the writer gratifies instincts deeprootedin him, which the manners and customsHe chuckled, but did not move. He smoked onin silence, taking no further notice of me, and of a civilised world have forced back to the mysteriousrecesses of the subconscious. In giving apparently was absorbed in thought. I wonderedto152

Somerset Maughamthe character of his invention flesh and bones “It wasn’t altogether satisfactory. ”he is giving life to that part of himself which finds He was quiet for a moment or two, then he tookno other means of expression. His satisfaction is his pipe out of his mouth again, and chuckled.a sense of liberation.“Do you know that the little man came to seeThe writer is more concerned to know than to me?”judge.“ Weren’t you rather touched by what he hadThere was in my soul a perfectly genuine horrorof Strickland, and side by side with it a cold “No; I thought it damned silly and sentimen-to say?”curiosity to discover his motives. I was puzzled tal.”by him, and I was eager to see how he regarded “I suppose it escaped your memory that you’dthe tragedy he had caused in the lives of people ruined his life?” I remarked.who had used him with so much kindness. I appliedthe scalpel boldly.“He’s a very bad painter. ”He rubbed his bearded chin reflectively.“Stroeve told me that picture you painted of “But a very good man.”his wife was the best thing you’ve ever done.” “And an excellent cook,” Strickland added derisively.Strickland took his pipe out of his mouth, anda smile lit up his eyes.His callousness was inhuman, and in my indignationI was not inclined to mince my words.“It was great fun to do.”“Why did you give it him?”“As a mere matter of curiosity I wish you’d“I’d finished it. It wasn’t any good to me.” tell me, have you felt the smallest twinge of remorsefor Blanche Stroeve’s “Do you know that Stroeve nearly destroyed it?”death?”153

The Moon and SixpenceI watched his face for some change of expression,but it remained impassive.“Don’t you know why he married her?”“What do you mean by that?”“Why should I?” he asked.I shook my head.“Let me put the facts before you. You were dying,and Dirk Stroeve took you into his own house. Roman prince, and the son of the house seduced“She was a governess in the family of someHe nursed you like a mother. He sacrificed his her. She thought he was going to marry her. Theytime and his comfort and his money for you. He turned her out into the street neck and crop. Shesnatched you from the jaws of death.”was going to have a baby, and she tried to commitsuicide. Stroeve found her and married her. ”Strickland shrugged his shoulders.“The absurd little man enjoys doing things for “It was just like him. I never knew anyone withother people. That’s his life.”so compassionate a heart.”“Granting that you owed him no gratitude, I had often wondered why that ill-assorted pairwere you obliged to go out of your way to take had married, but just that explanation had neverhis wife from him? Until you came on the scene occurred to me. That was perhaps the cause ofthey were happy. Why couldn’t you leave them the peculiar quality of Dirk’s love for his wife. Ialone?”had noticed in it something more than passion. I“What makes you think they were happy?” remembered also how I had always fancied that“It was evident.”her reserve concealed I knew not what; but now“ You are a discerning fellow. Do you think she I saw in it more than the desire to hide a shamefulsecret. Her tranquillity was like the sullencould ever have forgiven him for what he did forher?”calm that broods over an island which has been154

Somerset Maughamswept by a hurricane. Her cheerfulness was the He did not answer for so long that I nearly repeatedit.cheerfulness of despair. Strickland interruptedmy reflections with an observation the profound “How do I know?” he said at last. “Shecynicism of which startled me.couldn’t bear the sight of me. It amused me.”“A woman can forgive a man for the harm he “I see.”does her,” he said, “but she can never forgive He gave a sudden flash of anger.him for the sacrifices he makes on her account.” “Damn it all, I wanted her. ”“It must be reassuring to you to know that you But he recovered his temper immediately, andcertainly run no risk of incurring the resentment looked at me with a smile.of the women you come in contact with,” I retorted.“Did you tell her?”“At first she was horrified.”A slight smile broke on his lips.“There wasn’t any need. She knew. I never“ You are always prepared to sacrifice your principlesfor a repartee,” he answered.her. ”said a word. She was frightened. At last I took“What happened to the child?”I do not know what there was in the way he“Oh, it was still-born, three or four months afterthey were married.”violence of his desire. It was disconcerting andtold me this that extraordinarily suggested theThen I came to the question which had seemed rather horrible. His life was strangely divorcedto me most puzzling.from material things, and it was as though his“Will you tell me why you bothered about body at times wreaked a fearful revenge on hisBlanche Stroeve at all?”spirit. The satyr in him suddenly took possession,155

The Moon and Sixpenceand he was powerless in the grip of an instinct sire, but I hate it; it imprisons my spirit; I lookwhich had all the strength of the primitive forces forward to the time when I shall be free from allof nature. It was an obsession so complete that desire and can give myself without hindrance tothere was no room in his soul for prudence or my work. Because women can do nothing exceptgratitude.love, they’ve given it a ridiculous importance.“But why did you want to take her away with They want to persuade us that it’s the whole ofyou?” I asked.life. It’s an insignificant part. I know lust. That’s“I didn’t,” he answered, frowning. “When she normal and healthy. Love is a disease. Womensaid she was coming I was nearly as surprised as are the instruments of my pleasure; I have noStroeve. I told her that when I’d had enough of patience with their claim to be helpmates, partners,companions.”her she’d have to go, and she said she’d riskthat.” He paused a little. “She had a wonderful I had never heard Strickland speak so much atbody, and I wanted to paint a nude. When I’d one time. He spoke with a passion of indignation.But neither here nor elsewhere do I pre-finished my picture I took no more interest in her. ”“And she loved you with all her heart.” tend to give his exact words; his vocabulary wasHe sprang to his feet and walked up and down small, and he had no gift for framing sentences,the small room.so that one had to piece his meaning together“I don’t want love. I haven’t time for it. It’s out of interjections, the expression of his face,weakness. I am a man, and sometimes I want a gestures and hackneyed phrases.woman. When I’ve satisfied my passion I’m “ You should have lived at a time when women wereready for other things. I can’t overcome my de-chattels and men the masters of slaves,” I said.156

Somerset Maugham“It just happens that I am a completely normalman.”erything in the world for me except the one thingwanted me to be hers. She was willing to do ev-I could not help laughing at this remark, made I wanted: to leave me alone.”in all seriousness; but he went on, walking up I was silent for a while.and down the room like a caged beast, intent on “What did you expect her to do when you leftexpressing what he felt, but found such difficulty her?”in putting coherently.“She could have gone back to Stroeve,” he said“When a woman loves you she’s not satisfied irritably. “He was ready to take her. ”until she possesses your soul. Because she’s “ You’re inhuman,” I answered. “It’s as uselessto talk to you about these things as to de-weak, she has a rage for domination, and nothingless will satisfy her. She has a small mind, scribe colours to a man who was born blind.”and she resents the abstract which she is unable He stopped in front of my chair, and stood lookingdown at me with an expression in which Ito grasp. She is occupied with material things,and she is jealous of the ideal. The soul of man read a contemptuous amazement.wanders through the uttermost regions of the “Do you really care a twopenny damn ifuniverse, and she seeks to imprison it in the circle Blanche Stroeve is alive or dead?”of her account-book. Do you remember my wife? I thought over his question, for I wanted to answerit truthfully, at all events to my soul.I saw Blanche little by little trying all her tricks.With infinite patience she prepared to snare me “It may be a lack of sympathy in myself if itand bind me. She wanted to bring me down to does not make any great difference to me thather level; she cared nothing for me, she only she is dead. Life had a great deal to offer her. I157

The Moon and Sixpencethink it’s terrible that she should have been that Dirk, a man of greater emotional reactionsdeprived of it in that cruel way, and I am ashamed than depth of feeling, would soon forget; andbecause I do not really care.”Blanche’s life, begun with who knows what“ You have not the courage of your convictions. bright hopes and what dreams, might just as wellLife has no value. Blanche Stroeve didn’t commitsuicide because I left her, but because she inane.have never been lived. It all seemed useless andwas a foolish and unbalanced woman. But we’ve Strickland had found his hat, and stood lookingat me.talked about her quite enough; she was an entirelyunimportant person. Come, and I’ll show “Are you coming?”you my pictures.”“Why do you seek my acquaintance?” I askedHe spoke as though I were a child that needed him. “You know that I hate and despise you.”to be distracted. I was sore, but not with him so He chuckled good-humouredly.much as with myself. I thought of the happy life “ Your only quarrel with me really is that I don’tthat pair had led in the cosy studio in care a twopenny damn what you think aboutMontmartre, Stroeve and his wife, their simplicity,kindness, and hospitality; it seemed to me I felt my cheeks grow red with sudden anger.me.”cruel that it should have been broken to pieces It was impossible to make him understand thatby a ruthless chance; but the cruellest thing of one might be outraged by his callous selfishness.all was that in fact it made no great difference. I longed to pierce his armour of complete indifference.I knew also that in the end there wasThe world went on, and no one was a penny theworse for all that wretchedness. I had an idea truth in what he said. Unconsciously, perhaps,158

Somerset Maughamwe treasure the power we have over people by less, with a mocking smile in his eyes; but for alltheir regard for our opinion of them, and we hate that, for a moment I had an inkling of a fiery,those upon whom we have no such influence. I tortured spirit, aiming at something greater thansuppose it is the bitterest wound to human pride. could be conceived by anything that was boundBut I would not let him see that I was put out. up with the flesh. I had a fleeting glimpse of a“Is it possible for any man to disregard others pursuit of the ineffable. I looked at the man beforeme in his shabby clothes, with his great noseentirely?” I said, though more to myself than tohim. “You’re dependent on others for everything and shining eyes, his red beard and untidy hair;in existence. It’s a preposterous attempt to try and I had a strange sensation that it was only anto live only for yourself and by yourself. Sooner envelope, and I was in the presence of a disembodiedspirit.or later you’ll be ill and tired and old, and thenyou’ll crawl back into the herd. Won’t you be “Let us go and look at your pictures,” I said.ashamed when you feel in your heart the desirefor comfort and sympathy? You’re trying animpossible thing. Sooner or later the human beingin you will yearn for the common bonds ofhumanity. ”“Come and look at my pictures.”“Have you ever thought of death?”“Why should I? It doesn’t matter. ”I stared at him. He stood before me, motion-159

The Moon and SixpenceChapter XLIIAs I walked up the endless stairs of the house inwhich Strickland lived, I confess that I was a littleI DID NOT KNOW why Strickland had suddenly offeredto show them to me. I welcomed the opporoldof a surprising adventure. I looked about theexcited. It seemed to me that I was on the threshtunity.A man’s work reveals him. In social intercoursehe gives you the surface that he wishes bare than I remembered it. I wondered what thoseroom with curiosity. It was even smaller and morethe world to accept, and you can only gain a true friends of mine would say who demanded vastknowledge of him by inferences from little actions,of which he is unconscious, and from fleet-the conditions were to their liking.studios, and vowed they could not work unless alling expressions, which cross his face unknown “ You’d better stand there,” he said, pointing toto him. Sometimes people carry to such perfectionthe mask they have assumed that in due see to best advantage what he had to show me.a spot from which, presumably, he fancied I couldcourse they actually become the person they “ You don’t want me to talk, I suppose,” I said.seem. But in his book or his picture the real man “No, blast you; I want you to hold your tongue.”delivers himself defenceless. His pretentiousness He placed a picture on the easel, and let mewill only expose his vacuity. The lathe painted to look at it for a minute or two; then took it downlook like iron is seen to be but a lathe. No affectationof peculiarity can conceal a commonplace me about thirty canvases. It was the result ofand put another in its place. I think he showedmind. To the acute observer no one can produce the six years during which he had been painting.He had never sold a picture. The canvasesthe most casual work without disclosing the innermostsecrets of his soul.were of different sizes. The smaller were pictures160

Somerset Maughamof still-life and the largest were landscapes. There for the impressionists. I longed to possess a Sisleywere about half a dozen portraits.and a Degas, and I worshipped Manet. His Olympiaseemed to me the greatest picture of mod-“That is the lot,” he said at last.I wish I could say that I recognised at once their ern times, and Le Dejeuner sur l’Herbe movedbeauty and their great originality. Now that I me profoundly. These works seemed to me thehave seen many of them again and the rest are last word in painting.familiar to me in reproductions, I am astonished I will not describe the pictures that Stricklandthat at first sight I was bitterly disappointed. I showed me. Descriptions of pictures are alwaysfelt nothing of the peculiar thrill which it is the dull, and these, besides, are familiar to all whoproperty of art to give. The impression that take an interest in such things. Now that his influencehas so enormously affected modern paint-Strickland’s pictures gave me was disconcerting;and the fact remains, always to reproach ing, now that others have charted the countryme, that I never even thought of buying any. I which he was among the first to explore,missed a wonderful chance. Most of them have Strickland’s pictures, seen for the first time,found their way into museums, and the rest are would find the mind more prepared for them;the treasured possessions of wealthy amateurs. but it must be remembered that I had never seenI try to find excuses for myself. I think that my anything of the sort. First of all I was taken abacktaste is good, but I am conscious that it has no by what seemed to me the clumsiness of his technique.Accustomed to the drawing of the oldoriginality. I know very little about painting, andI wander along trails that others have blazed for masters, and convinced that Ingres was theme. At that time I had the greatest admiration greatest draughtsman of recent times, I thought161

The Moon and Sixpencethat Strickland drew very badly. I knew nothing But if I was puzzled and disconcerted, I wasof the simplification at which he aimed. I remembera still-life of oranges on a plate, and I was rance, could not but feel that here, trying to ex-not unimpressed. Even I, in my colossal igno-bothered because the plate was not round and press itself, was real power. I was excited andthe oranges were lop-sided. The portraits were a interested. I felt that these pictures had somethingto say to me that was very important forlittle larger than life-size, and this gave them anungainly look. To my eyes the faces looked like me to know, but I could not tell what it was. Theycaricatures. They were painted in a way that was seemed to me ugly, but they suggested withoutentirely new to me. The landscapes puzzled me disclosing a secret of momentous significance.even more. There were two or three pictures of They were strangely tantalising. They gave methe forest at Fontainebleau and several of streets an emotion that I could not analyse. They saidin Paris: my first feeling was that they might something that words were powerless to utter. Ihave been painted by a drunken cabdriver. I was fancy that Strickland saw vaguely some spiritualperfectly bewildered. The colour seemed to me meaning in material things that was so strangeextraordinarily crude. It passed through my mind that he could only suggest it with halting symbols.It was as though he found in the chaos ofthat the whole thing was a stupendous, incomprehensiblefarce. Now that I look back I am more the universe a new pattern, and were attemptingclumsily, with anguish of soul, to set it down.than ever impressed by Stroeve’s acuteness. Hesaw from the first that here was a revolution in I saw a tormented spirit striving for the releaseart, and he recognised in its beginnings the geniuswhich now all the world allows.I turned toof expression.him.162

Somerset Maugham“I wonder if you haven’t mistaken your medium,”I said.of our heart, but they have not the power to ac-We seek pitifully to convey to others the treasures“What the hell do you mean?”cept them, and so we go lonely, side by side but“I think you’re trying to say something, I not together, unable to know our fellows and unknownby them. We are like people living in a coun-don’t quite know what it is, but I’m not surethat the best way of saying it is by means of try whose language they know so little that, withpainting.”all manner of beautiful and profound things toWhen I imagined that on seeing his pictures I say, they are condemned to the banalities of theshould get a clue to the understanding of his conversation manual. Their brain is seething withstrange character I was mistaken. They merely ideas, and they can only tell you that the umbrellaincreased the astonishment with which he filled of the gardener’s aunt is in the house.me. I was more at sea than ever. The only thing The final impression I received was of a prodigiouseffort to express some state of the soul,that seemed clear to me — and perhaps even thiswas fanciful — was that he was passionately strivingfor liberation from some power that held him. explanation of what so utterly perplexed me. Itand in this effort, I fancied, must be sought theBut what the power was and what line the liberationwould take remained obscure. Each one cance for Strickland that was peculiar to him-was evident that colours and forms had a signifi-of us is alone in the world. He is shut in a tower self. He was under an intolerable necessity toof brass, and can communicate with his fellows convey something that he felt, and he createdonly by signs, and the signs have no common them with that intention alone. He did not hesitateto simplify or to distort if he could get value, so that their sense is vague and uncertain.nearer163

