The Moon and Sixpence

Chapter XXII
I 
SETTLED
DOWN
in Paris and began to write a play.
I led a very regular life, working in the morning,
and in the afternoon lounging about the gardens
of the Luxembourg or sauntering through the
streets. I spent long hours in the Louvre, the most
friendly of all galleries and the most convenient
for meditation; or idled on the quays, fingering
second-hand books that I never meant to buy. I
read a page here and there, and made acquain-
tance with a great many authors whom I was
content to know thus desultorily. In the evenings
I went to see my friends. I looked in often on the
Stroeves, and sometimes shared their modest
fare. Dirk Stroeve flattered himself on his skill
in cooking Italian dishes, and I confess that his
spaghetti were very much better than his pic-
tures. It was a dinner for a King when he brought
in a huge dish of it, succulent with tomatoes,
and we ate it together with the good household

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

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The Moon and Sixpence
them if I could. But really —” He shrugged his
shoulders. “I’m interested in the young men,
but 
voyons, you yourself, Monsieur Stroeve, you
don’t think there’s any talent there.”
“I give you my word of honour, there’s no one
painting to-day in whose talent I am more con-
vinced. Take my word for it, you are missing a
good affair. Some day those pictures will be worth
more than all you have in your shop. Remember
Monet, who could not get anyone to buy his pic-
tures for a hundred francs. What are they worth
now?”
“ True. But there were a hundred as good paint-
ers as Monet who couldn’t sell their pictures at
that time, and their pictures are worth nothing
still. How can one tell? Is merit enough to bring
success? Don’t believe it. 
Du reste, it has still to
be proved that this friend of yours has merit. No
one claims it for him but Monsieur Stroeve.”
“And how, then, will you recognise merit?”
asked Dirk, red in the face with anger.
“There is only one way — by success.”
“Philistine,” cried Dirk.
“But think of the great artists of the past —
Raphael, Michael Angelo, Ingres, Delacroix —
they were all successful.”
“Let us go,” said Stroeve to me, “or I shall kill
this man.”

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