The Moon and Sixpence

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

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

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

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Somerset Maugham
For the present he seemed quite lost. He had
made no plans. When I suggested that he should
go to bed he said he could not sleep; he wanted
to go out and walk about the streets till day. He
was evidently in no state to be left alone. I per-
suaded him to stay the night with me, and I put
him into my own bed. I had a divan in my sit-
ting-room, and could very well sleep on that. He
was by now so worn out that he could not resist
my firmness. I gave him a sufficient dose of
veronal to insure his unconsciousness for several
hours. I thought that was the best service I could
render him.