The Moon and Sixpenceto that unknown thing he sought. Facts were you as the eternal pilgrim to some shrine thatnothing to him, for beneath the mass of irrelevantincidents he looked for something signifi-inscrutable Nirvana you aim. Do you know your-perhaps does not exist. I do not know to whatcant to himself. It was as though he had become self? Perhaps it is Truth and Freedom that youaware of the soul of the universe and were compelledto express it.might find release in Love. I think your tired soulseek, and for a moment you thought that youThough these pictures confused and puzzled sought rest in a woman’s arms, and when youme, I could not be unmoved by the emotion that found no rest there you hated her. You had no pitywas patent in them; and, I knew not why, I felt for her, because you have no pity for yourself. Andin myself a feeling that with regard to Strickland you killed her out of fear, because you trembledwas the last I had ever expected to experience. I still at the danger you had barely escaped.”felt an overwhelming compassion.He smiled dryly and pulled his beard.“I think I know now why you surrendered to “ You are a dreadful sentimentalist, my pooryour feeling for Blanche Stroeve,” I said to him. friend.”“Why?”A week later I heard by chance that Strickland“I think your courage failed. The weakness of had gone to Marseilles. I never saw him again.your body communicated itself to your soul. I donot know what infinite yearning possesses you,so that you are driven to a perilous, lonely searchfor some goal where you expect to find a finalrelease from the spirit that torments you. I see164

Somerset MaughamChapter XLIIIhave aroused sympathy for him. I should so havemade him a more imposing figure. Perhaps itLOOKING BACK, I realise that what I have written would have been possible to see in him a newabout Charles Strickland must seem very unsatisfactory.I have given incidents that came to my tunity for a modern version of the hero who forPrometheus. There was here, maybe, the oppor-knowledge, but they remain obscure because I the good of mankind exposes himself to the agoniesof the damned. It is always a moving subject.do not know the reasons that led to them. Thestrangest, Strickland’s determination to become On the other hand, I might have found his motivesin the influence of the married relation.a painter, seems to be arbitrary; and though itmust have had causes in the circumstances of There are a dozen ways in which this might behis life, I am ignorant of them. From his own managed. A latent gift might reveal itself on acquaintancewith the painters and writers whoseconversation I was able to glean nothing. If I werewriting a novel, rather than narrating such facts society his wife sought; or domesticas I know of a curious personality, I should have incompatability might turn him upon himself; ainvented much to account for this change of love affair might fan into bright flame a fireheart. I think I should have shown a strong vocationin boyhood, crushed by the will of his father his heart. I think then I should have drawn Mrs.which I could have shown smouldering dimly inor sacrificed to the necessity of earning a living; Strickland quite differently. I should have abandonedthe facts and made her a nagging, tire-I should have pictured him impatient of the restraintsof life; and in the struggle between his some woman, or else a bigoted one with no sympathyfor the claims of the spirit. I should passion for art and the duties of his station I couldhave165

The Moon and Sixpencemade Strickland’s marriage a long torment from without any feeling of distaste. Until he marriedwhich escape was the only possible issue. I think he led the ordinary life of his fellows, gamblingI should have emphasised his patience with the mildly on the Exchange, interested to the extentunsuitable mate, and the compassion which of a sovereign or two on the result of the Derbymade him unwilling to throw off the yoke that or the Oxford and Cambridge Race. I think heoppressed him. I should certainly have eliminated boxed a little in his spare time. On his chimneypiecehe had photographs of Mrs. Langtry andthe children.An effective story might also have been made Mary Anderson. He read Punch and the SportingTimes. He went to dances in Hampstead.by bringing him into contact with some oldpainter whom the pressure of want or the desire It matters less that for so long I should havefor commercial success had made false to the lost sight of him. The years during which he wasgenius of his youth, and who, seeing in Strickland struggling to acquire proficiency in a difficult artthe possibilities which himself had wasted, influencedhim to forsake all and follow the divine was anything significant in the shifts to whichwere monotonous, and I do not know that theretyranny of art. I think there would have been he was put to earn enough money to keep him.something ironic in the picture of the successful An account of them would be an account of theold man, rich and honoured, living in another things he had seen happen to other people. I dothe life which he, though knowing it was the not think they had any effect on his own character.He must have acquired experiences whichbetter part, had not had the strength to pursue.The facts are much duller. Strickland, a boy would form abundant material for a picaresquefresh from school, went into a broker’s office novel of modern Paris, but he remained aloof,166

Somerset Maughamand judging from his conversation there was in the face of self-doubt, which is the artist’snothing in those years that had made a particularimpression on him. Perhaps when he went to for a personality which, I am all too conscious,bitterest enemy, I might excite some sympathyParis he was too old to fall a victim to the glamourof his environment. Strange as it may seem, have nothing to go on. I never once sawmust appear singularly devoid of charm. But Ihe always appeared to me not only practical, but Strickland at work, nor do I know that anyoneimmensely matter-of-fact. I suppose his life duringthis period was romantic, but he certainly himself. If in the loneliness of his studio heelse did. He kept the secret of his struggles tosaw no romance in it. It may be that in order to wrestled desperately with the Angel of the Lordrealise the romance of life you must have somethingof the actor in you; and, capable of stand-When I come to his connection with Blanchehe never allowed a soul to divine his anguish.ing outside yourself, you must be able to watch Stroeve I am exasperated by the fragmentarinessyour actions with an interest at once detached of the facts at my disposal. To give my story coherenceI should describe the progress of theirand absorbed. But no one was more singlemindedthan Strickland. I never knew anyone tragic union, but I know nothing of the threewho was less self-conscious. But it is unfortunate months during which they lived together. I dothat I can give no description of the arduous steps not know how they got on or what they talkedby which he reached such mastery over his art about. After all, there are twenty-four hours inas he ever acquired; for if I could show him undauntedby failure, by an unceasing effort of cour-reached at rare intervals. I can only imagine howthe day, and the summits of emotion can only beage holding despair at bay, doggedly persistent they passed the rest of the time. While the light167

The Moon and Sixpencelasted and so long as Blanche’s strength endured,I suppose that Strickland painted, and it to herself with pathetic arts. She strove to en-he was a stranger still, and she tried to bind himmust have irritated her when she saw him absorbedin his work. As a mistress she did not comfort meant nothing to him. She was at painssnare him with comfort and would not see thatthen exist for him, but only as a model; and then to get him the things to eat that he liked, andthere were long hours in which they lived side would not see that he was indifferent to food.by side in silence. It must have frightened her. She was afraid to leave him alone. She pursuedWhen Strickland suggested that in her surrenderto him there was a sense of triumph over dormant sought to excite it, for then at least shehim with attentions, and when his passion wasDirk Stroeve, because he had come to her help had the illusion of holding him. Perhaps she knewin her extremity, he opened the door to many a with her intelligence that the chains she forgeddark conjecture. I hope it was not true. It seems only aroused his instinct of destruction, as theto me rather horrible. But who can fathom the plate-glass window makes your fingers itch forsubtleties of the human heart? Certainly not half a brick; but her heart, incapable of reason,those who expect from it only decorous sentimentsand normal emotions. When Blanche saw fatal. She must have been very unhappy. But themade her continue on a course she knew wasthat, notwithstanding his moments of passion, blindness of love led her to believe what sheStrickland remained aloof, she must have been wanted to be true, and her love was so greatfilled with dismay, and even in those moments I that it seemed impossible to her that it shouldsurmise that she realised that to him she was not in return awake an equal love.not an individual, but an instrument of pleasure; But my study of Strickland’s character suffers168

Somerset Maughamfrom a greater defect than my ignorance of many engage their attention; they are absorbed infacts. Because they were obvious and striking, I sport; they can interest themselves in art. Forhave written of his relations to women; and yet the most part, they keep their various activitiesthey were but an insignificant part of his life. It in various compartments, and they can pursueis an irony that they should so tragically have one to the temporary exclusion of the other. Theyaffected others. His real life consisted of dreams have a faculty of concentration on that whichand of tremendously hard work.occupies them at the moment, and it irks themHere lies the unreality of fiction. For in men, if one encroaches on the other. As lovers, the differencebetween men and women is that womenas a rule, love is but an episode which takes itsplace among the other affairs of the day, and the can love all day long, but men only at times.emphasis laid on it in novels gives it an importancewhich is untrue to life. There are few men small place. It was unimportant. It was irksome.With Strickland the sexual appetite took a veryto whom it is the most important thing in the His soul aimed elsewhither. He had violent passions,and on occasion desire seized his body soworld, and they are not very interesting ones;even women, with whom the subject is of paramountinterest, have a contempt for them. They the instincts that robbed him of his self-posses-that he was driven to an orgy of lust, but he hatedare flattered and excited by them, but have an sion. I think, even, he hated the inevitable partnerin his debauchery. When he had regaineduneasy feeling that they are poor creatures. Buteven during the brief intervals in which they are command over himself, he shuddered at the sightin love, men do other things which distract their of the woman he had enjoyed. His thoughtsmind; the trades by which they earn their living floated then serenely in the empyrean, and he169

The Moon and Sixpencefelt towards her the horror that perhaps the those compromises with the world which mostpainted butterfly, hovering about the flowers, of us yield to. He had no such temptation. It neverfeels to the filthy chrysalis from which it has triumphantlyemerged. I suppose that art is a mani-He lived in Paris more lonely than an anchoriteentered his head that compromise was possible.festation of the sexual instinct. It is the same in the deserts of Thebes. He asked nothing hisemotion which is excited in the human heart by fellows except that they should leave him alone.the sight of a lovely woman, the Bay of Naples He was single-hearted in his aim, and to pursueunder the yellow moon, and the Entombment of it he was willing to sacrifice not only himself —Titian. It is possible that Strickland hated many can do that — but others. He had a vision.the normal release of sex because it seemed to Strickland was an odious man, but I still thinkhim brutal by comparison with the satisfaction be was a great one.of artistic creation. It seems strange even tomyself, when I have described a man who wascruel, selfish, brutal and sensual, to say that hewas a great idealist. The fact remains.He lived more poorly than an artisan. Heworked harder. He cared nothing for those thingswhich with most people make life gracious andbeautiful. He was indifferent to money. He carednothing about fame. You cannot praise him becausehe resisted the temptation to make any of170

Somerset MaughamChapter XLIVogy with his own — of Cezanne, for instance, orof Van Gogh; and I doubt very much if he hadA CERTAIN IMPORTANCE attaches to the views on art ever seen their pictures. He was not greatly interestedin the Impressionists. Their techniqueof painters, and this is the natural place for meto set down what I know of Strickland’s opinionsof the great artists of the past. I am afraid I attitude commonplace. When Stroeve was hold-impressed him, but I fancy that he thought theirhave very little worth noting. Strickland was not ing forth at length on the excellence of Monet,a conversationalist, and he had no gift for puttingwhat he had to say in the striking phrase he said it to annoy, and if he did he certainlyhe said: “I prefer Winterhalter.” But I dare saythat the listener remembers. He had no wit. His succeeded.humour, as will be seen if I have in any way succeededin reproducing the manner of his convertravagancesin his opinions on the old masters.I am disappointed that I cannot report any exsation,was sardonic. His repartee was rude. He There is so much in his character which is strangemade one laugh sometimes by speaking the that I feel it would complete the picture if histruth, but this is a form of humour which gains views were outrageous. I feel the need to ascribeits force only by its unusualness; it would cease to him fantastic theories about his predecessors,to amuse if it were commonly practised.and it is with a certain sense of disillusion that IStrickland was not, I should say, a man of great confess he thought about them pretty much asintelligence, and his views on painting were by does everybody else. I do not believe he knew Elno means out of the ordinary. I never heard him Greco. He had a great but somewhat impatientspeak of those whose work had a certain anal-admiration for Velasquez. Chardin delighted him,171

The Moon and Sixpenceand Rembrandt moved him to ecstasy. He describedthe impression that Rembrandt made on ful to laugh. Brueghel gave me the impression ofsubject for laughter, and yet it made him sorrow-him with a coarseness I cannot repeat. The only a man striving to express in one medium feelingspainter that interested him who was at all unexpectedwas Brueghel the Elder. I knew very little may be that it was the obscure consciousness ofmore appropriate to expression in another, and itabout him at that time, and Strickland had no this that excited Strickland’s sympathy. Perhapspower to explain himself. I remember what he both were trying to put down in paint ideas whichsaid about him because it was so unsatisfactory. were more suitable to literature.“He’s all right,” said Strickland. “I bet he Strickland at this time must have been nearlyfound it hell to paint.”forty-seven.When later, in Vienna, I saw several of PeterBrueghel’s pictures, I thought I understood whyhe had attracted Strickland’s attention. Here, too,was a man with a vision of the world peculiar tohimself. I made somewhat copious notes at thetime, intending to write something about him,but I have lost them, and have now only the recollectionof an emotion. He seemed to see his fellow-creaturesgrotesquely, and he was angry withthem because they were grotesque; life was aconfusion of ridiculous, sordid happenings, a fit172

Somerset MaughamChapter XLVitself in flesh. To use the hackneyed phrase, herehe found himself.I HAVE SAID already that but for the hazard of a It would seem that my visit to this remote islandshould immediately revive my interest injourney to Tahiti I should doubtless never havewritten this book. It is thither that after many Strickland, but the work I was engaged in occupiedmy attention to the exclusion of somethingwanderings Charles Strickland came, and it isthere that he painted the pictures on which his that was irrelevant, and it was not till I had beenfame most securely rests. I suppose no artist there some days that I even remembered his connectionwith it. After all, I had not seen him forachieves completely the realisation of the dreamthat obsesses him, and Strickland, harassed incessantlyby his struggle with technique, man-think my arrival at Tahiti would have driven outfifteen years, and it was nine since he died. But Iaged, perhaps, less than others to express the of my head matters of much more immediatevision that he saw with his mind’s eye; but in importance to me, and even after a week I foundTahiti the circumstances were favourable to him; it not easy to order myself soberly. I rememberhe found in his surroundings the accidents necessaryfor his inspiration to become effective, and I came on to the terrace of the hotel no one wasthat on my first morning I awoke early, and whenhis later pictures give at least a suggestion of stirring. I wandered round to the kitchen, but itwhat he sought. They offer the imagination somethingnew and strange. It is as though in this far boy was sleeping. There seemed no chance ofwas locked, and on a bench outside it a nativecountry his spirit, that had wandered disembodied,seeking a tenement, at last was able to clothe the water-front. The Chinamen were alreadybreakfast for some time, so I sauntered down tobusy173

The Moon and Sixpencein their shops. The sky had still the pallor of Murea, the sister isle, comes into view in rockydawn, and there was a ghostly silence on the splendour, rising from the desert sea mysteriously,like the unsubstantial fabric of a magiclagoon. Ten miles away the island of Murea, likesome high fastness of the Holy Grail, guarded wand. With its jagged outline it is like aits mystery.Monseratt of the Pacific, and you may imagineI did not altogether believe my eyes. The days that there Polynesian knights guard with strangethat had passed since I left Wellington seemed rites mysteries unholy for men to know. Theextraordinary and unusual. Wellington is trim beauty of the island is unveiled as diminishingand neat and English; it reminds you of a seaporttown on the South Coast. And for three days peaks, but it keeps its secret as you sail by, and,distance shows you in distincter shape its lovelyafterwards the sea was stormy. Gray clouds darkly inviolable, seems to fold itself together inchased one another across the sky. Then the wind a stony, inaccessible grimness. It would not surpriseyou if, as you came near seeking for andropped, and the sea was calm and blue. ThePacific is more desolate than other seas; its spaces opening in the reef, it vanished suddenly fromseem more vast, and the most ordinary journey your view, and nothing met your gaze but theupon it has somehow the feeling of an adventure.The air you breathe is an elixir which pre-Tahiti is a lofty green island, with deep folds ofblue loneliness of the Pacific.pares you for the unexpected. Nor is it vouchsafedto man in the flesh to know aught that leys; there is mystery in their sombre depths,a darker green, in which you divine silent val-more nearly suggests the approach to the golden down which murmur and plash cool streams, andrealms of fancy than the approach to Tahiti. you feel that in those umbrageous places life from174

