The Moon and Sixpence

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

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109
Somerset Maugham
“Strickland can’t work with anyone else in the
studio.”
“Damn it all, it’s your studio. That’s his look-
out.”
He looked at me pitifully. His lips were trem-
bling.
“What happened?” I asked, rather sharply.
He hesitated and flushed. He glanced unhap-
pily at one of the pictures on the wall.
“He wouldn’t let me go on painting. He told
me to get out.”
“But why didn’t you tell him to go to hell?”
“He turned me out. I couldn’t very well
struggle with him. He threw my hat after me,
and locked the door. ”
I was furious with Strickland, and was indig-
nant with myself, because Dirk Stroeve cut such
an 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?”
“I don’t know. ”
I gazed at Stroeve with perplexity. He stood like
a schoolboy with whom a master is finding fault.
“Shall I get rid of Strickland for you?” I asked.
He gave a little start, and his shining face grew
very red.
“No. You’d better not do anything.”
He nodded to me and walked away. It was clear
that for some reason he did not want to discuss
the matter. I did not understand.

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110
The Moon and Sixpence