The Moon and Sixpence
impression he made upon me. It was not exactly spirituality that was
obvious, though the screen of the flesh seemed almost transparent,
because there was in his face an outrageous sensuality; but, though it
sounds nonsense, it seemed as though his sensuality were curiously
spiritual. There was in him something primitive. He seemed to partake
of those obscure forces of nature which the Greeks personified in
shapes part human and part beast, the satyr and the faun. I thought of
Marsyas, whom the god flayed because he had dared to rival him in song.
Strickland seemed to bear in his heart strange harmonies and
unadventured patterns, and I foresaw for him an end of torture and
despair. I had again the feeling that he was possessed of a devil; but
you could not say that it was a devil of evil, for it was a primitive
force that existed before good and ill.
He was still too weak to paint, and he sat in the studio, silent,
occupied with God knows what dreams, or reading. The books he liked
were queer; sometimes I would find him poring over the poems of
Mallarme, and he read them as a child reads, forming the words with his
lips, and I wondered what strange emotion he got from those subtle
cadences and obscure phrases; and again I found him absorbed in the
detective novels of Gaboriau. I amused myself by thinking that in his
choice of books he showed pleasantly the irreconcilable sides of his
fantastic nature. It was singular to notice that even in the weak state
of his body he had no thought for its comfort. Stroeve liked his ease,
and in his studio were a couple of heavily upholstered arm-chairs and a
large divan. Strickland would not go near them, not from any
affectation of stoicism, for I found him seated on a three-legged stool
when I went into the studio one day and he was alone, but because he
did not like them. For choice he sat on a kitchen chair without arms.
It often exasperated me to see him. I never knew a man so entirely
indifferent to his surroundings.
Chapter XXVII
Two or three weeks passed. One morning, having come to a pause in my
work, I thought I would give myself a holiday, and I went to the
Louvre. I wandered about looking at the pictures I knew so well, and
let my fancy play idly with the emotions they suggested. I sauntered
into the long gallery, and there suddenly saw Stroeve. I smiled, for
his appearance, so rotund and yet so startled, could never fail to
excite a smile, and then as I came nearer I noticed that he seemed
singularly disconsolate. He looked woebegone and yet ridiculous, like a
man who has fallen into the water with all his clothes on, and, being
rescued from death, frightened still, feels that he only looks a fool.
Turning round, he stared at me, but I perceived that he did not see me.
His round blue eyes looked harassed behind his glasses.
“Stroeve,” I said.
He gave a little start, and then smiled, but his smile was rueful.
“Why are you idling in this disgraceful fashion?” I asked gaily.
“It’s a long time since I was at the Louvre. I thought I’d come and see
if they had anything new.”
“But you told me you had to get a picture finished this week.”
“Strickland’s painting in my studio.”
“Well?”
“I suggested it myself. He’s not strong enough to go back to his own
place yet. I thought we could both paint there. Lots of fellows in the
Quarter share a studio. I thought it would be fun. I’ve always thought
it would be jolly to have someone to talk to when one was tired of
work.”
He said all this slowly, detaching statement from statement with a
little awkward silence, and he kept his kind, foolish eyes fixed on
mine. They were full of tears.
“I don’t think I understand,” I said.
“Strickland can’t work with anyone else in the studio.”
“Damn it all, it’s your studio. That’s his lookout.”
He looked at me pitifully. His lips were trembling.
“What happened?” I asked, rather sharply.
He hesitated and flushed. He glanced unhappily at one of the pictures
on the wall.
“He wouldn’t let me go on painting. He told me to get out.”
“But why didn’t you tell him to go to hell?”
“He turned me out. I couldn’t very well struggle with him. He threw my
hat after me, and locked the door.”
I was furious with Strickland, and was indignant with myself, because
Dirk Stroeve cut such an absurd figure that I felt inclined to laugh.
“But what did your wife say?”
“She’d gone out to do the marketing.”
“Is he going to let her in?”
“I don’t know.”
I gazed at Stroeve with perplexity. He stood like a schoolboy with whom
a master is finding fault.
“Shall I get rid of Strickland for you?” I asked.
He gave a little start, and his shining face grew very red.
“No. You’d better not do anything.”
He nodded to me and walked away. It was clear that for some reason he
did not want to discuss the matter. I did not understand.
Chapter XXVIII
The explanation came a week later. It was about ten o’ clock at night;
I had been dining by myself at a restaurant, and having returned to my
small apartment, was sitting in my parlour, reading I heard the cracked
tinkling of the bell, and, going into the corridor, opened the door.
Stroeve stood before me.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
In the dimness of the landing I could not see him very well, but there
was something in his voice that surprised me. I knew he was of
abstemious habit or I should have thought he had been drinking. I led
the way into my sitting room and asked him to sit down.
“Thank God I’ve found you,” he said.
“What’s the matter?” I asked in astonishment at his vehemence.
I was able now to see him well. As a rule he was neat in his person,
but now his clothes were in disorder. He looked suddenly bedraggled. I
was convinced he had been drinking, and I smiled. I was on the point of
chaffing him on his state.
“I didn’t know where to go,” he burst out. “I came here earlier, but
you weren’t in.”