Somerset Maughamimmemorial times has been led according to cheerful, gesticulating crowd. It is a sea of brownimmemorial ways. Even here is something sad faces. You have an impression of coloured movementagainst the flaming blue of the sky. Every-and terrible. But the impression is fleeting, andserves only to give a greater acuteness to the thing is done with a great deal of bustle, theenjoyment of the moment. It is like the sadness unloading of the baggage, the examination ofwhich you may see in the jester’s eyes when a the customs; and everyone seems to smile at you.merry company is laughing at his sallies; his lips It is very hot. The colour dazzles you.smile and his jokes are gayer because in the communionof laughter he finds himself more intolerablyalone. For Tahiti is smiling and friendly;it is like a lovely woman graciously prodigal ofher charm and beauty; and nothing can be moreconciliatory than the entrance into the harbourat Papeete. The schooners moored to the quayare trim and neat, the little town along the bayis white and urbane, and the flamboyants, scarletagainst the blue sky, flaunt their colour like acry of passion. They are sensual with an unashamedviolence that leaves you breathless. Andthe crowd that throngs the wharf as the steamerdraws alongside is gay and debonair; it is a noisy,175

The Moon and SixpenceChapter XLVIdian Club.When he smiled he showed broken andHAD NOT BEEN in Tahiti long before I met Captain discoloured teeth. He was a very lean man, of noNichols. He came in one morning when I was more than average height, with gray hair cuthaving breakfast on the terrace of the hotel and short and a stubbly gray moustache. He had notintroduced himself. He had heard that I was interestedin Charles Strickland, and announced lined, burned brown by long exposure to the sun,shaved for a couple of days. His face was deeplythat he was come to have a talk about him. They and he had a pair of small blue eyes which wereare as fond of gossip in Tahiti as in an English astonishingly shifty. They moved quickly, followingmy smallest gesture, and they gave him thevillage, and one or two enquiries I had made forpictures by Strickland had been quickly spread. look of a very thorough rogue. But at the momenthe was all heartiness and good-fellowship.I asked the stranger if he had breakfasted.“ Yes; I have my coffee early,” he answered, He was dressed in a bedraggled suit of khaki,“but I don’t mind having a drop of whisky. ” and his hands would have been all the better forI called the Chinese boy.a wash.“ You don’t think it’s too early?” said the Captain.back in his chair and lit the cigar I had offered“I knew Strickland well,” he said, as he leaned“ You and your liver must decide that between him. “It’s through me he came out to the islands.”you,” I replied.“I’m practically a teetotaller,” he said, as he “Where did you meet him?” I asked.poured himself out a good half-tumbler of Cana-“In Marseilles.”176

Somerset Maugham“What were you doing there?”erant respect for the law, when the law is supportedby strength. It is hazardous to play pokerHe gave me an ingratiating smile.“ Well, I guess I was on the beach.”with them, but their ingenuity adds a peculiarMy friend’s appearance suggested that he was excitement to the best game in the world. I camenow in the same predicament, and I prepared to know Captain Nichols very well before I leftmyself to cultivate an agreeable acquaintance. Tahiti, and I am the richer for his acquaintance. IThe society of beach-combers always repays the do not consider that the cigars and whisky hesmall pains you need be at to enjoy it. They are consumed at my expense (he always refused cocktails,since he was practically a teetotaller), andeasy of approach and affable in conversation.They seldom put on airs, and the offer of a drink the few dollars, borrowed with a civil air of conferringa favour upon me, that passed from myis a sure way to their hearts. You need no laborioussteps to enter upon familiarity with them, pocket to his, were in any way equivalent to theand you can earn not only their confidence, but entertainment he afforded me. I remained histheir gratitude, by turning an attentive ear to debtor. I should be sorry if my conscience, insistingon a rigid attention to the matter in hand,their discourse. They look upon conversation asthe great pleasure of life, thereby proving the forced me to dismiss him in a couple of lines.excellence of their civilisation, and for the most I do not know why Captain Nichols first leftpart they are entertaining talkers. The extent of England. It was a matter upon which he was reticent,and with persons of his kind a direct ques-their experience is pleasantly balanced by thefertility of their imagination. It cannot be said tion is never very discreet. He hinted at undeservedmisfortune, and there is no doubt that that they are without guile, but they have a tol-he177

The Moon and Sixpencelooked upon himself as the victim of injustice. could not cope with have flown in the face of itsMy fancy played with the various forms of fraud decrees. There is no object more deserving of pityand violence, and I agreed with him sympatheticallywhen he remarked that the authorities in Nichols. I met his wife. She was a woman ofthan the married bachelor. Of such was Captainthe old country were so damned technical. But it twenty-eight, I should think, though of a typewas nice to see that any unpleasantness he had whose age is always doubtful; for she cannot haveendured in his native land had not impaired his looked different when she was twenty, and atardent patriotism. He frequently declared that forty would look no older. She gave me an impressionof extraordinary tightness. Her plainEngland was the finest country in the world, sir,and he felt a lively superiority over Americans, face with its narrow lips was tight, her skin wasColonials, Dagos, Dutchmen, and Kanakas. stretched tightly over her bones, her smile wasBut I do not think he was a happy man. He tight, her hair was tight, her clothes were tight,suffered from dyspepsia, and he might often be and the white drill she wore had all the effect ofseen sucking a tablet of pepsin; in the morning black bombazine. I could not imagine why CaptainNichols had married her, and having mar-his appetite was poor; but this affliction alonewould hardly have impaired his spirits. He had a ried her why he had not deserted her. Perhapsgreater cause of discontent with life than this. he had, often, and his melancholy arose from theEight years before he had rashly married a wife. fact that he could never succeed. However farThere are men whom a merciful Providence has he went and in howsoever secret a place he hidundoubtedly ordained to a single life, but who himself, I felt sure that Mrs. Nichols, inexorablefrom wilfulness or through circumstances they as fate and remorseless as conscience, would178

Somerset Maughampresently rejoin him. He could as little escape Captain; he would look at his watch and sigh.her as the cause can escape the effect.“ Well, I must be off,” he said.The rogue, like the artist and perhaps the Neither wit nor whisky could detain him then.gentleman, belongs to no class. He is not embarrassedby the sans gene of the hobo, nor put out ricane and typhoon, and would not have hesi-Yet he was a man who had faced undaunted hur-of countenance by the etiquette of the prince. tated to fight a dozen unarmed niggers withBut Mrs. Nichols belonged to the well-defined nothing but a revolver to help him. Sometimesclass, of late become vocal, which is known as Mrs. Nichols would send her daughter, a palefaced,sullen child of seven, to the hotel.the lower-middle. Her father, in fact, was a policeman.I am certain that he was an efficient “Mother wants you,” she said, in a whiningone. I do not know what her hold was on the tone.Captain, but I do not think it was love. I never “ Very well, my dear,” said Captain Nichols.heard her speak, but it may be that in private He rose to his feet at once, and accompaniedshe had a copious conversation. At any rate, CaptainNichols was frightened to death of her. Some-very pretty example of the triumph of spirit overhis daughter along the road. I suppose it was atimes, sitting with me on the terrace of the hotel,he would become conscious that she was advantage of a moral.matter, and so my digression has at least thewalking in the road outside. She did not call him;she gave no sign that she was aware of his existence;she merely walked up and down composedly.Then a strange uneasiness would seize the179

The Moon and SixpenceChapter XLVIIhis size and his singular appearance among thecrowd that waited for the doors to open; theyI HAVE TRIED to put some connection into the variousthings Captain Nichols told me about leaning against the wall, and others seated onwaited listlessly, some walking to and fro, someStrickland, and I here set them down in the best the curb with their feet in the gutter; and whenorder I can. They made one another’s acquaintanceduring the latter part of the winter follow-read his papers address him in English. But hethey filed into the office he heard the monk whoing my last meeting with Strickland in Paris. How did not have a chance to speak to him, since, ashe had passed the intervening months I do not he entered the common-room, a monk came inknow, but life must have been very hard, for with a huge Bible in his arms, mounted a pulpitCaptain Nichols saw him first in the Asile de Nuit. which was at the end of the room, and beganThere was a strike at Marseilles at the time, and the service which the wretched outcasts had toStrickland, having come to the end of his resources,had apparently found it impossible to Strickland were assigned to different rooms, andendure as the price of their lodging. He andearn the small sum he needed to keep body and when, thrown out of bed at five in the morningsoul together.by a stalwart monk, he had made his bed andThe Asile de Nuit is a large stone building where washed his face, Strickland had already disappeared.Captain Nichols wandered about thepauper and vagabond may get a bed for a week,provided their papers are in order and they can streets for an hour of bitter cold, and then madepersuade the friars in charge that they are workingmen.Captain Nichols noticed Strickland for men are wont to congregate. Dozing againsthis way to the Place Victor Gelu, where the sailor-the180

Somerset Maughampedestal of a statue, he saw Strickland again. He began the queer companionship of Charlesgave him a kick to awaken him.Strickland and Captain Nichols.“Come and have breakfast, mate,” he said. They must have spent something like four“Go to hell,” answered Strickland.months at Marseilles in one another’s society.I recognised my friend’s limited vocabulary, Their career was devoid of adventure, if by adventureyou mean unexpected or thrilling inci-and I prepared to regard Captain Nichols as atrustworthy witness.dent, for their days were occupied in the pursuit“Busted?” asked the Captain.of enough money to get a night’s lodging and“Blast you,” answered Strickland.such food as would stay the pangs of hunger. But“Come along with me. I’ll get you some breakfast.”and racy, which Captain Nichols’ vivid narrativeI wish I could give here the pictures, colouredAfter a moment’s hesitation, Strickland offered to the imagination. His account of theirscrambled to his feet, and together they went to discoveries in the low life of a seaport town wouldthe Bouchee de Pain, where the hungry are given have made a charming book, and in the variousa wedge of bread, which they must eat there characters that came their way the studentand then, for it is forbidden to take it away; and might easily have found matter for a very completedictionary of rogues. But I must contentthen to the Cuillere de Soupe, where for a week,at eleven and four, you may get a bowl of thin, myself with a few paragraphs. I received thesalt soup. The two buildings are placed far apart, impression of a life intense and brutal, savage,so that only the starving should be tempted to multicoloured, and vivacious. It made themake use of them. So they had breakfast, and so Marseilles that I knew, gesticulating and sunny,181

The Moon and Sixpencewith its comfortable hotels and its restaurants piece of work on Strickland’s part that he hadcrowded with the well-to-do, tame and commonplace.I envied men who had seen with their own Bill. Tough Bill not only paid for the canvas,got out of this by painting a portrait of Tougheyes the sights that Captain Nichols described. colours, and brushes, but gave Strickland a poundWhen the doors of the Asile de Nuit were closed of smuggled tobacco into the bargain. For all Ito them, Strickland and Captain Nichols sought know, this picture may still adorn the parlour ofthe hospitality of Tough Bill. This was the masterof a sailors’ boarding-house, a huge mulatto Quai de la Joliette, and I suppose it could now bethe tumbledown little house somewhere near thewith a heavy fist, who gave the stranded marinerfood and shelter till he found him a berth. idea was to ship on some vessel bound for Aus-sold for fifteen hundred pounds. Strickland’sThey lived with him a month, sleeping with a tralia or New Zealand, and from there make hisdozen others, Swedes, negroes, Brazilians, on the way to Samoa or Tahiti. I do not know how hefloor of the two bare rooms in his house which had come upon the notion of going to the Southhe assigned to his charges; and every day they Seas, though I remember that his imaginationwent with him to the Place Victor Gelu, whither had long been haunted by an island, all greencame ships’ captains in search of a man. He was and sunny, encircled by a sea more blue than ismarried to an American woman, obese and slatternly,fallen to this pass by Heaven knows what clung to Captain Nichols because he was ac-found in Northern latitudes. I suppose that heprocess of degradation, and every day the boarderstook it in turns to help her with the house-Nichols who persuaded him that he would bequainted with those parts, and it was Captainwork. Captain Nichols looked upon it as a smart more comfortable in Tahiti.182

Somerset Maugham“ You see, Tahiti’s French,” he explained to me. you rose from his table almost as hungry as you“And the French aren’t so damned technical.” sat down, but for some days they had good reasonto regret it. They learned what hunger was.I thought I saw his point.Strickland had no papers, but that was not a The Cuillere de Soupe and the Asile de Nuit werematter to disconcert Tough Bill when he saw a both closed to them, and their only sustenanceprofit (he took the first month’s wages of the was the wedge of bread which the Bouchee desailor for whom he found a berth), and he providedStrickland with those of an English stoker sometimes in an empty truck on a siding nearPain provided. They slept where they could,who had providentially died on his hands. But the station, sometimes in a cart behind a warehouse;but it was bitterly cold, and after an hourboth Captain Nichols and Strickland were boundEast, and it chanced that the only opportunities or two of uneasy dozing they would tramp thefor signing on were with ships sailing West. Twice streets again. What they felt the lack of mostStrickland refused a berth on tramps sailing for bitterly was tobacco, and Captain Nichols, for histhe United States, and once on a collier going to part, could not do without it; he took to huntingNewcastle. Tough Bill had no patience with an the “Can o’ Beer,” for cigarette-ends and theobstinacy which could only result in loss to himself,and on the last occasion he flung both night before had thrown away.butt-end of cigars which the promenaders of theStrickland and Captain Nichols out of his house “I’ve tasted worse smoking mixtures in awithout more ado. They found themselves once pipe,” he added, with a philosophic shrug of hismore adrift.shoulders, as he took a couple of cigars from theTough Bill’s fare was seldom extravagant, and case I offered him, putting one in his mouth and183

The Moon and Sixpencethe other in his pocket.fish-market. Once they each of them earned aNow and then they made a bit of money. Sometimesa mail steamer would come in, and Cap-of oranges that had been dumped down on thefranc by loading trucks with innumerable boxestain Nichols, having scraped acquaintance with quay. One day they had a stroke of luck: one ofthe timekeeper, would succeed in getting the pair the boarding-masters got a contract to paint aof them a job as stevedores. When it was an Englishboat, they would dodge into the forecastle the Cape of Good Hope, and they spent severaltramp that had come in from Madagascar roundand get a hearty breakfast from the crew. They days on a plank hanging over the side, coveringtook the risk of running against one of the ship’s the rusty hull with paint. It was a situation thatofficers and being hustled down the gangway must have appealed to Strickland’s sardonicwith the toe of a boot to speed their going. humour. I asked Captain Nichols how he bore“There’s no harm in a kick in the hindquarterswhen your belly’s full,” said Captain “Never knew him say a cross word,” answeredhimself during these hardships.Nichols, “and personally I never take it in bad the Captain. “He’d be a bit surly sometimes,part. An officer’s got to think about discipline.” but when we hadn’t had a bite since morning,I had a lively picture of Captain Nichols flying and we hadn’t even got the price of a lie downheadlong down a narrow gangway before the at the Chink’s, he’d be as lively as a cricket.”uplifted foot of an angry mate, and, like a true I was not surprised at this. Strickland was justEnglishman, rejoicing in the spirit of the MercantileMarine.they were such as to occasion despondency inthe man to rise superior to circumstances, whenThere were often odd jobs to be got about the most; but whether this was due to equanimity184

