1. I confess that when I first made acquaintance with Charles Strickland, I never for a moment discerned that there was in him anything out of the ordinary, yet now few will be found to deny his greatness. I do not speak of that greatness which is achieved by the fortunate politician or the successful soldier, that is a quality which belongs to the place he occupies rather than to the man, and a change of circumstances reduces it to very discreet proportions. The prime minister out of office is seen too often to have been but a pompous retortation, and the general without an army is but the tame hero of a market town. The greatness of Charles Strickland was authentic. It may be that you do not like his art, but at all events you can hardly refuse it the tribute of your interest. He disturbs and arrests. The time has passed when he was an object of ridicule, and it is no longer a mark of eccentricity to defend or of perversity to extol him. His faults are accepted as the necessary compliment to his merits. It is still possible to discuss his place in art, and the adulation of his admirers is perhaps no less capricious than the disparagement of his detractors. But one thing can never be doubtful, and that is that he had genius. To my mind the most interesting thing in art is the personality of the artist, and if that is singular I am willing to excuse a thousand faults. I suppose Velazquez was a better painter than El Greco, but custom stales one's admiration for him. The Cretan, sensual and tragic, proffers the mystery of his soul like a standing sacrifice. The artist, painter, poet, or musician by his decorations sublime or beautiful satisfies the aesthetic sense. But that is akin to the sexual instinct and shares its barbarity. He lays before you the greater gift of himself. To pursue his secret has something of the fascination of a detective story. It is a riddle which shares with the universe the merit of having no answer. The most insignificant of Strickland's work suggests a personality which is strange, tormented, and complex, and it is this surely which prevents even those who do not like his pictures from being indifferent to them. It is this which has excited so curious an interest in his life and character. It was not till four years after Strickland's death that Maurice Huret wrote an article in the Mercure de France which rescued the unknown painter from Oblivion and blazed the trail which succeeding writers with more or less docility have followed. For a long time no critic has enjoyed in France a more incontestable authority, and it was impossible not to be impressed by the claims he made. They seemed extravagant, but later judgments have confirmed his estimate, and the reputation of Charles Strickland is now firmly established on the lines which he laid down. The rise of his reputation is one of the most romantic incidents in the history of art, but I do not propose to deal with Charles Strickland's work except in so far as it touches upon his character. I cannot agree with the painters who claim superciliously that the layman can understand nothing of painting, and that he can best show his appreciation of their works by silence and a check-book. It is a grotesque misapprehension which sees in art no more than a craft comprehensible perfectly only to the craftsmen. Art is a manifestation of emotion, and emotion speaks a language that all may understand. But I will allow that the critic who has not the practical knowledge of technique is seldom able to say anything on the subject of real value, and my ignorance of painting is extreme. Fortunately there is no need for me to risk the adventure since my friend Mr. Edward Leggett, an able writer as well as an admirable painter, has exhaustively discussed Charles Strickland's work in The Little Book. A modern artist notes on the work of Charles Strickland by Edward Leggett, A. R. H. A., Martin Secker, 1917, which is a charming example of style for the most part, less happily cultivated in England than in France. Maurice Huret in his famous article gave an outline of Charles Strickland's life, which was well calculated to whet the appetites of the inquiring. With his disinterested passion for art, he had a real desire to call the attention of the wise to a talent which was in the highest degree original, but he was too good a journalist to be unaware that the human interest would enable him more easily to affect his purpose. And when such as had come in contact with Strickland in the past, writers who had known him in London, painters who had met him in the cafés of Montmartre, discovered to their amazement that where they had seen but an unsuccessful artist like another, authentic genius had rubbed shoulders with them. There began to appear in the magazines of France and America a succession of articles, the reminiscences of one, the appreciation of another, which added to Strickland's notoriety, and fed, without satisfying the curiosity of the public. The subject was grateful, and the industrious Weitbrecht Rothold's in his imposing monograph, Charles Strickland's Sein Leben und Sein Kunst by Hugo Weitbrecht-Lothold's, Ph.D., Schweinkel und Hanitsch, Leipzig, 1914, has been able to give a remarkable list of authorities. The faculty for myth is innate in the human race. It seizes with avidity upon any incidents, surprising or mysterious, in the career of those who have at all distinguished themselves from their fellows, and invents a legend to which it then attaches a fanatical belief. It is the protest of romance against the common place of life. The incidents of the legend become the hero's surest passport to immortality. The ironic philosopher reflects with a smile that Sir Walter Rolly is more safely enshrined in the memory of mankind because he set his cloak for the Virgin Queen to walk on, then because he carried the English name to undiscovered countries. Charles Strickland lived obscurely. He made enemies rather than friends. It is not strange then that those who wrote of him should have eked out their scanty recollections with a lively fancy, and it is evident that there was enough in the little that was known of him to give opportunity to the romantic scribe.  