The Moon and Sixpence

Chapter XX
D
IRK
S
TROEVE
agreed to fetch me on the following
evening and take me to the cafe at which
Strickland was most likely to be found. I was in-
terested to learn that it was the same as that at
which Strickland and I had drunk absinthe when
I had gone over to Paris to see him. The fact that
he had never changed suggested a sluggishness
of habit which seemed to me characteristic.
“There he is,” said Stroeve, as we reached the
cafe.
Though it was October, the evening was warm,
and the tables on the pavement were crowded. I
ran my eyes over them, but did not see
Strickland.
“Look. Over there, in the corner. He’s playing
chess.”
I noticed a man bending over a chess-board,
but could see only a large felt hat and a red beard.
We threaded our way among the tables till we
came to him.
“Strickland.”
He looked up.
“Hulloa, fatty. What do you want?”
“I’ve brought an old friend to see you.”
Strickland gave me a glance, and evidently did
not recognise me. He resumed his scrutiny of the
chessboard.
“Sit down, and don’t make a noise,” he said.
He moved a piece and straightway became ab-
sorbed in the game. Poor Stroeve gave me a
troubled look, but I was not disconcerted by so
little. I ordered something to drink, and waited
quietly till Strickland had finished. I welcomed
the opportunity to examine him at my ease. I
certainly should never have known him. In the
first place his red beard, ragged and untrimmed,
hid much of his face, and his hair was long; but
the most surprising change in him was his ex-
treme thinness. It made his great nose protrude
more arrogantly; it emphasized his cheekbones;

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The Moon and Sixpence
it made his eyes seem larger. There were deep
hollows at his temples. His body was cadaver-
ous. He wore the same suit that I had seen him
in five years before; it was torn and stained,
threadbare, and it hung upon him loosely, as
though it had been made for someone else. I
noticed his hands, dirty, with long nails; they
were merely bone and sinew, large and strong;
but I had forgotten that they were so shapely.
He gave me an extraordinary impression as he
sat there, his attention riveted on his game — an
impression of great strength; and I could not
understand why it was that his emaciation some-
how made it more striking.
Presently, after moving, he leaned back and
gazed with a curious abstraction at his antago-
nist. This was a fat, bearded Frenchman. The
Frenchman considered the position, then broke
suddenly into jovial expletives, and with an im-
patient gesture, gathering up the pieces, flung
them into their box. He cursed Strickland freely,
then, calling for the waiter, paid for the drinks,
and left. Stroeve drew his chair closer to the table.
“Now I suppose we can talk,” he said.
Strickland’s eyes rested on him, and there was
in them a malicious expression. I felt sure he was
seeking for some gibe, could think of none, and
so was forced to silence.
“I’ve brought an old friend to see you,” re-
peated Stroeve, beaming cheerfully.
Strickland looked at me thoughtfully for nearly
a minute. I did not speak.
“I’ve never seen him in my life,” he said.
I do not know why he said this, for I felt cer-
tain I had caught a gleam of recognition in his
eyes. I was not so easily abashed as I had been
some years earlier.
“I saw your wife the other day,” I said. “I felt
sure you’d like to have the latest news of her. ”
He gave a short laugh. His eyes twinkled.
“ We had a jolly evening together,” he said.
“How long ago is it?”

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81
Somerset Maugham
“Five years.”
He called for another absinthe. Stroeve, with
voluble tongue, explained how he and I had met,
and by what an accident we discovered that we
both knew Strickland. I do not know if Strickland
listened. He glanced at me once or twice reflec-
tively, but for the most part seemed occupied with
his own thoughts; and certainly without
Stroeve’s babble the conversation would have
been difficult. In half an hour the Dutchman, look-
ing at his watch, announced that he must go. He
asked whether I would come too. I thought, alone,
I might get something out of Strickland, and so
answered that I would stay.
When the fat man had left I said:
“Dirk Stroeve thinks you’re a great artist.”
“What the hell do you suppose I care?”
“Will you let me see your pictures?”
“Why should I?”
“I might feel inclined to buy one.”
“I might not feel inclined to sell one.”
“Are you making a good living?” I asked, smiling.
He chuckled.
“Do I look it?”
“ You look half starved.”
“I am half starved.”
“Then come and let’s have a bit of dinner. ”
“Why do you ask me?”
“Not out of charity,” I answered coolly. “I don’t
really care a twopenny damn if you starve or
not.”
His eyes lit up again.
“Come on, then,” he said, getting up. “I’d like
a decent meal.”

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The Moon and Sixpence