Somerset Maughamof soul or to contradictoriness it would be difficultto say.given him.”Place, and he asked Charlie for the papers he’dThe Chink’s Head was a name the beach-combersgave to a wretched inn off the Rue Bouterie, them,’ says Charlie.“`You’d better come and take them if you wantkept by a one-eyed Chinaman, where for six sous “He was a powerful fellow, Tough Bill, but heyou could sleep in a cot and for three on the floor. didn’t quite like the look of Charlie, so he beganHere they made friends with others in as desperatecondition as themselves, and when they were he could lay hands on, and when Tough Bill be-cursing him. He called him pretty near every namepenniless and the night was bitter cold, they gan cursing it was worth listening to him. Well,were glad to borrow from anyone who had Charlie stuck it for a bit, then he stepped forwardearned a stray franc during the day the price of and he just said: `Get out, you bloody swine.’ Ita roof over their heads. They were not niggardly, wasn’t so much what he said, but the way hethese tramps, and he who had money did not said it. Tough Bill never spoke another word; youhesitate to share it among the rest. They belongedto all the countries in the world, but this he’d remembered he had a date.”could see him go yellow, and he walked away as ifwas no bar to good-fellowship; for they felt themselvesfreemen of a country whose frontiers in-not use exactly the words I have given, but sinceStrickland, according to Captain Nichols, didclude them all, the great country of Cockaine. this book is meant for family reading I have“But I guess Strickland was an ugly customer thought it better, at the expense of truth, to putwhen he was roused,” said Captain Nichols, reflectively.“One day we ran into Tough Bill in the mesticinto his mouth expressions familiar to the do-circle.185

The Moon and SixpenceNow, Tough Bill was not the man to put up with hair, dyed yellow, are dressed like little girls inhumiliation at the hands of a common sailor. His short muslin frocks. Through the open door youpower depended on his prestige, and first one, see a red-tiled floor, a large wooden bed, and onthen another, of the sailors who lived in his house a deal table a ewer and a basin. A motley crowdtold them that he had sworn to do Strickland in. saunters along the streets — Lascars off a P. andOne night Captain Nichols and Strickland were O., blond Northmen from a Swedish barque, Japanesefrom a man-of-war, English sailors, Span-sitting in one of the bars of the Rue Bouterie.The Rue Bouterie is a narrow street of one-storeyedhouses, each house consisting of but one cruiser, negroes off an American tramp. By dayiards, pleasant-looking fellows from a Frenchroom; they are like the booths in a crowded fair it is merely sordid, but at night, lit only by theor the cages of animals in a circus. At every door lamps in the little huts, the street has a sinisteryou see a woman. Some lean lazily against the beauty. The hideous lust that pervades the air isside-posts, humming to themselves or calling to oppressive and horrible, and yet there is somethingmysterious in the sight which haunts andthe passer-by in a raucous voice, and some listlesslyread. They are French. Italian, Spanish, troubles you. You feel I know not what primitiveJapanese, coloured; some are fat and some are force which repels and yet fascinates you. Herethin; and under the thick paint on their faces, all the decencies of civilisation are swept away,the heavy smears on their eyebrows, and the and you feel that men are face to face with ascarlet of their lips, you see the lines of age and sombre reality. There is an atmosphere that is atthe scars of dissipation. Some wear black shifts once intense and tragic.and flesh-coloured stockings; some with curly In the bar in which Strickland and Nichols sat186

Somerset Maughama mechanical piano was loudly grinding out dance that he was already three parts drunk. He wasmusic. Round the room people were sitting at looking for trouble. He lurched against a table attable, here half a dozen sailors uproariously which three soldiers were sitting and knockeddrunk, there a group of soldiers; and in the over a glass of beer. There was an angry altercation,and the owner of the bar stepped forwardmiddle, crowded together, couples were dancing.Bearded sailors with brown faces and large horny and ordered Tough Bill to go. He was a hefty fellow,in the habit of standing no nonsense fromhands clasped their partners in a tight embrace.The women wore nothing but a shift. Now and his customers, and Tough Bill hesitated. The landlordwas not a man he cared to tackle, for thethen two sailors would get up and dance together.The noise was deafening. People were singing, police were on his side, and with an oath heshouting, laughing; and when a man gave a long turned on his heel. Suddenly he caught sight ofkiss to the girl sitting on his knees, cat-calls from Strickland. He rolled up to him. He did not speak.the English sailors increased the din. The air was He gathered the spittle in his mouth and spatheavy with the dust beaten up by the heavy boots full in Strickland’s face. Strickland seized hisof the men, and gray with smoke. It was very glass and flung it at him. The dancers stoppedhot. Behind the bar was seated a woman nursingher baby. The waiter, an undersized youth silence, but when Tough Bill threw himself onsuddenly still. There was an instant of completewith a flat, spotty face, hurried to and fro carryinga tray laden with glasses of beer.in a moment there was a confused scrimmage.Strickland the lust of battle seized them all, andIn a little while Tough Bill, accompanied by two Tables were overturned, glasses crashed to thehuge negroes, came in, and it was easy to see ground. There was a hellish row. The women scat-187

The Moon and Sixpencetered to the door and behind the bar. Passers-by to be reckoned with. He would bide his timesurged in from the street. You heard curses in stealthily. He would be in no hurry, but one nightevery tongue the sound of blows, cries; and in Strickland would get a knife-thrust in his back,the middle of the room a dozen men were fightingwith all their might. On a sudden the police beach-comber would be fished out of the dirtyand in a day or two the corpse of a namelessrushed in, and everyone who could made for the water of the harbour. Nichols went next eveningdoor. When the bar was more or less cleared, to Tough Bill’s house and made enquiries. HeTough Bill was lying insensible on the floor with was in hospital still, but his wife, who had beena great gash in his head. Captain Nichols dragged to see him, said he was swearing hard to killStrickland, bleeding from a wound in his arm, Strickland when they let him out.his clothes in rags, into the street. His own face A week passed.was covered with blood from a blow on the nose. “That’s what I always say,” reflected Captain“I guess you’d better get out of Marseilles beforeTough Bill comes out of hospital,” he said to gives you a bit of time to look about and thinkNichols, “when you hurt a man, hurt him bad. ItStrickland, when they had got back to the what you’ll do next.”Chink’s Head and were cleaning themselves. Then Strickland had a bit of luck. A ship bound“This beats cock-fighting,” said Strickland. for Australia had sent to the Sailors’ Home for aI could see his sardonic smile.stoker in place of one who had thrown himselfCaptain Nichols was anxious. He knew Tough overboard off Gibraltar in an attack of deliriumBill’s vindictiveness. Strickland had downed the tremens.mulatto twice, and the mulatto, sober, was a man “ You double down to the harbour, my lad,” said188

Somerset Maughamthe Captain to Strickland, “and sign on. You’veChapter XLVIIIgot your papers.”Strickland set off at once, and that was the last IT IS HERE that I purposed to end my book. MyCaptain Nichols saw of him. The ship was only first idea was to begin it with the account ofin port for six hours, and in the evening Captain Strickland’s last years in Tahiti and with hisNichols watched the vanishing smoke from her horrible death, and then to go back and relatefunnels as she ploughed East through the wintrysea.do, not from wilfulness, but because I wished towhat I knew of his beginnings. This I meant toI have narrated all this as best I could, because leave Strickland setting out with I know not whatI like the contrast of these episodes with the life fancies in his lonely soul for the unknown islandsthat I had seen Strickland live in Ashley Gardens which fired his imagination. I liked the picturewhen he was occupied with stocks and shares; of him starting at the age of forty-seven, whenbut I am aware that Captain Nichols was an outrageousliar, and I dare say there is not a word of groove, for a new world. I saw him, the sea graymost men have already settled comfortably in atruth in anything he told me. I should not be under the mistral and foam-flecked, watching thesurprised to learn that he had never seen vanishing coast of France, which he was destinedStrickland in his life, and owed his knowledge of never to see again; and I thought there was somethinggallant in his bearing and dauntless in hisMarseilles to the pages of a magazine.soul. I wished so to end on a note of hope. Itseemed to emphasise the unconquerable spiritof man. But I could not manage it. Somehow I189

The Moon and Sixpencecould not get into my story, and after trying once were worth large sums, and they could not forgivethemselves for the opportunity which hador twice I had to give it up; I started from thebeginning in the usual way, and made up my escaped them. There was a Jewish trader calledmind I could only tell what I knew of Strickland’s Cohen, who had come by one of Strickland’s picturesin a singular way. He was a little old French-life in the order in which I learnt the facts.Those that I have now are fragmentary. I am in man, with soft kind eyes and a pleasant smile,the position of a biologist who from a single bone half trader and half seaman, who owned a cutterin which he wandered boldly among themust reconstruct not only the appearance of anextinct animal, but its habits. Strickland made Paumotus and the Marquesas, taking out tradeno particular impression on the people who came goods and bringing back copra, shell, and pearls.in contact with him in Tahiti. To them he was no I went to see him because I was told he had amore than a beach-comber in constant need of large black pearl which he was willing to sellmoney, remarkable only for the peculiarity that cheaply, and when I discovered that it was beyondmy means I began to talk to him abouthe painted pictures which seemed to them absurd;and it was not till he had been dead for Strickland. He had known him well.some years and agents came from the dealers in “ You see, I was interested in him because heParis and Berlin to look for any pictures which was a painter,” he told me. “We don’t get manymight still remain on the island, that they had painters in the islands, and I was sorry for himany idea that among them had dwelt a man of because he was such a bad one. I gave him hisconsequence. They remembered then that they first job. I had a plantation on the peninsula, andcould have bought for a song canvases which now I wanted a white overseer. You never get any work190

Somerset Maughamout of the natives unless you have a white man pected to see my money again. Well, a year laterover them. I said to him: `You’ll have plenty of he came to see me once more, and he brought atime for painting, and you can earn a bit of picture with him. He did not mention the moneymoney.’ I knew he was starving, but I offered he owed me, but he said: `Here is a picture ofhim good wages.”your plantation that I’ve painted for you.’ I“I can’t imagine that he was a very satisfactoryoverseer,” I said, smiling.course I thanked him, and when he had gonelooked at it. I did not know what to say, but of“I made allowances. I have always had a sympathyfor artists. It is in our blood, you know. “What was it like?” I asked.away I showed it to my wife.”But he only remained a few months. When he “Do not ask me. I could not make head or tailhad enough money to buy paints and canvases of it. I never saw such a thing in my life. `Whathe left me. The place had got hold of him by then, shall we do with it?’ I said to my wife. `We canand he wanted to get away into the bush. But I never hang it up,’ she said. `People would laughcontinued to see him now and then. He would at us.’ So she took it into an attic and put itturn up in Papeete every few months and stay a away with all sorts of rubbish, for my wife canlittle while; he’d get money out of someone or never throw anything away. It is her mania. Then,other and then disappear again. It was on one of imagine to yourself, just before the war mythese visits that he came to me and asked for brother wrote to me from Paris, and said: `Dothe loan of two hundred francs. He looked as if you know anything about an English painter whohe hadn’t had a meal for a week, and I hadn’t lived in Tahiti? It appears that he was a genius,the heart to refuse him. Of course, I never ex-and his pictures fetch large prices. See if you can191

The Moon and Sixpencelay your hands on anything and send it to me. he said? `I received your picture,’ he said, `and IThere’s money to be made.’ So I said to my confess I thought it was a joke that you hadwife. `What about that picture that Strickland played on me. I would not have given the cost ofgave me?’ Is it possible that it is still in the attic?’`Without doubt,’ she answered, ` for you it to the gentleman who had spoken to me aboutpostage for the picture. I was half afraid to showknow that I never throw anything away. It is my it. Imagine my surprise when he said it was amania.’ We went up to the attic, and there, masterpiece, and offered me thirty thousandamong I know not what rubbish that had been francs. I dare say he would have paid more, butgathered during the thirty years we have inhabitedthat house, was the picture. I looked at it I accepted the offer before I was able to collectfrankly I was so taken aback that I lost my head;again, and I said: `Who would have thought that myself.’”the overseer of my plantation on the peninsula, Then Monsieur Cohen said an admirable thing.to whom I lent two hundred francs, had genius? “I wish that poor Strickland had been still alive.Do you see anything in the picture?’ `No,’ she I wonder what he would have said when I gavesaid, `it does not resemble the plantation and I him twenty-nine thousand eight hundred francshave never seen cocoa-nuts with blue leaves; but for his picture.”they are mad in Paris, and it may be that yourbrother will be able to sell it for the two hundredfrancs you lent Strickland.’ Well, we packedit up and we sent it to my brother. And at last Ireceived a letter from him. What do you think192

Somerset MaughamChapter XLIXof enormous proportions. Tall and extremelystout, she would have been of imposing presenceI LIVED at the Hotel de la Fleur, and Mrs. Johnson, if the great good-nature of her face had not madethe proprietress, had a sad story to tell of lost it impossible for her to express anything but kindliness.Her arms were like legs of mutton, heropportunity. After Strickland’s death certain ofhis effects were sold by auction in the marketplaceat Papeete, and she went to it herself be-fleshy, gave you an impression of almost inde-breasts like giant cabbages; her face, broad andcause there was among the truck an American cent nakedness, and vast chin succeeded to vaststove she wanted. She paid twenty-seven francs chin. I do not know how many of them therefor it.were. They fell away voluminously into the capaciousnessof her bosom. She was dressed usu-“There were a dozen pictures,” she told me,“but they were unframed, and nobody wanted ally in a pink Mother Hubbard, and she wore allthem. Some of them sold for as much as ten day long a large straw hat. But when she let downfrancs, but mostly they went for five or six. Just her hair, which she did now and then, for shethink, if I had bought them I should be a rich was vain of it, you saw that it was long and darkwoman now. ”and curly; and her eyes had remained young andBut Tiare Johnson would never under any circumstanceshave been rich. She could not keep ever heard; it would begin, a low peal in hervivacious. Her laughter was the most catching Imoney. The daughter of a native and an English throat, and would grow louder and louder till hersea-captain settled in Tahiti, when I knew her whole vast body shook. She loved three things —she was a woman of fifty, who looked older, and a joke, a glass of wine, and a handsome man. To193

The Moon and Sixpencehave known her is a privilege.poor fellow to go about in a dirty shirt, she said,She was the best cook on the island, and she and since he was a man, and men must smoke,adored good food. From morning till night you she gave him a franc a day for cigarettes. Shesaw her sitting on a low chair in the kitchen, used him with the same affability as those ofsurrounded by a Chinese cook and two or three her clients who paid their bills once a week.native girls, giving her orders, chatting sociably Age and obesity had made her inapt for love,with all and sundry, and tasting the savoury but she took a keen interest in the amatory affairsof the young. She looked upon venery asmesses she devised. When she wished to dohonour to a friend she cooked the dinner with the natural occupation for men and women, andher own hands. Hospitality was a passion with was ever ready with precept and example fromher, and there was no one on the island who need her own wide experience.go without a dinner when there was anything to “I was not fifteen when my father found that Ieat at the Hotel de la Fleur. She never turned had a lover,” she said. “He was third mate onher customers out of her house because they did the Tropic Bird. A good-looking boy. ”not pay their bills. She always hoped they would She sighed a little. They say a woman alwayspay when they could. There was one man there remembers her first lover with affection; butwho had fallen on adversity, and to him she had perhaps she does not always remember him.given board and lodging for several months. “My father was a sensible man.”When the Chinese laundryman refused to wash “What did he do?” I asked.for him without payment she had sent his things “He thrashed me within an inch of my life, andto be washed with hers. She could not allow the then he made me marry Captain Johnson. I did194