In due course a legend arose of such circumstantiality that the wise historian would hesitate to attack it. But a wise historian is precisely what the Reverend Robert Strickland is not. He wrote his biography. Strickland, the man in his work by his son Robert Strickland, William Heineman, 1913, avowedly to remove certain misconceptions which had gained currency in regard to the latter part of his father's life, and which had caused considerable pain to persons still living. It is obvious that there was much in the commonly received account of Strickland's life to embarrass a respectable family. I have read this work with a good deal of amusement, and upon this I congratulate myself since it is colorless and dull. Mr. Strickland has drawn the portrait of an excellent husband and father, a man of kindly temper industrious habits and moral disposition. The modern clergyman has acquired in his study of the science, which I believe is called exegesis, an astonishing facility for explaining things away. But the subtlety with which the Reverend Robert Strickland has interpreted all the facts in his father's life, which a dutiful son might find it inconvenient to remember, must surely lead him, in the fullness of time, to the highest dignities of the church. I see already his muscular calves encased in the gaiter's episcopal. It was a hazardous, though maybe a gallant thing to do, since it is probable that the legend commonly received has no small share in the growth of Strickland's reputation, for there are many who have been attracted to his art by the detestation in which they held his character, or the compassion with which they regarded his death and the son's well-meaning efforts through a singular chill upon his father's admirers. It is due to no accident that when one of his most important works, the woman of Samaria, described in Christie's catalogue as follows, a nude woman, a native of the society-islands, is lying on the ground beside a brook. Behind is a tropical landscape with palm trees, bananas, etc., 60 inches by 48 inches. It was sold at Christie's shortly after the discussion which followed the publication of Mr. Strickland's biography. It fetched 235 pounds less than it had done nine months before when it was bought by the distinguished collector whose sudden death had brought it once more under the hammer. Perhaps Charles Strickland's power and originality would scarcely have suffice to turn the scale if the remarkable mythopoic faculty of mankind had not brushed aside with impatience a story which disappointed all by its craving for the extraordinary, and presently Dr. Veetbrek Roelholz produced the work which finally set at rest the misgivings of all lovers of art. Dr. Veetbrek Roelholz belongs to the school of historians which believes that human nature is not only about as bad as it can be but a great deal worse, and certainly the reader is safer of entertainment in their hands than in those of the writers who take a malicious pleasure in representing the great figures of romance as patterns of the domestic virtues. For my part I should be sorry to think that there was nothing between Anthony and Cleopatra but an economic situation, and it will require even more evidence than is ever likely to be available, thank God, to persuade me that Tiberius was as blameless a monarch as George V. Dr. Veetbrek Roelholz has dealt in such terms with the reverend Robert Strickland's innocent biography that it is difficult to avoid feeling a certain sympathy for the unlucky person. His decent reticence is branded as hypocrisy, his circumlocutions are roundly called lies, and his silence is vilified as treachery, and on the strength of peccadillos, reprehensible in an author but excusable in a son, the Anglo-Saxon race is accused of prudishness, humbug, pretentiousness, deceit, cunning, and bad cooking. Personally I think it was rash of Mr. Strickland in refuting the account which had gained belief of a certain unpleasantness between his father and mother, to state that Charles Strickland in a letter written from Paris had described her as an excellent woman, since Dr. Veetbrek Roelholz was able to print the letter in facsimile, and it appears that the passage referred to ran in fact as follows, God damn my wife, she is an excellent woman, I wish she were in hell. It is not thus that the church in its great days dealt with evidence that was unwelcome. Dr. Veetbrek Roelholz was an enthusiastic admirer of Charles Strickland, and there was no danger that he would whitewash him. He had an unerring eye for the despicable motive in actions that had all the appearance of innocence. He was a psychopathologist as well as a student of art, and the subconscious had few secrets from him. No mystic ever saw deeper meaning in common things. The mystic sees the ineffable, and the psychopathologist the unspeakable. There is a singular fascination in watching the eagerness with which the learned author ferrets out every circumstance which may throw discredit on his hero. His heart warms to him when he can bring forward some example of cruelty or meanness, and he exalts like an inquisitor at the autul d'affay of a heretic, when with some forgotten story he can confound the filial piety of the Reverend Robert Strickland. His industry has been amazing, nothing has been too small to escape him, and you may be sure that if Charles Strickland left a laundry-bill untaid, it will be given you inextenso, and if he forebored to return a borrowed half-crown, no detail of the transaction will be omitted. CHAPTER II When so much has been written about Charles Strickland it may seem unnecessary that I should write more. A painter's monument is his work. It is true that I knew him more intimately than most. I met him first before he ever became a painter, and I saw him not infrequently during the difficult years he spent in Paris. But I do not suppose that I should ever have set down my recollections if the hazards of the war had not taken me to Tahiti. There, as is notorious, he spent the last years of his life, and there I came across persons who were familiar with him. I find myself in a position to throw light on just that part of his tragic career which has remained most obscure. If they who believe in Strickland's greatness are right, the personal narratives of such as knew him in the flesh can hardly be superfluous. What would we not give for the reminiscences of someone who had