The Moon and Sixpence

Chapter XVII
I
T
WAS
ABOUT
FIVE
YEARS
after this that I decided to
live in Paris for a while. I was growing stale in
London. I was tired of doing much the same thing
every day. My friends pursued their course with
uneventfulness; they had no longer any surprises
for me, and when I met them I knew pretty well
what they would say; even their love-affairs had
a tedious banality. We were like tram-cars run-
ning on their lines from terminus to terminus,
and it was possible to calculate within small lim-
its the number of passengers they would carry.
Life was ordered too pleasantly. I was seized with
panic. I gave up my small apartment, sold my
few belongings, and resolved to start afresh.
I called on Mrs. Strickland before I left. I had
not seen her for some time, and I noticed changes
in her; it was not only that she was older, thin-
ner, and more lined; I think her character had
altered. She had made a success of her business,

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

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69
Somerset Maugham
She hesitated a minute.
“If he’s in any real want I’m prepared to help
him a little. I’d send you a certain sum of money,
and you could give it him gradually, as he needed
it.”
“That’s very good of you,” I said.
But I knew it was not kindness that prompted
the offer. It is not true that suffering ennobles
the character; happiness does that sometimes,
but suffering, for the most part, makes men petty
and vindictive.