Somerset Maughamnot mind. He was older, of course, but he was He had a few pounds in his pocket, for he hadgood-looking too.”found work in Sydney, and he took a small roomTiare — her father had called her by the name in a native house outside the town. I think theof the white, scented flower which, they tell you, moment he reached Tahiti he felt himself atif you have once smelt, will always draw you back home. Tiare told me that he said to her once:to Tahiti in the end, however far you may have “I’d been scrubbing the deck, and all at onceroamed — Tiare remembered Strickland very well. a chap said to me: `Why, there it is.’ And I looked“He used to come here sometimes, and I used up and I saw the outline of the island. I knewto see him walking about Papeete. I was sorry right away that there was the place I’d beenfor him, he was so thin, and he never had any looking for all my life. Then we came near, and Imoney. When I heard he was in town, I used to seemed to recognise it. Sometimes when I walksend a boy to find him and make him come to about it all seems familiar. I could swear I’vedinner with me. I got him a job once or twice, lived here before.”but he couldn’t stick to anything. After a little “Sometimes it takes them like that,” said Tiare.while he wanted to get back to the bush, and “I’ve known men come on shore for a few hoursone morning he would be gone.”while their ship was taking in cargo, and neverStrickland reached Tahiti about six months afterhe left Marseilles. He worked his passage on be in an office for a year, and they cursed thego back. And I’ve known men who came here toa sailing vessel that was making the trip from place, and when they went away they took theirAuckland to San Francisco, and he arrived with dying oath they’d hang themselves before theya box of paints, an easel, and a dozen canvases. came back again, and in six months you’d see195

The Moon and Sixpencethem land once more, and they’d tell you theyChapter Lcouldn’t live anywhere else.”I HAVE AN IDEA that some men are born out of theirdue place. Accident has cast them amid certainsurroundings, but they have always a nostalgiafor a home they know not. They are strangers intheir birthplace, and the leafy lanes they haveknown from childhood or the populous streets inwhich they have played, remain but a place ofpassage. They may spend their whole lives aliensamong their kindred and remain aloof among theonly scenes they have ever known. Perhaps it isthis sense of strangeness that sends men far andwide in the search for something permanent, towhich they may attach themselves. Perhapssome deeprooted atavism urges the wandererback to lands which his ancestors left in the dimbeginnings of history. Sometimes a man hits upona place to which he mysteriously feels that hebelongs. Here is the home he sought, and he willsettle amid scenes that he has never seen be-196

Somerset Maughamfore, among men he has never known, as though at the hospital knew a director of the line, andthey were familiar to him from his birth. Here at Abraham was taken as a favour.last he finds rest.In a few weeks the authorities received his resignationof the coveted position on the staff. ItI told Tiare the story of a man I had known atSt. Thomas’s Hospital. He was a Jew named created profound astonishment, and wildAbraham, a blond, rather stout young man, shy rumours were current. Whenever a man doesand very unassuming; but he had remarkable anything unexpected, his fellows ascribe it to thegifts. He entered the hospital with a scholarship, most discreditable motives. But there was a manand during the five years of the curriculum ready to step into Abraham’s shoes, andgained every prize that was open to him. He was Abraham was forgotten. Nothing more was heardmade house-physician and house-surgeon. His of him. He vanished.brilliance was allowed by all. Finally he was It was perhaps ten years later that one morningon board ship, about to land at Alexandria, Ielected to a position on the staff, and his careerwas assured. So far as human things can be predicted,it was certain that he would rise to the for the doctor’s examination. The doctor was awas bidden to line up with the other passengersgreatest heights of his profession. Honours and stout man in shabby clothes, and when he tookwealth awaited him. Before he entered upon his off his hat I noticed that he was very bald. I hadnew duties he wished to take a holiday, and, havingno private means, he went as surgeon on a remembered.an idea that I had seen him before. Suddenly Itramp steamer to the Levant. It did not generallycarry a doctor, but one of the senior surgeons He turned to me with a puzzled look, and“Abraham,” I said.then,197

The Moon and Sixpencerecognizing me, seized my hand. After expressionsof surprise on either side, hearing that I an exultation, a sense of wonderful freedom. Heseemed to twist his heart, and suddenly he feltmeant to spend the night in Alexandria, he asked felt himself at home, and he made up his mindme to dine with him at the English Club. When there and then, in a minute, that he would livewe met again I declared my astonishment at findinghim there. It was a very modest position that difficulty in leaving the ship, and in twenty-fourthe rest of his life in Alexandria. He had no greathe occupied, and there was about him an air of hours, with all his belongings, he was on shore.straitened circumstance. Then he told me his “The Captain must have thought you as madstory. When he set out on his holiday in the Mediterraneanhe had every intention of returning “I didn’t care what anybody thought. Itas a hatter,” I smiled.to London and his appointment at St. Thomas’s. wasn’t I that acted, but something strongerOne morning the tramp docked at Alexandria, within me. I thought I would go to a little Greekand from the deck he looked at the city, white in hotel, while I looked about, and I felt I knewthe sunlight, and the crowd on the wharf; he saw where to find one. And do you know, I walkedthe natives in their shabby gabardines, the blacks straight there, and when I saw it, I recognised itfrom the Soudan, the noisy throng of Greeks and at once.”Italians, the grave Turks in tarbooshes, the sunshineand the blue sky; and something happened “No; I’d never been out of England in my life.”“Had you been to Alexandria before?”to him. He could not describe it. It was like a Presently he entered the Government service,thunder-clap, he said, and then, dissatisfied with and there he had been ever since.this, he said it was like a revelation. Something “Have you never regretted it?”198

Somerset Maugham“Never, not for a minute. I earn just enough to ingly on the change in his present circumstanceslive upon, and I’m satisfied. I ask nothing more from those when we had both been medical students.We had looked upon it then as an extrava-than to remain as I am till I die. I’ve had a wonderfullife.”gance to dine in a shabby Italian restaurant inI left Alexandria next day, and I forgot about the Westminster Bridge Road. Now AlecAbraham till a little while ago, when I was diningwith another old friend in the profession, Alec pitals. I should think he earned ten thousand aCarmichael was on the staff of half a dozen hos-Carmichael, who was in England on short leave. year, and his knighthood was but the first of theI ran across him in the street and congratulated honours which must inevitably fall to his lot.him on the knighthood with which his eminent “I’ve done pretty well,” he said, “but theservices during the war had been rewarded. We strange thing is that I owe it all to one piece ofarranged to spend an evening together for old luck.”time’s sake, and when I agreed to dine with him, “What do you mean by that?”he proposed that he should ask nobody else, so “ Well, do you remember Abraham? He was thethat we could chat without interruption. He had man who had the future. When we were studentsa beautiful old house in Queen Anne Street, and he beat me all along the line. He got the prizesbeing a man of taste he had furnished it admirably.On the walls of the diningroom I saw a charm-played second fiddle to him. If he’d kept on he’dand the scholarships that I went in for. I alwaysing Bellotto, and there was a pair of Zoffanys be in the position I’m in now. That man had athat I envied. When his wife, a tall, lovely creaturein cloth of gold, had left us, I remarked laugh-him. When he was appointed Registrargenius for surgery. No one had a look in withat199

The Moon and SixpenceThomas’s I hadn’t a chance of getting on the gret the sudden step. But I said nothing, and Alecstaff. I should have had to become a G.P., and you Carmichael proceeded reflectively:know what likelihood there is for a G.P. ever to “Of course it would be hypocritical for me toget out of the common rut. But Abraham fell out, pretend that I regret what Abraham did. Afterand I got the job. That gave me my opportunity. ” all, I’ve scored by it.” He puffed luxuriously at“I dare say that’s true.”the long Corona he was smoking. “But if I“It was just luck. I suppose there was some weren’t personally concerned I should be sorrykink in Abraham. Poor devil, he’s gone to the at the waste. It seems a rotten thing that a mandogs altogether. He’s got some twopennyhalfpennyjob in the medical at Alexandria —sani-I wondered if Abraham really had made a hashshould make such a hash of life.”tary officer or something like that. I’m told he of life. Is to do what you most want, to live underthe conditions that please you, in peace withlives with an ugly old Greek woman and has halfa dozen scrofulous kids. The fact is, I suppose, yourself, to make a hash of life; and is it successthat it’s not enough to have brains. The thing to be an eminent surgeon with ten thousand athat counts is character. Abraham hadn’t got year and a beautiful wife? I suppose it dependscharacter. ”on what meaning you attach to life, the claimCharacter? I should have thought it needed a which you acknowledge to society, and the claimgood deal of character to throw up a career after of the individual. But again I held my tongue,half an hour’s meditation, because you saw in for who am I to argue with a knight?another way of living a more intense significance.And it required still more character never to re-200

Somerset MaughamChapter LII“But he had one already. ”“That is what he said, but I told him she wasTIARE, when I told her this story, praised my prudence,and for a few minutes we worked in si-the world.”in England, and England is at the other end oflence, for we were shelling peas. Then her eyes, “ True,” I replied.always alert for the affairs of her kitchen, fell on “He would come to Papeete every two or threesome action of the Chinese cook which aroused months, when he wanted paints or tobacco orher violent disapproval. She turned on him with money, and then he would wander about like aa torrent of abuse. The Chink was not backward lost dog. I was sorry for him. I had a girl hereto defend himself, and a very lively quarrel ensued.They spoke in the native language, of which sort of a relation of mine, and her father andthen called Ata to do the rooms; she was someI had learnt but half a dozen words, and it mother were dead, so I had her to live with me.sounded as though the world would shortly come Strickland used to come here now and then toto an end; but presently peace was restored and have a square meal or to play chess with one ofTiare gave the cook a cigarette. They both the boys. I noticed that she looked at him whensmoked comfortably.he came, and I asked her if she liked him. She“Do you know, it was I who found him his said she liked him well enough. You know whatwife?” said Tiare suddenly, with a smile that these girls are; they’re always pleased to go withspread all over her immense face.a white man.”“The cook?”“ Was she a native?” I asked.“No, Strickland.”“ Yes; she hadn’t a drop of white blood in her.201

The Moon and SixpenceWell, after I’d talked to her I sent for Strickland, girls — a captain or a first mate, yes, but she’sand I said to him: `Strickland, it’s time for you never been touched by a native. Elle se respecte,to settle down. A man of your age shouldn’t go vois-tu. The purser of the Oahu told me last journeythat he hadn’t met a nicer girl in the is-playing about with the girls down at the front.They’re bad lots, and you’ll come to no good lands. It’s time she settled down too, and besides,the captains and the first mates like awith them. You’ve got no money, and you cannever keep a job for more than a month or two. change now and then. I don’t keep my girls tooNo one will employ you now. You say you can long. She has a bit of property down by Taravao,always live in the bush with one or other of the just before you come to the peninsula, and withnatives, and they’re glad to have you because copra at the price it is now you could live quiteyou’re a white man, but it’s not decent for a comfortably. There’s a house, and you’d havewhite man. Now, listen to me, Strickland.’” all the time you wanted for your painting. WhatTiare mingled French with English in her conversation,for she used both languages with Tiare paused to take breath.do you say to it?”equal facility. She spoke them with a singing “It was then he told me of his wife in England.accent which was not unpleasing. You felt that ‘My poor Strickland,’ I said to him, ‘they’vea bird would speak in these tones if it could all got a wife somewhere; that is generally whyspeak English.they come to the islands. Ata is a sensible girl,“ ‘ N o w, what do you say to marrying Ata? and she doesn’t expect any ceremony before theShe’s a good girl and she’s only seventeen. Mayor. She’s a Protestant, and you know theyShe’s never been promiscuous like some of these don’t look upon these things like the Catholics.’202

Somerset Maugham“Then he said: `But what does Ata say to it?’ and then. She’s saved several hundred francs.’`It appears that she has a beguin for you,’ I said. “He pulled his great red beard and smiled.`She’s willing if you are. Shall I call her?’ He “`Well, Ata,’ he said, ‘do you fancy me for achuckled in a funny, dry way he had, and I called husband.’her. She knew what I was talking about, the “She did not say anything, but just giggled.hussy, and I saw her out of the corner of my eyes “`But I tell you, my poor Strickland, the girllistening with all her ears, while she pretended has a beguin for you,’ I said.to iron a blouse that she had been washing for “I shall beat you,’ he said, looking at her.me. She came. She was laughing, but I could see “`How else should I know you loved me,’ shethat she was a little shy, and Strickland looked answered.”at her without speaking.”Tiare broke off her narrative and addressed herselfto me reflectively.“ Was she pretty?” I asked.“Not bad. But you must have seen pictures of “My first husband, Captain Johnson, used toher. He painted her over and over again, sometimeswith a pareo on and sometimes with nothsome,six foot three, and when he was drunkthrash me regularly. He was a man. He was handingat all. Yes, she was pretty enough. And she there was no holding him. I would be black andknew how to cook. I taught her myself. I saw blue all over for days at a time. Oh, I cried whenStrickland was thinking of it, so I said to him: he died. I thought I should never get over it. But‘I’ve given her good wages and she’s saved it wasn’t till I married George Rainey that I knewthem, and the captains and the first mates she’s what I’d lost. You can never tell what a man isknown have given her a little something now like till you live with him. I’ve never been so203

The Moon and Sixpencedeceived in a man as I was in George Rainey. He “ Well, he agreed to that. Ata continued to dowas a fine, upstanding fellow too. He was nearly the housework, and I gave him his meals as Ias tall as Captain Johnson, and he looked strong said I would. I taught Ata to make one or twoenough. But it was all on the surface. He never dishes I knew he was fond of. He did not paintdrank. He never raised his hand to me. He might much. He wandered about the hills and bathedhave been a missionary. I made love with the in the stream. And he sat about the front lookingat the lagoon, and at sunset he would go downofficers of every ship that touched the island, andGeorge Rainey never saw anything. At last I was and look at Murea. He used to go fishing on thedisgusted with him, and I got a divorce. What reef. He loved to moon about the harbour talkingto the natives. He was a nice, quiet fellow.was the good of a husband like that? It’s a terriblething the way some men treat women.” And every evening after dinner he would goI condoled with Tiare, and remarked feelingly down to the annexe with Ata. I saw he was longingto get away to the bush, and at the end ofthat men were deceivers ever, then asked her togo on with her story of Strickland.the month I asked him what he intended to do.“`Well,’ I said to him, `there’s no hurry about He said if Ata was willing to go, he was willingit. Take your time and think it over. Ata has a to go with her. So I gave them a wedding dinner.very nice room in the annexe. Live with her for a I cooked it with my own hands. I gave them amonth, and see how you like her. You can have pea soup and lobster a la portugaise, and a curry,your meals here. And at the end of a month, if and a cocoa-nut salad — you’ve never had one ofyou decide you want to marry her, you can just my cocoa-nut salads, have you? I must make yougo and settle down on her property. ’one before you go — and then I made them an204

Somerset Maughamice. We had all the champagne we could drink “ We kept it up till three, and when we went toand liqueurs to follow. Oh, I’d made up my mind bed I don’t think anyone was very sober. I hadto do things well. And afterwards we danced in told them they could have my trap to take themthe drawing-room. I was not so fat, then, and I as far as the road went, because after that theyalways loved dancing.”had a long walk. Ata’s property was right awayThe drawing-room at the Hotel de la Fleur was in a fold of the mountain. They started at dawn,a small room, with a cottage piano, and a suite and the boy I sent with them didn’t come backof mahogany furniture, covered in stamped velvet,neatly arranged around the walls. On round “ Yes, that’s how Strickland was married.”till next day.tables were photograph albums, and on the wallsenlarged photographs of Tiare and her first husband,Captain Johnson. Still, though Tiare wasold and fat, on occasion we rolled back the Brusselscarpet, brought in the maids and one or twofriends of Tiare’s, and danced, though now tothe wheezy music of a gramaphone. On the verandahthe air was scented with the heavy perfumeof the tiare, and overhead the SouthernCross shone in a cloudless sky.Tiare smiled indulgently as she rememberedthe gaiety of a time long passed.205

