The Moon and Sixpence

Chapter XXXIV
B
UT
THOUGH
I was no less convinced than Stroeve
that the connection between Strickland and
Blanche would end disastrously, I did not expect
the issue to take the tragic form it did. The sum-
mer came, breathless and sultry, and even at
night there was no coolness to rest one’s jaded
nerves. The sun-baked streets seemed to give back
the heat that had beat down on them during the
day, and the passers-by dragged their feet along
them wearily. I had not seen Strickland for weeks.
Occupied with other things, I had ceased to think
of him and his affairs. Dirk, with his vain lamen-
tations, had begun to bore me, and I avoided his
society. It was a sordid business, and I was not
inclined to trouble myself with it further.
One morning I was working. I sat in my
Pyjamas. My thoughts wandered, and I thought
of the sunny beaches of Brittany and the fresh-
ness of the sea. By my side was the empty bowl
in which the concierge had brought me my 
cafe
au lait and the fragment of croissant which I had
not had appetite enough to eat. I heard the con-
cierge in the next room emptying my bath. There
was a tinkle at my bell, and I left her to open the
door. In a moment I heard Stroeve’s voice ask-
ing if I was in. Without moving, I shouted to him
to come. He entered the room quickly, and came
up to the table at which I sat.
“She’s killed herself,” he said hoarsely.
“What do you mean?” I cried, startled.
He made movements with his lips as though
he were speaking, but no sound issued from
them. He gibbered like an idiot. My heart
thumped against my ribs, and, I do not know
why, I flew into a temper.
“For God’s sake, collect yourself, man,” I said.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
He made despairing gestures with his hands,
but still no words came from his mouth. He might
have been struck dumb. I do not know what came

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over me; I took him by the shoulders and shook
him. Looking back, I am vexed that I made such
a fool of myself; I suppose the last restless nights
had shaken my nerves more than I knew.
“Let me sit down,” he gasped at length.
I filled a glass with St. Galmier, and gave it to
him to drink. I held it to his mouth as though he
were a child. He gulped down a mouthful, and
some of it was spilt on his shirt-front.
“Who’s killed herself?”
I do not know why I asked, for I knew whom
he meant. He made an effort to collect himself.
“They had a row last night. He went away. ”
“Is she dead?”
“No; they’ve taken her to the hospital.”
“Then what are you talking about?” I cried im-
patiently. “Why did you say she’d killed her-
self?”
“Don’t be cross with me. I can’t tell you any-
thing if you talk to me like that.”
I clenched my hands, seeking to control my ir-
ritation. I attempted a smile.
“ I ’ m s o r r y. Take your time. Don’t hurry,
there’s a good fellow. ”
His round blue eyes behind the spectacles were
ghastly with terror. The magnifying-glasses he
wore distorted them.
“When the concierge went up this morning to
take a letter she could get no answer to her ring.
She heard someone groaning. The door wasn’t
locked, and she went in. Blanche was lying on
the bed. She’d been frightfully sick. There was
a bottle of oxalic acid on the table.”
Stroeve hid his face in his hands and swayed
backwards and forwards, groaning.
“ Was she conscious?”
“ Yes. Oh, if you knew how she’s suffering! I
can’t bear it. I can’t bear it.”
His voice rose to a shriek.
“Damn it all, you haven’t got to bear it,” I
cried impatiently. “She’s got to bear it.”
“How can you be so cruel?”

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“What have you done?”
“They sent for a doctor and for me, and they
told the police. I’d given the concierge twenty
francs, and told her to send for me if anything
happened.”
He paused a minute, and I saw that what he
had to tell me was very hard to say.
“When I went she wouldn’t speak to me. She
told them to send me away. I swore that I for-
gave her everything, but she wouldn’t listen.
She tried to beat her head against the wall. The
doctor told me that I mustn’t remain with her.
She kept on saying, `Send him away!’ I went,
and waited in the studio. And when the ambu-
lance came and they put her on a stretcher, they
made me go in the kitchen so that she shouldn’t
know I was there.”
While I dressed — for Stroeve wished me to go
at once with him to the hospital — he told me
that he had arranged for his wife to have a pri-
vate room, so that she might at least be spared
the sordid promiscuity of a ward. On our way he
explained to me why he desired my presence; if
she still refused to see him, perhaps she would
see me. He begged me to repeat to her that he
loved her still; he would reproach her for noth-
ing, but desired only to help her; he made no
claim on her, and on her recovery would not seek
to induce her to return to him; she would be per-
fectly free.
But when we arrived at the hospital, a gaunt,
cheerless building, the mere sight of which was
enough to make one’s heart sick, and after be-
ing directed from this official to that, up endless
stairs and through long, bare corridors, found
the doctor in charge of the case, we were told
that the patient was too ill to see anyone that
day. The doctor was a little bearded man in white,
with an offhand manner. He evidently looked
upon a case as a case, and anxious relatives as a
nuisance which must be treated with firmness.
Moreover, to him the affair was commonplace; it

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was just an hysterical woman who had quarrelled
with her lover and taken poison; it was constantly
happening. At first he thought that Dirk was the
cause of the disaster, and he was needlessly
brusque with him. When I explained that he was
the husband, anxious to forgive, the doctor
looked at him suddenly, with curious, searching
eyes. I seemed to see in them a hint of mockery;
it was true that Stroeve had the head of the hus-
band who is deceived. The doctor faintly
shrugged his shoulders.
“There is no immediate danger,” he said, in
answer to our questioning. “One doesn’t know
how much she took. It may be that she will get
off with a fright. Women are constantly trying
to commit suicide for love, but generally they
take care not to succeed. It’s generally a ges-
ture to arouse pity or terror in their lover. ”
There was in his tone a frigid contempt. It was
obvious that to him Blanche Stroeve was only a
unit to be added to the statistical list of at-
tempted suicides in the city of Paris during the
current year. He was busy, and could waste no
more time on us. He told us that if we came at a
certain hour next day, should Blanche be better,
it might be possible for her husband to see her.

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