“I dined late,” I said.
I changed my mind: it was not liquor that had driven him to this
obvious desperation. His face, usually so rosy, was now strangely
mottled. His hands trembled.
“Has anything happened?” I asked.
“My wife has left me.”
He could hardly get the words out. He gave a little gasp, and the tears
began to trickle down his round cheeks. I did not know what to say. My
first thought was that she had come to the end of her forbearance with
his infatuation for Strickland, and, goaded by the latter’s cynical
behaviour, had insisted that he should be turned out. I knew her
capable of temper, for all the calmness of her manner; and if Stroeve
still refused, she might easily have flung out of the studio with vows
never to return. But the little man was so distressed that I could not
smile.
“My dear fellow, don’t be unhappy. She’ll come back. You mustn’t take
very seriously what women say when they’re in a passion.”
“You don’t understand. She’s in love with Strickland.”
“What!” I was startled at this, but the idea had no sooner taken
possession of me than I saw it was absurd. “How can you be so silly?
You don’t mean to say you’re jealous of Strickland?” I almost laughed.
“You know very well that she can’t bear the sight of him.”
“You don’t understand,” he moaned.
“You’re an hysterical ass,” I said a little impatiently. “Let me give
you a whisky-and-soda, and you’ll feel better.”
I supposed that for some reason or other—and Heaven knows what
ingenuity men exercise to torment themselves—Dirk had got it into his
head that his wife cared for Strickland, and with his genius for
blundering he might quite well have offended her so that, to anger him,
perhaps, she had taken pains to foster his suspicion.
“Look here,” I said, “let’s go back to your studio. If you’ve made a
fool of yourself you must eat humble pie. Your wife doesn’t strike me
as the sort of woman to bear malice.”
“How can I go back to the studio?” he said wearily. “They’re there.
I’ve left it to them.”
“Then it’s not your wife who’s left you; it’s you who’ve left your
wife.”
“For God’s sake don’t talk to me like that.”
Still I could not take him seriously. I did not for a moment believe
what he had told me. But he was in very real distress.
“Well, you’ve come here to talk to me about it. You’d better tell me
the whole story.”
“This afternoon I couldn’t stand it any more. I went to Strickland and
told him I thought he was quite well enough to go back to his own
place. I wanted the studio myself.”
“No one but Strickland would have needed telling,” I said. “What did he
say?”
“He laughed a little; you know how he laughs, not as though he were
amused, but as though you were a damned fool, and said he’d go at once.
He began to put his things together. You remember I fetched from his
room what I thought he needed, and he asked Blanche for a piece of
paper and some string to make a parcel.”
Stroeve stopped, gasping, and I thought he was going to faint. This was
not at all the story I had expected him to tell me.
“She was very pale, but she brought the paper and the string. He didn’t
say anything. He made the parcel and he whistled a tune. He took no
notice of either of us. His eyes had an ironic smile in them. My heart
was like lead. I was afraid something was going to happen, and I wished
I hadn’t spoken. He looked round for his hat. Then she spoke:
“‘I’m going with Strickland, Dirk,’ she said. ‘I can’t live with you
any more.’
“I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Strickland didn’t say
anything. He went on whistling as though it had nothing to do with
him.”
Stroeve stopped again and mopped his face. I kept quite still. I
believed him now, and I was astounded. But all the same I could not
understand.
Then he told me, in a trembling voice, with the tears pouring down his
cheeks, how he had gone up to her, trying to take her in his arms, but
she had drawn away and begged him not to touch her. He implored her not
to leave him. He told her how passionately he loved her, and reminded
her of all the devotion he had lavished upon her. He spoke to her of
the happiness of their life. He was not angry with her. He did not
reproach her.
“Please let me go quietly, Dirk,” she said at last. “Don’t you
understand that I love Strickland? Where he goes I shall go.”
“But you must know that he’ll never make you happy. For your own sake
don’t go. You don’t know what you’ve got to look forward to.”
“It’s your fault. You insisted on his coming here.”
He turned to Strickland.
“Have mercy on her,” he implored him. “You can’t let her do anything so
mad.”
“She can do as she chooses,” said Strickland. “She’s not forced to
come.”
“My choice is made,” she said, in a dull voice.
Strickland’s injurious calm robbed Stroeve of the rest of his
self-control. Blind rage seized him, and without knowing what he was
doing he flung himself on Strickland. Strickland was taken by surprise
and he staggered, but he was very strong, even after his illness, and
in a moment, he did not exactly know how, Stroeve found himself on the
floor.
“You funny little man,” said Strickland.
Stroeve picked himself up. He noticed that his wife had remained
perfectly still, and to be made ridiculous before her increased his
humiliation. His spectacles had tumbled off in the struggle, and he
could not immediately see them. She picked them up and silently handed
them to him. He seemed suddenly to realise his unhappiness, and though
he knew he was making himself still more absurd, he began to cry. He
hid his face in his hands. The others watched him without a word. They
did not move from where they stood.
“Oh, my dear,” he groaned at last, “how can you be so cruel?”
“I can’t help myself, Dirk,” she answered.
“I’ve worshipped you as no woman was ever worshipped before. If in