The Moon and SixpenceChapter LIIand at the edge of the clearing were twoflamboyants, twin trees, that challenged the goldI SUPPOSE the next three years were the happiest of the cocoa-nuts with their scarlet flowers.of Strickland’s life. Ata’s house stood about Here Strickland lived, coming seldom toeight kilometres from the road that runs round Papeete, on the produce of the land. There was athe island, and you went to it along a winding little stream that ran not far away, in which hepathway shaded by the luxuriant trees of the bathed, and down this on occasion would cometropics. It was a bungalow of unpainted wood, a shoal of fish. Then the natives would assembleconsisting of two small rooms, and outside was with spears, and with much shouting woulda small shed that served as a kitchen. There was transfix the great startled things as they hurriedno furniture except the mats they used as beds, down to the sea. Sometimes Strickland would goand a rocking-chair, which stood on the verandah.Bananas with their great ragged leaves, like of small, coloured fish that Ata would fry in co-down to the reef, and come back with a basketthe tattered habiliments of an empress in adversity,grew close up to the house. There was a tree would make a savoury dish of the great landcoa-nutoil, or with a lobster; and sometimes shejust behind which bore alligator pears, and all crabs that scuttled away under your feet. Up theabout were the cocoa-nuts which gave the land mountain were wild-orange trees, and now andits revenue. Ata’s father had planted crotons then Ata would go with two or three women fromround his property, and they grew in coloured the village and return laden with the green,profusion, gay and brilliant; they fenced the land sweet, luscious fruit. Then the cocoa-nuts wouldwith flame. A mango grew in front of the house, be ripe for picking, and her cousins (like all the206

Somerset Maughamnatives, Ata had a host of relatives) would swarm woman came to stay with her, and then a youthup the trees and throw down the big ripe nuts. appeared — no one quite knew where from or toThey split them open and put them in the sun to whom he belonged — but he settled down withdry. Then they cut out the copra and put it into them in a happy-go-lucky way, and they all livedsacks, and the women would carry it down to together,the trader at the village by the lagoon, and hewould give in exchange for it rice and soap andtinned meat and a little money. Sometimes therewould be a feast in the neighbourhood, and apig would be killed. Then they would go and eatthemselves sick, and dance, and sing hymns.But the house was a long way from the village,and the Tahitians are lazy. They love to traveland they love to gossip, but they do not care towalk, and for weeks at a time Strickland and Atalived alone. He painted and he read, and in theevening, when it was dark, they sat together onthe verandah, smoking and looking at the night.Then Ata had a baby, and the old woman whocame up to help her through her trouble stayedon. Presently the granddaughter of the old207

The Moon and SixpenceChapter LIIIgame. I come to Tahiti three or four times a yearfor my business, and when he was at Papeete heTENEZ, VOILA LE CAPITAINE BRUNOT,” said Tiare, one would come here and we would play. When heday when I was fitting together what she could married” — Captain Brunot smiled and shruggedtell me of Strickland. “He knew Strickland well; his shoulders —”enfin, when he went to live withhe visited him at his house.”the girl that Tiare gave him, he asked me to goI saw a middle-aged Frenchman with a big black and see him. I was one of the guests at the weddingfeast.” He looked at Tiare, and they bothbeard, streaked with gray, a sunburned face, andlarge, shining eyes. He was dressed in a neat laughed. “He did not come much to Papeete afterthat, and about a year later it chanced that Isuit of ducks. I had noticed him at luncheon, andAh Lin, the Chinese boy, told me he had come had to go to that part of the island for I forgotfrom the Paumotus on the boat that had that what business, and when I had finished it I saidday arrived. Tiare introduced me to him, and he to myself: `Voyons, why should I not go and seehanded me his card, a large card on which was that poor Strickland?’ I asked one or two nativesif they knew anything about him, and I dis-printed Rene Brunot, and underneath, Capitaineau Long Cours. We were sitting on a little verandahoutside the kitchen, and Tiare was cutting kilometres from where I was. So I went. I shallcovered that he lived not more than fiveout a dress that she was making for one of the never forget the impression my visit made ongirls about the house. He sat down with us. me. I live on an atoll, a low island, it is a strip of“ Yes; I knew Strickland well,” he said. “I am land surrounding a lagoon, and its beauty is thevery fond of chess, and he was always glad of a beauty of the sea and sky and the varied colour208

Somerset Maughamof the lagoon and the grace of the cocoa-nut trees; sitting on her haunches smoking a pipe. Then Ibut the place where Strickland lived had the saw Ata. She was suckling a new-born child, andbeauty of the Garden of Eden. Ah, I wish I could another child, stark naked, was playing at hermake you see the enchantment of that spot, a feet. When she saw me she called out tocorner hidden away from all the world, with the Strickland, and he came to the door. He, too, woreblue sky overhead and the rich, luxuriant trees. nothing but a pareo. He was an extraordinaryIt was a feast of colour. And it was fragrant and figure, with his red beard and matted hair, andcool. Words cannot describe that paradise. And his great hairy chest. His feet were horny andhere he lived, unmindful of the world and by the scarred, so that I knew he went always bare foot.world forgotten. I suppose to European eyes it He had gone native with a vengeance. He seemedwould have seemed astonishingly sordid. The pleased to see me, and told Ata to kill a chickenhouse was dilapidated and none too clean. Three for our dinner. He took me into the house to showor four natives were lying on the verandah. You me the picture he was at work on when I cameknow how natives love to herd together. There in. In one corner of the room was the bed, and inwas a young man lying full length, smoking a the middle was an easel with the canvas upon it.cigarette, and he wore nothing but a pareo” Because I was sorry for him, I had bought a coupleThe pareo is a long strip of trade cotton, red or of his pictures for small sums, and I had sentblue, stamped with a white pattern. It is worn others to friends of mine in France. And thoughround the waist and hangs to the knees. I had bought them out of compassion, after livingwith them I began to like them. Indeed, I“A girl of fifteen, perhaps, was plaiting pandanus-leafto make a hat, and an old woman was found a strange beauty in them. Everyone209

The Moon and Sixpencethought I was mad, but it turns out that I was and as for vermin, my tough skin should be proofright. I was his first admirer in the islands.” against their malice.He smiled maliciously at Tiare, and with lamentationsshe told us again the story of how at Ata was preparing the dinner, and after we had“ We went down to the stream to bathe whilethe sale of Strickland’s effects she had neglected eaten it we sat on the verandah. We smoked andthe pictures, but bought an American stove for chatted. The young man had a concertina, andtwenty-seven francs.he played the tunes popular on the music-halls a“Have you the pictures still?” I asked.dozen years before. They sounded strangely in“ Yes; I am keeping them till my daughter is of the tropical night thousands of miles frommarriageable age, and then I shall sell them. civilisation. I asked Strickland if it did not irkThey will be her dot.” Then he went on with the him to live in that promiscuity. No, he said; heaccount of his visit to Strickland.liked to have his models under his hand. Presently,after loud yawning, the natives went away“I shall never forget the evening I spent withhim. I had not intended to stay more than an to sleep, and Strickland and I were left alone. Ihour, but he insisted that I should spend the cannot describe to you the intense silence of thenight. I hesitated, for I confess I did not much night. On my island in the Paumotus there islike the look of the mats on which he proposed never at night the complete stillness that therethat I should sleep; but I shrugged my shoulders. was here. There is the rustle of the myriad animalson the beach, all the little shelled thingsWhen I was building my house in the PaumotusI had slept out for weeks on a harder bed than that crawl about ceaselessly, and there is thethat, with nothing to shelter me but wild shrubs; noisy scurrying of the land-crabs. Now and then210

Somerset Maughamin the lagoon you hear the leaping of a fish, and I tell her. She gives me what I want from asometimes a hurried noisy splashing as a brown woman.’shark sends all the other fish scampering for their “`And do you never regret Europe? Do you notlives. And above all, ceaseless like time, is the yearn sometimes for the light of the streets indull roar of the breakers on the reef. But here Paris or London, the companionship of yourthere was not a sound, and the air was scented friends, and equals, que sais-je? for theatres andwith the white flowers of the night. It was a night newspapers, and the rumble of omnibuses on theso beautiful that your soul seemed hardly able cobbled pavements?’to bear the prison of the body. You felt that it “For a long time he was silent. Then he said:was ready to be wafted away on the immaterial “`I shall stay here till I die.’air, and death bore all the aspect of a beloved “`But are you never bored or lonely?’ I asked.friend.”“He chuckled.Tiare sighed.“`Mon pauvre ami,’ he said. `It is evident that“Ah, I wish I were fifteen again.”you do not know what it is to be an artist.’”Then she caught sight of a cat trying to get at Capitaine Brunot turned to me with a gentlea dish of prawns on the kitchen table, and with smile, and there was a wonderful look in his dark,a dexterous gesture and a lively volley of abuse kind eyes.flung a book at its scampering tail.“He did me an injustice, for I too know what it“I asked him if he was happy with Ata. is to have dreams. I have my visions too. In my“`She leaves me alone,’ he said. ‘She cooks way I also am an artist.”my food and looks after her babies. She does what We were all silent for a while, and Tiare fished211

The Moon and Sixpenceout of her capacious pocket a handful of cigarettes.She handed one to each of us, and we all shrill cries and laughter, and their bodies, brownboys bathing. They chased one another withthree smoked. At last she said:and wet, gleamed in the sunlight.“Since ce monsieur is interested in Strickland,why do you not take him to see Dr. Coutras? Hecan tell him something about his illness anddeath.”Chapter LIV“ Volontiers,” said the Captain, looking at me.I thanked him, and he looked at his watch. AS WE WALKED ALONG I reflected on a circumstance“It is past six o’clock. We should find him at which all that I had lately heard about Stricklandhome if you care to come now. ”forced on my attention. Here, on this remote island,he seemed to have aroused none of theI got up without further ado, and we walkedalong the road that led to the doctor’s house. detestation with which he was regarded at home,He lived out of the town, but the Hotel de la Fleur but compassion rather; and his vagaries werewas on the edge of it, and we were quickly in accepted with tolerance. To these people, nativethe country. The broad road was shaded by pepper-trees,and on each side were the plantations, used to queer fish, and they took him for granted;and European, he was a queer fish, but they werecocoa-nut and vanilla. The pirate birds were the world was full of odd persons, who did oddscreeching among the leaves of the palms. We things; and perhaps they knew that a man is notcame to a stone bridge over a shallow river, and what he wants to be, but what he must be. Inwe stopped for a few minutes to see the native England and France he was the square peg in212

Somerset Maughamthe round hole, but here the holes were any sort “Do you know how men can be so obsessed byof shape, and no sort of peg was quite amiss. I love that they are deaf and blind to everythingdo not think he was any gentler here, less selfishor less brutal, but the circumstances were masters as the slaves chained to the benches ofelse in the world? They are as little their ownmore favourable. If he had spent his life amid a galley. The passion that held Strickland in bondagewas no less tyrannical than love.”these surroundings he might have passed for noworse a man than another. He received here what “How strange that you should say that!” I answered.“For long ago I had the idea that he washe neither expected nor wanted among his ownpeople — sympathy.possessed of a devil.”I tried to tell Captain Brunot something of the “And the passion that held Strickland was aastonishment with which this filled me, and for passion to create beauty. It gave him no peace. Ita little while he did not answer.urged him hither and thither. He was eternally a“It is not strange that I, at all events, should pilgrim, haunted by a divine nostalgia, and thehave had sympathy for him,” he said at last, “for, demon within him was ruthless. There are menthough perhaps neither of us knew it, we were whose desire for truth is so great that to attainboth aiming at the same thing.”it they will shatter the very foundation of their“What on earth can it be that two people so world. Of such was Strickland, only beauty withdissimilar as you and Strickland could aim at?” I him took the place of truth. I could only feel forasked, smiling.him a profound compassion.”“Beauty. ”“That is strange also. A man whom he had“A large order,” I murmured.deeply wronged told me that he felt a great pity213

The Moon and Sixpencefor him.” I was silent for a moment. “I wonder if cruised the South Seas, and he determined nowthere you have found the explanation of a characterwhich has always seemed to me inexpli-in Papeete to make his plans and gain experi-to seek his fortune there. He spent some monthscable. How did you hit on it?”ence; then, on money borrowed from a friend inHe turned to me with a smile.France, he bought an island in the Paumotus. It“Did I not tell you that I, too, in my way was was a ring of land round a deep lagoon, uninhabited,and covered only with scrub and wild guava.an artist? I realised in myself the same desire asanimated him. But whereas his medium was With the intrepid woman who was his wife, andpaint, mine has been life.”a few natives, he landed there, and set aboutThen Captain Brunot told me a story which I building a house, and clearing the scrub so thatmust repeat, since, if only by way of contrast, it he could plant cocoa-nuts. That was twenty yearsadds something to my impression of Strickland. before, and now what had been a barren islandIt has also to my mind a beauty of its own. was a garden.Captain Brunot was a Breton, and had been in “It was hard and anxious work at first, and wethe French Navy. He left it on his marriage, and worked strenuously, both of us. Every day I wassettled down on a small property he had near up at dawn, clearing, planting, working on myQuimper to live for the rest of his days in peace; house, and at night when I threw myself on mybut the failure of an attorney left him suddenly bed it was to sleep like a log till morning. Mypenniless, and neither he nor his wife was willingto live in penury where they had enjoyed con-born to us, first a son and then a daughter. Mywife worked as hard as I did. Then children weresideration. During his sea faring days he had wife and I have taught them all they know. We214

Somerset Maughamhad a piano sent out from France, and she has “ You will look back on a happy life,” I said.taught them to play and to speak English, and I “ Evidemment, it is not exciting on my island,have taught them Latin and mathematics, and and we are very far from the world — imagine, itwe read history together. They can sail a boat. takes me four days to come to Tahiti — but weThey can swim as well as the natives. There is are happy there. It is given to few men to attempta work and to achieve it. Our life is simplenothing about the land of which they are ignorant.Our trees have prospered, and there is shell and innocent. We are untouched by ambition, andon my reef. I have come to Tahiti now to buy a what pride we have is due only to our contemplationof the work of our hands. Malice cannotschooner. I can get enough shell to make it worthwhile to fish for it, and, who knows? I may find touch us, nor envy attack. Ah, mon cher monsieur,they talk of the blessedness of labour, andpearls. I have made something where there wasnothing. I too have made beauty. Ah, you do not it is a meaningless phrase, but to me it has theknow what it is to look at those tall, healthy trees most intense significance. I am a happy man.”and think that every one I planted myself.” “I am sure you deserve to be,” I smiled.“Let me ask you the question that you asked “I wish I could think so. I do not know how IStrickland. Do you never regret France and your have deserved to have a wife who was the perfectfriend and helpmate, the perfect mistressold home in Brittany?”“Some day, when my daughter is married and and the perfect mother. ”my son has a wife and is able to take my place I reflected for a while on the life that the Captainsuggested to my imagination.on the island, we shall go back and finish ourdays in the old house in which I was born.” “It is obvious that to lead such an existence215

The Moon and Sixpenceand make so great a success of it, you must bothChapter LVhave needed a strong will and a determined character.”MR. COUTRAS was an old Frenchman of great statureand exceeding bulk. His body was shaped“Perhaps; but without one other factor wecould have achieved nothing.”like a huge duck’s egg; and his eyes, sharp, blue,“And what was that?”and good-natured, rested now and then with selfsatisfactionon his enormous paunch. His com-He stopped, somewhat dramatically, andstretched out his arm.plexion was florid and his hair white. He was a“Belief in God. Without that we should have man to attract immediate sympathy. He receivedbeen lost.”us in a room that might have been in a house in aThen we arrived at the house of Dr. Coutras. provincial town in France, and the one or twoPolynesian curios had an odd look. He took myhand in both of his — they were huge — and gaveme a hearty look, in which, however, was greatshrewdness. When he shook hands with CapitaineBrunot he enquired politely after Madame et lesenfants. For some minutes there was an exchangeof courtesies and some local gossip about the island,the prospects of copra and the vanilla crop;then we came to the object of my visit.I shall not tell what Dr. Coutras related to me in216

