The Moon and Sixpence

Chapter XXV
P
RESENTLY
WE
LEFT
HIM
. Dirk was going home to din-
ner, and I proposed to find a doctor and bring
him to see Strickland; but when we got down
into the street, fresh after the stuffy attic, the
Dutchman begged me to go immediately to his
studio. He had something in mind which he
would not tell me, but he insisted that it was
very necessary for me to accompany him. Since
I did not think a doctor could at the moment do
any more than we had done, I consented. We
found Blanche Stroeve laying the table for din-
ner. Dirk went up to her, and took both her hands.
“Dear one, I want you to do something for me,”
he said.
She looked at him with the grave cheerfulness
which was one of her charms. His red face was
shining with sweat, and he had a look of comic
agitation, but there was in his round, surprised
eyes an eager light.
“Strickland is very ill. He may be dying. He is
alone in a filthy attic, and there is not a soul to
look after him. I want you to let me bring him
here.”
She withdrew her hands quickly, I had never
seen her make so rapid a movement; and her
cheeks flushed.
“Oh no.”
“Oh, my dear one, don’t refuse. I couldn’t bear
to leave him where he is. I shouldn’t sleep a
wink for thinking of him.”
“I have no objection to your nursing him.”
Her voice was cold and distant.
“But he’ll die.”
“Let him.”
Stroeve gave a little gasp. He wiped his face.
He turned to me for support, but I did not know
what to say.
“He’s a great artist.”
“What do I care? I hate him.”
“Oh, my love, my precious, you don’t mean

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

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

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

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Somerset Maugham
someone a good turn when you have the
chance?”
The words were ordinary enough, and to my
mind there was in them something so hortatory
that I almost smiled. I was astonished at the ef-
fect they had on Blanche Stroeve. She started a
little, and gave her husband a long look. His eyes
were fixed on the ground. I did not know why he
seemed embarrassed. A faint colour came into
her cheeks, and then her face became white —
more than white, ghastly; you felt that the blood
had shrunk away from the whole surface of her
body; and even her hands were pale. A shiver
passed through her. The silence of the studio
seemed to gather body, so that it became an al-
most palpable presence. I was bewildered.
“Bring Strickland here, Dirk. I’ll do my best
for him.”
“My precious,” he smiled.
He wanted to take her in his arms, but she
avoided him.
“Don’t be affectionate before strangers, Dirk,”
she said. “It makes me feel such a fool.”
Her manner was quite normal again, and no
one could have told that so shortly before she
had been shaken by such a great emotion.

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The Moon and Sixpence