The Moon and Sixpence

Chapter XXIII
I 
SAW
S
TRICKLAND
not infrequently, and now and
then played chess with him. He was of uncer-
tain temper. Sometimes he would sit silent and
abstracted, taking no notice of anyone; and at
others, when he was in a good humour, he would
talk in his own halting way. He never said a clever
thing, but he had a vein of brutal sarcasm which
was not ineffective, and he always said exactly
what he thought. He was indifferent to the sus-
ceptibilities of others, and when he wounded
them was amused. He was constantly offending
Dirk Stroeve so bitterly that he flung away, vow-
ing he would never speak to him again; but there
was a solid force in Strickland that attracted the
fat Dutchman against his will, so that he came
back, fawning like a clumsy dog, though he knew
that his only greeting would be the blow he
dreaded.
I do not know why Strickland put up with me.
Our relations were peculiar. One day he asked
me to lend him fifty francs.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied.
“Why not?”
“It wouldn’t amuse me.”
“I’m frightfully hard up, you know. ”
“I don’t care.”
“ You don’t care if I starve?”
“Why on earth should I?” I asked in my turn.
He looked at me for a minute or two, pulling
his untidy beard. I smiled at him.
“What are you amused at?” he said, with a
gleam of anger in his eyes.
“ You’re so simple. You recognise no obligations.
No one is under any obligation to you.”
“ Wouldn’t it make you uncomfortable if I went
and hanged myself because I’d been turned out
of my room as I couldn’t pay the rent?”
“Not a bit.”
He chuckled.
“ You’re bragging. If I really did you’d be over-

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The Moon and Sixpence
whelmed with remorse.”
“ Try it, and we’ll see,” I retorted.
A smile flickered in his eyes, and he stirred his
absinthe in silence.
“ Would you like to play chess?” I asked.
“I don’t mind.”
We set up the pieces, and when the board was
ready he considered it with a comfortable eye.
There is a sense of satisfaction in looking at your
men all ready for the fray.
“Did you really think I’d lend you money?” I
asked.
“I didn’t see why you shouldn’t.”
“ You surprise me.”
“Why?”
“It’s disappointing to find that at heart you
are sentimental. I should have liked you better
if you hadn’t made that ingenuous appeal to my
sympathies.”
“I should have despised you if you’d been
moved by it,” he answered.
“That’s better,” I laughed.
We began to play. We were both absorbed in
the game. When it was finished I said to him:
“Look here, if you’re hard up, let me see your
pictures. If there’s anything I like I’ll buy it.”
“Go to hell,” he answered.
He got up and was about to go away. I stopped
him.
“ You haven’t paid for your absinthe,” I said,
smiling.
He cursed me, flung down the money and left.
I did not see him for several days after that,
but one evening, when I was sitting in the cafe,
reading a paper, he came up and sat beside me.
“ You haven’t hanged yourself after all,” I re-
marked.
“No. I’ve got a commission. I’m painting the por-
trait of a retired plumber for two hundred francs.”
*
*This picture, formerly in the possession of a wealthy
manufacturer at Lille, who fled from that city on the
approach of the Germans, is now in the National
Gallery at Stockholm. The Swede is adept at the
gentle pastime of fishing in troubled waters.

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93
Somerset Maugham
“How did you manage that?”
“The woman where I get my bread recom-
mended me. He’d told her he was looking out
for someone to paint him. I’ve got to give her
twenty francs.”
“What’s he like?”
“Splendid. He’s got a great red face like a leg
of mutton, and on his right cheek there’s an enor-
mous mole with long hairs growing out of it.”
Strickland was in a good humour, and when
Dirk Stroeve came up and sat down with us he
attacked him with ferocious banter. He showed
a skill I should never have credited him with in
finding the places where the unhappy Dutchman
was most sensitive. Strickland employed not the
rapier of sarcasm but the bludgeon of invective.
The attack was so unprovoked that Stroeve, taken
unawares, was defenceless. He reminded you of
a frightened sheep running aimlessly hither and
thither. He was startled and amazed. At last the
tears ran from his eyes. And the worst of it was
that, though you hated Strickland, and the exhi-
bition was horrible, it was impossible not to laugh.
Dirk Stroeve was one of those unlucky persons
whose most sincere emotions are ridiculous.
But after all when I look back upon that winter
in Paris, my pleasantest recollection is of Dirk
Stroeve. There was something very charming in
his little household. He and his wife made a pic-
ture which the imagination gratefully dwelt
upon, and the simplicity of his love for her had a
deliberate grace. He remained absurd, but the
sincerity of his passion excited one’s sympathy.
I could understand how his wife must feel for
him, and I was glad that her affection was so
tender. If she had any sense of humour, it must
amuse her that he should place her on a pedes-
tal and worship her with such an honest idola-
try, but even while she laughed she must have
been pleased and touched. He was the constant
lover, and though she grew old, losing her
rounded lines and her fair comeliness, to him she

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94
The Moon and Sixpence
would certainly never alter. To him she would
always be the loveliest woman in the world.
There was a pleasing grace in the orderliness of
their lives. They had but the studio, a bedroom,
and a tiny kitchen. Mrs. Stroeve did all the house-
work herself; and while Dirk painted bad pic-
tures, she went marketing, cooked the luncheon,
sewed, occupied herself like a busy ant all the
day; and in the evening sat in the studio, sewing
again, while Dirk played music which I am sure
was far beyond her comprehension. He played
with taste, but with more feeling than was al-
ways justified, and into his music poured all his
honest, sentimental, exuberant soul.
Their life in its own way was an idyl, and it man-
aged to achieve a singular beauty. The absurdity
that clung to everything connected with Dirk
Stroeve gave it a curious note, like an unresolved
discord, but made it somehow more modern, more
human; like a rough joke thrown into a serious scene,
it heightened the poignancy which all beauty has.