Somerset Maughamhis words, but in my own, for I cannot hope to one what was wrong with her, and was told thatgive at second hand any impression of his vivaciousdelivery. He had a deep, resonant voice, fit-visit a white man who was sick. They had toldshe had come down from the hills to ask him toted to his massive frame, and a keen sense of the her that the doctor could not be disturbed. Hedramatic. To listen to him was, as the phrase goes, called her, and himself asked what she wanted.as good as a play; and much better than most. She told him that Ata had sent her, she who usedIt appears that Dr. Coutras had gone one day to be at the Hotel de la Fleur, and that the Redto Taravao in order to see an old chiefess who One was ill. She thrust into his hand a crumpledwas ill, and he gave a vivid picture of the obese piece of newspaper, and when he opened it heold lady, lying in a huge bed, smoking cigarettes, found in it a hundred-franc note.and surrounded by a crowd of dark-skinned retainers.When he had seen her he was taken into bystanders.“Who is the Red One?” he asked of one of theanother room and given dinner — raw fish, fried He was told that that was what they called thebananas, and chicken — que sais-je, the typical Englishman, a painter, who lived with Ata up indinner of the indigene — and while he was eatingit he saw a young girl being driven away from were. He recognised Strickland by the descrip-the valley seven kilometres from where theythe door in tears. He thought nothing of it, but tion. But it was necessary to walk. It was impossiblefor him to go; that was why they had sentwhen he went out to get into his trap and drivehome, he saw her again, standing a little way the girl away.off; she looked at him with a woebegone air, and “I confess,” said the doctor, turning to me,tears streamed down her cheeks. He asked some-“that I hesitated. I did not relish fourteen217

The Moon and Sixpencekilometres over a bad pathway, and there was drink or I shall die of thirst,” he cried out. “Pourno chance that I could get back to Papeete that l’amour de Dieu, get me a cocoa-nut.”night. Besides, Strickland was not sympathetic She called out, and a boy came running along.to me. He was an idle, useless scoundrel, who He swarmed up a tree, and presently threw downpreferred to live with a native woman rather than a ripe nut. Ata pierced a hole in it, and the doctortook a long, refreshing draught. Then hework for his living like the rest of us. Mon Dieu,how was I to know that one day the world would rolled himself a cigarette and felt in a bettercome to the conclusion that he had genius? I humour.asked the girl if he was not well enough to have “Now, where is the Red One?” he asked.come down to see me. I asked her what she “He is in the house, painting. I have not toldthought was the matter with him. She would not him you were coming. Go in and see him.”answer. I pressed her, angrily perhaps, but she “But what does he complain of? If he is welllooked down on the ground and began to cry. enough to paint, he is well enough to have comeThen I shrugged my shoulders; after all, perhaps down to Taravao and save me this confounded walk.it was my duty to go, and in a very bad temper I I presume my time is no less valuable than his.”bade her lead the way. ”Ata did not speak, but with the boy followedHis temper was certainly no better when he him to the house. The girl who had brought himarrived, perspiring freely and thirsty. Ata was was by this time sitting on the verandah, andon the look-out for him, and came a little way here was lying an old woman, with her back toalong the path to meet him.the wall, making native cigarettes. Ata pointed“Before I see anyone give me something to to the door. The doctor, wondering irritably why218

Somerset Maughamthey behaved so strangely, entered, and there nothing; it will pass off. Next time anyone wentfound Strickland cleaning his palette. There was to Papeete I was going to send for some quinine.”a picture on the easel. Strickland, clad only in a “Look at yourself in the glass.”pareo, was standing with his back to the door, Strickland gave him a glance, smiled, and wentbut he turned round when he heard the sound over to a cheap mirror in a little wooden frame,of boots. He gave the doctor a look of vexation. that hung on the wall.He was surprised to see him, and resented the “ Well?”intrusion. But the doctor gave a gasp, he was “Do you not see a strange change in your face?rooted to the floor, and he stared with all his eyes. Do you not see the thickening of your featuresThis was not what he expected. He was seized and a look — how shall I describe it? — the bookswith horror.call it lion-faced. Mon pauvre ami, must I tell you“ You enter without ceremony,” said Strickland. that you have a terrible disease?”“What can I do for you?”“I?”The doctor recovered himself, but it required “When you look at yourself in the glass youquite an effort for him to find his voice. All his see the typical appearance of the leper. ”irritation was gone, and he felt — eh bien, oui, je “ You are jesting,” said Strickland.ne le nie pas — he felt an overwhelming pity. “I wish to God I were.”“I am Dr. Coutras. I was down at Taravao to “Do you intend to tell me that I have leprosy?”see the chiefess, and Ata sent for me to see you.” “Unfortunately, there can be no doubt of it.”“She’s a damned fool. I have had a few aches Dr. Coutras had delivered sentence of death onand pains lately and a little fever, but that’s many men, and he could never overcome the219

The Moon and Sixpencehorror with which it filled him. He felt always ues for twenty years. It is a mercy when it runsthe furious hatred that must seize a man condemnedwhen he compared himself with the doc-Strickland went to his easel and looked reflec-its course quickly. ”tor, sane and healthy, who had the inestimable tively at the picture that stood on it.privilege of life. Strickland looked at him in silence.Nothing of emotion could be seen on his the bearer of important tidings should be re-“ You have had a long journey. It is fitting thatface, disfigured already by the loathsome disease. warded. Take this picture. It means nothing to“Do they know?” he asked at last, pointing to you now, but it may be that one day you will bethe persons on the verandah, now sitting in unusual,unaccountable silence.Dr. Coutras protested that he needed no pay-glad to have it.”“These natives know the signs so well,” said ment for his journey; he had already given backthe doctor. “They were afraid to tell you.” to Ata the hundred-franc note, but StricklandStrickland stepped to the door and looked out. insisted that he should take the picture. ThenThere must have been something terrible in his together they went out on the verandah. Theface, for suddenly they all burst out into loud natives were sobbing violently. “Be quiet,cries and lamentation. They lifted up their voices woman. Dry thy tears,” said Strickland, addressingAta. “There is no great harm. I shall leaveand they wept. Strickland did not speak. Afterlooking at them for a moment, he came back into thee very soon.”the room.“They are not going to take thee away?” she“How long do you think I can last?”cried.“Who knows? Sometimes the disease contin-At that time there was no rigid sequestration220

Somerset Maughamon the islands, and lepers, if they chose, were For a moment Strickland’s fortitude wasallowed to go free.shaken, and a tear filled each of his eyes and“I shall go up into the mountain,” said trickled slowly down his cheeks. Then he gaveStrickland.the sardonic smile which was usual with him.Then Ata stood up and faced him.“ Women are strange little beasts,” he said to“Let the others go if they choose, but I will not Dr. Coutras. “You can treat them like dogs, youleave thee. Thou art my man and I am thy can beat them till your arm aches, and still theywoman. If thou leavest me I shall hang myself love you.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Of course,on the tree that is behind the house. I swear it it is one of the most absurd illusions of Christianitythat they have souls.”by God.”There was something immensely forcible in the “What is it that thou art saying to the doctor?”way she spoke. She was no longer the meek, soft asked Ata suspiciously. “Thou wilt not go?”native girl, but a determined woman. She was “If it please thee I will stay, poor child.”extraordinarily transformed.Ata flung herself on her knees before him, and“Why shouldst thou stay with me? Thou canst clasped his legs with her arms and kissed them.go back to Papeete, and thou wilt soon find anotherwhite man. The old woman can take care “In the end they get you, and you are helplessStrickland looked at Dr. Coutras with a faint smile.of thy children, and Tiare will be glad to have in their hands. White or brown, they are all thethee back.”same.”“Thou art my man and I am thy woman. Dr. Coutras felt that it was absurd to offer expressionsof regret in so terrible a disaster, Whither thou goest I will go, too.”and221

The Moon and Sixpencehe took his leave. Strickland told Tane, the boy, that part of the island for a long time. I had noto lead him to the village. Dr. Coutras paused for news of Strickland. Once or twice I heard thata moment, and then he addressed himself to me. Ata had been to Papeete to buy painting materials,but I did not happen to see her. More than“I did not like him, I have told you he was notsympathetic to me, but as I walked slowly down two years passed before I went to Taravao again,to Taravao I could not prevent an unwilling admirationfor the stoical courage which enabled I asked them whether they had heard anythingand then it was once more to see the old chiefess.him to bear perhaps the most dreadful of human of Strickland. By now it was known everywhereafflictions. When Tane left me I told him I would that he had leprosy. First Tane, the boy, had leftsend some medicine that might be of service; the house, and then, a little time afterwards, thebut my hope was small that Strickland would old woman and her grandchild. Strickland andconsent to take it, and even smaller that, if he Ata were left alone with their babies. No onedid, it would do him good. I gave the boy a messagefor Ata that I would come whenever she natives have a very lively horror of the disease,went near the plantation, for, as you know, thesent for me. Life is hard, and Nature takes sometimesa terrible delight in torturing her children. sufferer was killed; but sometimes, when theand in the old days when it was discovered theIt was with a heavy heart that I drove back to village boys were scrambling about the hills, theymy comfortable home in Papeete.”would catch sight of the white man, with hisFor a long time none of us spoke.great red beard, wandering about. They fled in“But Ata did not send for me,” the doctor went terror. Sometimes Ata would come down to theon, at last, “and it chanced that I did not go to village at night and arouse the trader, so that he222

Somerset Maughammight sell her various things of which she stood hesitate, and he felt that invisible forces barredin need. She knew that the natives looked upon his way. Unseen hands seemed to draw him back.her with the same horrified aversion as they No one would go near now to gather the cocoanuts,and they lay rotting on the ground. Every-looked upon Strickland, and she kept out of theirway. Once some women, venturing nearer than where was desolation. The bush was encroaching,and it looked as though very soon the pri-usual to the plantation, saw her washing clothesin the brook, and they threw stones at her. After meval forest would regain possession of that stripthat the trader was told to give her the message of land which had been snatched from it at thethat if she used the brook again men would come cost of so much labour. He had the sensation thatand burn down her house.”here was the abode of pain. As he approached“Brutes,” I said.the house he was struck by the unearthly silence,“ Mais non, mon cher monsieur, men are always and at first he thought it was deserted. Then hethe same. Fear makes them cruel.... I decided to saw Ata. She was sitting on her haunches in thesee Strickland, and when I had finished with the lean-to that served her as kitchen, watching somechiefess asked for a boy to show me the way. But mess cooking in a pot. Near her a small boy wasnone would accompany me, and I was forced to playing silently in the dirt. She did not smilefind it alone.”when she saw him.When Dr. Coutras arrived at the plantation he “I have come to see Strickland,” he said.was seized with a feeling of uneasiness. Though “I will go and tell him.”he was hot from walking, he shivered. There was She went to the house, ascended the few stepssomething hostile in the air which made him that led to the verandah, and entered. Dr. Coutras223

The Moon and Sixpencefollowed her, but waited outside in obedience to “This is a terrible life for you, my poor child.”her gesture. As she opened the door he smelt Then at last she smiled, and there was in herthe sickly sweet smell which makes the eyes a look of superhuman love. Dr. Coutras wasneighbourhood of the leper nauseous. He heard startled by it, and amazed. And he was awed.her speak, and then he heard Strickland’s answer,but he did not recognise the voice. It had “He is my man,” she said.He found nothing to say.become hoarse and indistinct. Dr. Coutras raised “Where is your other child?” he asked. “Whenhis eyebrows. He judged that the disease had I was here last you had two.”already attacked the vocal chords. Then Ata came “ Yes; it died. We buried it under the mango.”out again.When Ata had gone with him a little way she“He will not see you. You must go away. ” said she must turn back. Dr. Coutras surmisedDr. Coutras insisted, but she would not let him she was afraid to go farther in case she met anypass. Dr. Coutras shrugged his shoulders, and of the people from the village. He told her againafter a moment’s rejection turned away. She that if she wanted him she had only to send andwalked with him. He felt that she too wanted to he would come at once.be rid of him.“Is there nothing I can do at all?” he asked.“ You can send him some paints,” she said.“There is nothing else he wants.”“Can he paint still?”“He is painting the walls of the house.”224

Somerset MaughamChapter LVIin order to avoid the hornet-nests that hung onthe trees over his head. The silence was intense.THEN TWO YEARS more went by, or perhaps three, It was with a sigh of relief that at last he camefor time passes imperceptibly in Tahiti, and it is upon the little unpainted house, extraordinarilyhard to keep count of it; but at last a message bedraggled now, and unkempt; but here too waswas brought to Dr. Coutras that Strickland was the same intolerable silence. He walked up, anddying. Ata had waylaid the cart that took the a little boy, playing unconcernedly in the sunshine,started at his approach and fled quicklymail into Papeete, and besought the man whodrove it to go at once to the doctor. But the doctorwas out when the summons came, and it was Coutras had a sense that the child was stealthilyaway: to him the stranger was the enemy. Dr.evening when he received it. It was impossible watching him from behind a tree. The door wasto start at so late an hour, and so it was not till wide open. He called out, but no one answered.next day soon after dawn that he set out. He He stepped in. He knocked at a door, but againarrived at Taravao, and for the last time tramped there was no answer. He turned the handle andthe seven kilometres that led to Ata’s house. The entered. The stench that assailed him turned himpath was overgrown, and it was clear that for horribly sick. He put his handkerchief to his noseyears now it had remained all but untrodden. It and forced himself to go in. The light was dim,was not easy to find the way. Sometimes he had and after the brilliant sunshine for a while heto stumble along the bed of the stream, and sometimeshe had to push through shrubs, dense and not make out where he was. He seemed on acould see nothing. Then he gave a start. He couldthorny; often he was obliged to climb over rocks sudden to have entered a magic world. He had a225

The Moon and Sixpencevague impression of a great primeval forest and and the delight which a man might feel whoof naked people walking beneath the trees. Then watched the beginning of a world. It was tremendous,sensual, passionate; and yet there washe saw that there were paintings on the walls.“ Mon Dieu, I hope the sun hasn’t affected me,” something horrible there, too, something whichhe muttered.made him afraid. It was the work of a man whoA slight movement attracted his attention, and had delved into the hidden depths of nature andhe saw that Ata was lying on the floor, sobbing had discovered secrets which were beautiful andquietly.fearful too. It was the work of a man who knew“Ata,” he called. “Ata.”things which it is unholy for men to know. ThereShe took no notice. Again the beastly stench was something primeval there and terrible. Italmost made him faint, and he lit a cheroot. His was not human. It brought to his mind vagueeyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and now recollections of black magic. It was beautiful andhe was seized by an overwhelming sensation as obscene.he stared at the painted walls. He knew nothing “ Mon Dieu, this is genius.”of pictures, but there was something about these The words were wrung from him, and he didthat extraordinarily affected him. From floor to not know he had spoken.ceiling the walls were covered with a strange Then his eyes fell on the bed of mats in theand elaborate composition. It was indescribably corner, and he went up, and he saw the dreadful,mutilated, ghastly object which had beenwonderful and mysterious. It took his breathaway. It filled him with an emotion which he Strickland. He was dead. Dr. Coutras made ancould not understand or analyse. He felt the awe effort of will and bent over that battered horror.226

Somerset MaughamThen he started violently, and terror blazed inChapter LVIIhis heart, for he felt that someone was behindhim. It was Ata. He had not heard her get up. AT THAT MOMENT we were interrupted by the appearanceof Madame Coutras, who had been pay-She was standing at his elbow, looking at whathe looked at.ing visits. She came in, like a ship in full sail, an“Good Heavens, my nerves are all distraught,” imposing creature, tall and stout, with an amplehe said. “You nearly frightened me out of my bust and an obesity girthed in alarmingly bywits.”straight-fronted corsets. She had a bold hookedHe looked again at the poor dead thing that nose and three chins. She held herself upright.had been man, and then he started back in dismayingcharm of the tropics, but contrariwise wasShe had not yielded for an instant to the enervat-“But he was blind.”more active, more worldly, more decided than“ Yes; he had been blind for nearly a year. ” anyone in a temperate clime would have thoughtit possible to be. She was evidently a copious talker,and now poured forth a breathless stream of anecdoteand comment. She made the conversationwe had just had seem far away and unreal.Presently Dr. Coutras turned to me.“I still have in my bureau the picture thatStrickland gave me,” he said. “Would you like tosee it?”227

