The Moon and Sixpence

Chapter XXIV
S
HORTLY
BEFORE
Christmas Dirk Stroeve came to
ask me to spend the holiday with him. He had a
characteristic sentimentality about the day and
wanted to pass it among his friends with suit-
able ceremonies. Neither of us had seen
Strickland for two or three weeks — I because I
had been busy with friends who were spending
a little while in Paris, and Stroeve because, hav-
ing quarreled with him more violently than usual,
he had made up his mind to have nothing more
to do with him. Strickland was impossible, and
he swore never to speak to him again. But the
season touched him with gentle feeling, and he
hated the thought of Strickland spending Christ-
mas Day by himself; he ascribed his own emo-
tions to him, and could not bear that on an occa-
sion given up to good-fellowship the lonely
painter should be abandoned to his own melan-
choly. Stroeve had set up a Christmas-tree in his

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studio, and I suspected that we should both find
absurd little presents hanging on its festive
branches; but he was shy about seeing Strickland
again; it was a little humiliating to forgive so
easily insults so outrageous, and he wished me
to be present at the reconciliation on which he
was determined.
We walked together down the Avenue de Clichy,
but Strickland was not in the cafe. It was too
cold to sit outside, and we took our places on
leather benches within. It was hot and stuffy, and
the air was gray with smoke. Strickland did not
come, but presently we saw the French painter
who occasionally played chess with him. I had
formed a casual acquaintance with him, and he
sat down at our table. Stroeve asked him if he
had seen Strickland.
“He’s ill,” he said. “Didn’t you know?”
“Seriously?”
“ Very, I understand.”
Stroeve’s face grew white.
“Why didn’t he write and tell me? How stu-
pid of me to quarrel with him. We must go to
him at once. He can have no one to look after
him. Where does he live?”
“I have no idea,” said the Frenchman.
We discovered that none of us knew how to find
him. Stroeve grew more and more distressed.
“He might die, and not a soul would know any-
thing about it. It’s dreadful. I can’t bear the
thought. We must find him at once.”
I tried to make Stroeve understand that it was
absurd to hunt vaguely about Paris. We must first
think of some plan.
“ Yes; but all this time he may be dying, and
when we get there it may be too late to do any-
thing.”
“Sit still and let us think,” I said impatiently.
The only address I knew was the Hotel des
Belges, but Strickland had long left that, and they
would have no recollection of him. With that
queer idea of his to keep his whereabouts secret,

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The Moon and Sixpence
it was unlikely that, on leaving, he had said
where he was going. Besides, it was more than
five years ago. I felt pretty sure that he had not
moved far. If he continued to frequent the same
cafe as when he had stayed at the hotel, it was
probably because it was the most convenient.
Suddenly I remembered that he had got his com-
mission to paint a portrait through the baker
from whom he bought his bread, and it struck
me that there one might find his address. I called
for a directory and looked out the bakers. There
were five in the immediate neighbourhood, and
the only thing was to go to all of them. Stroeve
accompanied me unwillingly. His own plan was
to run up and down the streets that led out of
the Avenue de Clichy and ask at every house if
Strickland lived there. My commonplace scheme
was, after all, effective, for in the second shop
we asked at the woman behind the counter ac-
knowledged that she knew him. She was not cer-
tain where he lived, but it was in one of the three
houses opposite. Luck favoured us, and in the
first we tried the concierge told us that we should
find him on the top floor.
“It appears that he’s ill,” said Stroeve.
“It may be,” answered the concierge indiffer-
ently. “
En effet, I have not seen him for several
days.”
Stroeve ran up the stairs ahead of me, and when
I reached the top floor I found him talking to a
workman in his shirt-sleeves who had opened a
door at which Stroeve had knocked. He pointed
to another door. He believed that the person who
lived there was a painter. He had not seen him
for a week. Stroeve made as though he were
about to knock, and then turned to me with a
gesture of helplessness. I saw that he was panic-
stricken.
“Supposing he’s dead?”
“Not he,” I said.
I knocked. There was no answer. I tried the
handle, and found the door unlocked. I walked

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in, and Stroeve followed me. The room was in
darkness. I could only see that it was an attic,
with a sloping roof; and a faint glimmer, no more
than a less profound obscurity, came from a sky-
light.
“Strickland,” I called.
There was no answer. It was really rather mys-
terious, and it seemed to me that Stroeve, stand-
ing just behind, was trembling in his shoes. For
a moment I hesitated to strike a light. I dimly
perceived a bed in the corner, and I wondered
whether the light would disclose lying on it a
dead body.
“Haven’t you got a match, you fool?”
Strickland’s voice, coming out of the darkness,
harshly, made me start.
Stroeve cried out.
“Oh, my God, I thought you were dead.”
I struck a match, and looked about for a candle.
I had a rapid glimpse of a tiny apartment, half
room, half studio, in which was nothing but a
bed, canvases with their faces to the wall, an
easel, a table, and a chair. There was no carpet
on the floor. There was no fire-place. On the table,
crowded with paints, palette-knives, and litter
of all kinds, was the end of a candle. I lit it.
Strickland was lying in the bed, uncomfortably
because it was too small for him, and he had put
all his clothes over him for warmth. It was obvi-
ous at a glance that he was in a high fever.
Stroeve, his voice cracking with emotion, went
up to him.
“Oh, my poor friend, what is the matter with
you? I had no idea you were ill. Why didn’t you
let me know? You must know I’d have done any-
thing in the world for you. Were you thinking of
what I said? I didn’t mean it. I was wrong. It
was stupid of me to take offence.”
“Go to hell,” said Strickland.
“Now, be reasonable. Let me make you com-
fortable. Haven’t you anyone to look after you?”
He looked round the squalid attic in dismay.

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The Moon and Sixpence
He tried to arrange the bed-clothes. Strickland,
breathing laboriously, kept an angry silence. He
gave me a resentful glance. I stood quite quietly,
looking at him.
“If you want to do something for me, you can
get me some milk,” he said at last. “I haven’t
been able to get out for two days.” There was an
empty bottle by the side of the bed, which had
contained milk, and in a piece of newspaper a
few crumbs.
“What have you been having?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“For how long?” cried Stroeve. “Do you mean
to say you’ve had nothing to eat or drink for
two days? It’s horrible.”
“I’ve had water. ”
His eyes dwelt for a moment on a large can
within reach of an outstretched arm.
“I’ll go immediately,” said Stroeve. “Is there
anything you fancy?”
I suggested that he should get a thermometer,
and a few grapes, and some bread. Stroeve, glad
to make himself useful, clattered down the stairs.
“Damned fool,” muttered Strickland.
I felt his pulse. It was beating quickly and fee-
bly. I asked him one or two questions, but he
would not answer, and when I pressed him he
turned his face irritably to the wall. The only
thing was to wait in silence. In ten minutes
Stroeve, panting, came back. Besides what I had
suggested, he brought candles, and meat-juice,
and a spirit-lamp. He was a practical little fellow,
and without delay set about making bread-and-
milk. I took Strickland’s temperature. It was a
hundred and four. He was obviously very ill.

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