The Moon and Sixpence“Willingly. ”“I scarcely know. It was strange and fantastic.We got up, and he led me on to the verandah It was a vision of the beginnings of the world,which surrounded his house. We paused to look the Garden of Eden, with Adam and Eve — queat the gay flowers that rioted in his garden. sais-je? — it was a hymn to the beauty of the“For a long time I could not get out of my head human form, male and female, and the praise ofthe recollection of the extraordinary decoration Nature, sublime, indifferent, lovely, and cruel. Itwith which Strickland had covered the walls of gave you an awful sense of the infinity of spacehis house,” he said reflectively.and of the endlessness of time. Because heI had been thinking of it, too. It seemed to me painted the trees I see about me every day, thethat here Strickland had finally put the whole cocoa-nuts, the banyans, the flamboyants, theexpression of himself. Working silently, knowing alligator-pears, I have seen them ever since differently,as though there were in them a spiritthat it was his last chance, I fancied that here hemust have said all that he knew of life and all and a mystery which I am ever on the point ofthat he divined. And I fancied that perhaps here seizing and which forever escapes me. Thehe had at last found peace. The demon which colours were the colours familiar to me, and yetpossessed him was exorcised at last, and with they were different. They had a significancethe completion of the work, for which all his life which was all their own. And those nude menhad been a painful preparation, rest descended and women. They were of the earth, and yeton his remote and tortured soul. He was willing apart from it. They seemed to possess somethingto die, for he had fulfilled his purpose.of the clay of which they were created, and at“What was the subject?” I asked.the same time something divine. You saw man228

Somerset Maughamin the nakedness of his primeval instincts, and what it was. It made me uneasy. It gave me theyou were afraid, for you saw yourself.”impression you get when you are sitting nextDr. Coutras shrugged his shoulders and smiled. door to a room that you know is empty, but in“ You will laugh at me. I am a materialist, and I which, you know not why, you have a dreadfulam a gross, fat man — Falstaff, eh? — the lyrical consciousness that notwithstanding there ismode does not become me. I make myself ridiculous.But I have never seen painting which made your nerves — and yet, and yet... In a little whilesomeone. You scold yourself; you know it is onlyso deep an impression upon me. Tenez, I had just it is impossible to resist the terror that seizesthe same feeling as when I went to the Sistine you, and you are helpless in the clutch of an unseenhorror. Yes; I confess I was not altogetherChapel in Rome. There too I was awed by thegreatness of the man who had painted that ceiling.It was genius, and it was stupendous and pieces had been destroyed.”sorry when I heard that those strange master-overwhelming. I felt small and insignificant. But “Destroyed?” I cried.you are prepared for the greatness of Michael “ Mais oui; did you not know?”Angelo. Nothing had prepared me for the immensesurprise of these pictures in a native hut, of this work; but I thought perhaps it had fallen“How should I know? It is true I had never heardfar away from civilisation, in a fold of the mountainabove Taravao. And Michael Angelo is sane is no certain list of Strickland’s paintings.”into the hands of a private owner. Even now thereand healthy. Those great works of his have the “When he grew blind he would sit hour aftercalm of the sublime; but here, notwithstanding hour in those two rooms that he had painted, lookingat his works with sightless eyes, and beauty, was something troubling. I do not knowseeing,229

The Moon and Sixpenceperhaps, more than he had ever seen in his life me. She had promised. I would not stay to witnessthe barbarous deed, and it was only after-before. Ata told me that he never complained ofhis fate, he never lost courage. To the end his mind wards that I heard what she had done. Sheremained serene and undisturbed. But he made poured paraffin on the dry floors and on the pandanus-mats,and then she set fire. In a little whileher promise that when she had buried him — didI tell you that I dug his grave with my own hands, nothing remained but smouldering embers, andfor none of the natives would approach the infectedhouse, and we buried him, she and I, sewn “I think Strickland knew it was a masterpiece.a great masterpiece existed no longer.up in three pareos joined together, under the He had achieved what he wanted. His life wasmango-tree — he made her promise that she would complete. He had made a world and saw that itset fire to the house and not leave it till it was was good. Then, in pride and contempt, he destroyed,it.”burned to the ground and not a stick remained.”I did not speak for a while, for I was thinking. “But I must show you my picture,” said Dr.Then I said:Coutras, moving on.“He remained the same to the end, then.” “What happened to Ata and the child?”“Do you understand? I must tell you that I They went to the Marquesas. She had relationsthought it my duty to dissuade her. ”there. I have heard that the boy works on one of“Even after what you have just said?”Cameron’s schooners. They say he is very like“ Yes; for I knew that here was a work of genius,and I did not think we had the right to de-At the door that led from the verandah to thehis father in appearance.”prive the world of it. But Ata would not listen to doctor’s consulting-room, he paused and smiled.230

Somerset Maugham“It is a fruit-piece. You would think it not a very terious life; there were purples, horrible like rawsuitable picture for a doctor’s consulting-room, and putrid flesh, and yet with a glowing, sensualpassion that called up vague memories ofbut my wife will not have it in the drawing-room.She says it is frankly obscene.”the Roman Empire of Heliogabalus; there were“A fruit-piece!” I exclaimed in surprise. reds, shrill like the berries of holly — one thoughtWe entered the room, and my eyes fell at once of Christmas in England, and the snow, the goodon the picture. I looked at it for a long time. cheer, and the pleasure of children — and yet byIt was a pile of mangoes, bananas, oranges, and some magic softened till they had the swooningI know not what. and at first sight it was an innocentpicture enough. It would have been yellows that died with an unnatural passion intotenderness of a dove’s breast; there were deeppassed in an exhibition of the Post-Impressionistsby a careless person as an excellent but not the sparkling water of a mountain brook. Whoa green as fragrant as the spring and as pure asvery remarkable example of the school; but perhapsafterwards it would come back to his recol-They belonged to a Polynesian garden of thecan tell what anguished fancy made these fruits?lection, and he would wonder why. I do not think Hesperides. There was something strangely alivethen he could ever entirely forget it.in them, as though they were created in a stageThe colours were so strange that words can of the earth’s dark history when things werehardly tell what a troubling emotion they gave. not irrevocably fixed to their forms. They wereThey were sombre blues, opaque like a delicately extravagantly luxurious. They were heavy withcarved bowl in lapis lazuli, and yet with a quiveringlustre that suggested the palpitation of mysbrepassion of their own. It was enchantedtropical odours. They seemed to possess a som-fruit,231

The Moon and Sixpenceto taste which might open the gateway to GodChapter LVIIIknows what secrets of the soul and to mysteriouspalaces of the imagination. They were sullenwith unawaited dangers, and to eat them cording to the gracious custom of the island, pre-THE TIME CAME for my departure from Tahiti. Ac-might turn a man to beast or god. All that was sents were given me by the persons with whomhealthy and natural, all that clung to happy relationshipsand the simple joys of simple men, the leaves of the cocoa-nut tree, mats of panda-I had been thrown in contact — baskets made ofshrunk from them in dismay; and yet a fearful nus, fans; and Tiare gave me three little pearlsattraction was in them, and, like the fruit on the and three jars of guava-jelly made with her ownTree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil they were plump hands. When the mail-boat, stopping forterrible with the possibilities of the Unknown. twenty-four hours on its way from Wellington toAt last I turned away. I felt that Strickland had San Francisco, blew the whistle that warned thekept his secret to the grave.passengers to get on board, Tiare clasped me to“ Voyons, Rene, mon ami,” came the loud, cheerfulvoice of Madame Coutras, “what are you do-billowy sea, and pressed her red lips to mine.her vast bosom, so that I seemed to sink into aing all this time? Here are the aperitifs. Ask Tears glistened in her eyes. And when weMonsieur if he will not drink a little glass of QuinquinaDubonnet.”way gingerly through the opening in the reef,steamed slowly out of the lagoon, making our“ Volontiers, Madame,” I said, going out on to and then steered for the open sea, a certain melancholyfell upon me. The breeze was laden stillthe verandah.The spell was broken.with the pleasant odours of the land. Tahiti is232

Somerset Maughamvery far away, and I knew that I should never black gown was modish. I remembered havingsee it again. A chapter of my life was closed, and heard that her sister, Mrs. MacAndrew, outlivingher husband but a couple of years, had leftI felt a little nearer to inevitable death.money to Mrs. Strickland; and by the look of theNOT MUCH MORE than a month later I was in London;and after I had arranged certain matters judged that it was a sum adequate to keep thehouse and the trim maid who opened the door Iwhich claimed my immediate attention, thinkingMrs. Strickland might like to hear what I When I was ushered into the drawing-room Iwidow in modest comfort.knew of her husband’s last years, I wrote to her. found that Mrs. Strickland had a visitor, and whenI had not seen her since long before the war, and I discovered who he was, I guessed that I hadI had to look out her address in the telephonebook.She made an appointment, and I went to intention. The caller was Mr. Van Busche Taylor,been asked to come at just that time not withoutthe trim little house on Campden Hill which she an American, and Mrs. Strickland gave me particularswith a charming smile of apology to him.now inhabited. She was by this time a woman ofhard on sixty, but she bore her years well, and “ You know, we English are so dreadfully ignorant.You must forgive me if it’s necessary tono one would have taken her for more than fifty.Her face, thin and not much lined, was of the explain.” Then she turned to me. “Mr. Vansort that ages gracefully, so that you thought in Busche Taylor is the distinguished Americanyouth she must have been a much handsomer critic. If you haven’t read his book your educationhas been shamefully neglected, and youwoman than in fact she was. Her hair, not yetvery gray, was becomingly arranged, and her must repair the omission at once. He’s writing233

The Moon and Sixpencesomething about dear Charlie, and he’s come posed upon her, were due to the dreams of a poorto ask me if I can help him.”painter in a South Sea island. She gave me theMr. Van Busche Taylor was a very thin man with answer herself.a large, bald head, bony and shining; and under “What wonderful cushions you have,” said Mr.the great dome of his skull his face, yellow, with Van Busche Taylor.deep lines in it, looked very small. He was quiet “Do you like them?” she said, smiling. “Bakst,and exceedingly polite. He spoke with the accent you know. ”of New England, and there was about his And yet on the walls were coloured reproductionsof several of Strickland’s best pictures, duedemeanour a bloodless frigidity which made meask myself why on earth he was busying himself to the enterprise of a publisher in Berlin.with Charles Strickland. I had been slightly tickledat the gentleness which Mrs. Strickland put lowing my eyes. “Of course, the originals are out“ You’re looking at my pictures,” she said, fol-into her mention of her husband’s name, and of my reach, but it’s a comfort to have these.while the pair conversed I took stock of the room The publisher sent them to me himself. They’rein which we sat. Mrs. Strickland had moved with a great consolation to me.”the times. Gone were the Morris papers and gone “They must be very pleasant to live with,” saidthe severe cretonnes, gone were the Arundel Mr. Van Busche Taylor.prints that had adorned the walls of her “ Yes; they’re so essentially decorative.”drawingroom in Ashley Gardens; the room blazed “That is one of my profoundest convictions,”with fantastic colour, and I wondered if she knew said Mr. Van Busche Taylor. “Great art is alwaysthat those varied hues, which fashion had im-decorative.”234

Somerset MaughamTheir eyes rested on a nude woman suckling a the door closed behind him. “Of course it’s ababy, while a girl was kneeling by their side holdingout a flower to the indifferent child. Looking give people any information I can about Charlie.nuisance sometimes, but I feel it’s only right toover them was a wrinkled, scraggy hag. It was There’s a certain responsibility about havingStrickland’s version of the Holy Family. I suspectedthat for the figures had sat his household She looked at me with those pleasant eyes ofbeen the wife of a genius.”above Taravao, and the woman and the baby hers, which had remained as candid and as sympatheticas they had been more than twentywere Ata and his first son. I asked myself if Mrs.Strickland had any inkling of the facts.years before. I wondered if she was making aThe conversation proceeded, and I marvelled fool of me.at the tact with which Mr. Van Busche Taylor “Of course you’ve given up your business,” Iavoided all subjects that might have been in the said.least embarrassing, and at the ingenuity with “Oh, yes,” she answered airily. “I ran it morewhich Mrs. Strickland, without saying a word by way of a hobby than for any other reason,that was untrue, insinuated that her relations and my children persuaded me to sell it. Theywith her husband had always been perfect. At thought I was overtaxing my strength.”last Mr. Van Busche Taylor rose to go. Holding I saw that Mrs. Strickland had forgotten thathis hostess’ hand, he made her a graceful, she had ever done anything so disgraceful as tothough perhaps too elaborate, speech of thanks, work for her living. She had the true instinct ofand left us.the nice woman that it is only really decent for“I hope he didn’t bore you,” she said, when her to live on other people’s money.235

The Moon and Sixpence“They’re here now,” she said. “I thought I remembered my anticipation long ago thatthey’d, like to hear what you had to say about she would marry a soldier. It was inevitable. Shetheir father. You remember Robert, don’t you? had all the graces of the soldier’s wife. She wasI’m glad to say he’s been recommended for the civil and affable, but she could hardly concealMilitary Cross.”her intimate conviction that she was not quiteShe went to the door and called them. There as others were. Robert was breezy.entered a tall man in khaki, with the parson’s “It’s a bit of luck that I should be in Londoncollar, handsome in a somewhat heavy fashion, when you turned up,” he said. “I’ve only gotbut with the frank eyes that I remembered in three days’ leave.”him as a boy. He was followed by his sister. She “He’s dying to get back,” said his mother.must have been the same age as was her mother “ Well, I don’t mind confessing it, I have a rattlinggood time at the front. I’ve made a lot ofwhen first I knew her, and she was very like her.She too gave one the impression that as a girl good pals. It’s a first-rate life. Of course war’sshe must have been prettier than indeed she was. terrible, and all that sort of thing; but it does“I suppose you don’t remember them in the bring out the best qualities in a man, there’s noleast,” said Mrs. Strickland, proud and smiling. denying that.”“My daughter is now Mrs. Ronaldson. Her Then I told them what I had learned abouthusband’s a Major in the Gunners.”Charles Strickland in Tahiti. I thought it unnecessaryto say anything of Ata and her boy, but“He’s by way of being a pukka soldier, youknow,” said Mrs. Ronaldson gaily. “That’s why for the rest I was as accurate as I could be. Whenhe’s only a Major. ”I had narrated his lamentable death I ceased.236

Somerset MaughamFor a minute or two we were all silent. Then dance wildly, to the wheezy music of theRobert Strickland struck a match and lit a cigarette.and all about the desert of the Pacific Ocean.concertina. Above was the blue sky, and the stars,“The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind A quotation from the Bible came to my lips,exceeding small,” he said, somewhat impressively.think it a little blasphemous when the laity poachbut I held my tongue, for I know that clergymenMrs. Strickland and Mrs. Ronaldson looked upon their preserves. My Uncle Henry, for twentysevenyears Vicar of Whitstable, was on thesedown with a slightly pious expression which indicated,I felt sure, that they thought the quotationwas from Holy Writ. Indeed, I was could always quote scripture to his purpose. Heoccasions in the habit of saying that the devilunconvinced that Robert Strickland did not share remembered the days when you could get thirteenRoyal Natives for a shilling.their illusion. I do not know why I suddenlythought of Strickland’s son by Ata. They hadtold me he was a merry, light-hearted youth. Isaw him, with my mind’s eye, on the schooneron which he worked, wearing nothing but a pairof dungarees; and at night, when the boat sailedalong easily before a light breeze, and the sailorswere gathered on the upper deck, while the captainand the supercargo lolled in deck-chairs, smokingtheir pipes, I saw him dance with another lad,237

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