been as intimately acquainted with El Greco as I was with Strickland? But I seek refuge in no such excuses. I forget to it was that recommended men for their souls good to do each day two things they disliked. It was a wise man, and it is a precept that I have followed scrupulously. For every day I have got up, and I have gone to bed. But there is in my nature a strain of asceticism, and I have subjected my flesh each week to a more severe mortification. I have never failed to read the literary supplement of the times. It is a salutary discipline to consider the vast number of books that are written, the fair hopes with which their authors see them published, and the fate which awaits them. What chance is there that any book will make its way among that multitude, and the successful books are but the successes of a season. Heaven knows what pains the author has been at, what bitter experiences he has endured, and what heartache suffered to give some chance reader a few hours' relaxation, or to wile away the tedium of a journey. And if I may judge from the reviews many of these books are well and carefully written, much thought has gone into their composition. To some even has been given the anxious labour of a lifetime. The moral eye-draw is that the writer should seek his reward in the pleasure of his work, and in release from the burden of his thought, and indifferent to ought-else-care-nothing for praise or censure, failure or success. Now the war has come, bringing with it a new attitude. Youth has turned to the gods we of an earlier day knew not, and it is possible to see already the direction in which those who come after us will move. The younger generation, conscious of strength and tumultuous, have done with knocking at the door. They have burst in and seated themselves in our seats. The air is noisy with their shouts, of their elders some by imitating the antics of youth strive to persuade themselves that their day is not yet over. They shout with the lustiest, but the war cry sounds hollow in their mouth. They are like poor wantons attempting with pencil, paint and powder, with shrill gaiety to recover the illusion of their spring. The wiser go their way with a decent grace. In their chasen smile is an indulgent mockery. They remember that they too trod down a sated generation with just such clamour and with just such scorn, they foresee that these brave torch-bearers will presently yield their place also. There is no last word. The new Evangel was old when Nineveh reared her greatness to the sky. These gallant words which seem so novel to those that speak them were said in accents scarcely changed a hundred times before. The pendulum swings backwards and forwards. The circle is ever travelled anew. Sometimes a man survives a considerable time from an era in which he had his place into one which is strange to him, and then the curious are offered one of the most singular spectacles in the human comedy. Who now, for example, thinks of George Crab? He was a famous poet in his day, and the world recognised his genius with a unanimity which the greater complexity of modern life has rendered infrequent. He had learnt his craft at the school of Alexander Pope, and he wrote moral stories in rhymed couplets. Then came the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars, and the poets sang new songs. Mr. Crab continued to write moral stories in rhymed couplets. I think he must have read the verse of these young men who were making so great a stir in the world, and I fancy he found it poor stuff. Of course much of it was, but the odes of Keats and of Wordsworth, a poem or two by Coleridge, a few more by Shelley, discovered vast realms of the spirit that none had explored before. Mr. Crab was as dead as mutton, but Mr. Crab continued. I have read, desultorily, the writings of the younger generation. It may be that, among them, a more fervid Keats, a more ethereal Shelley, has already published numbers the world will willingly remember, I cannot tell. I admire their polish. Their youth is already so accomplished that it seems absurd to speak of promise. My marvel at the felicity of their style, but with all their copiousness, their vocabulary suggests that they fingered Roger's thesaurus in their cradles, they say nothing to me. To my mind they know too much and feel too obviously. I cannot stomach the heartiness with which they slap me on the back, or the emotion with which they hurl themselves on my bosom. Their passion seems to me a little anemic, and their dreams a trifle dull. I do not like them. I am on the shelf. I will continue to write moral stories in rhymed couplets, but I should be thrice a fool if I did it for ought but my own entertainment. So ends Chapter 2 Chapter 3 But all this is by the way. I was very young when I wrote my first book, by a lucky chance at excited attention and various persons sought my acquaintance. It is not without melancholy that I wander among my recollections of the world of letters in London when first bashful but eager I was introduced to it. It is long since I frequented it, and if the novels that describe its present singularities are accurate much in it has now changed. The venue is different. Chelsea and Bloomsbury have taken the place of Hampstead, Notting Hill Gate, and High Street, Kensington. Then it was a distinction to be under forty, but now to be more than twenty-five is absurd. I think in those days we were a little shy of our emotions, and the fear of ridicule tempered the more obvious forms of pretentiousness. I do not believe that there was in that gentile bohemia an intensive culture of chastity, but I do not remember so crude a promiscuity as seems to be practiced in the present day. We did not think it hypocritical to draw over our vagaries the curtain of a decent silence.  Woman had not yet altogether come into her own. I lived near Victoria Station, and I recall long excursions by bus to the hospitable houses of the literary.  I was introduced to this celebrated person after that one, and the kind words they said about my book made me excessively uncomfortable. I felt they expected me to say clever things, and I never could think of any till after the party was over. I tried to conceal my embarrassment by handing round cups of tea and rather ill-cut bread and butter. I wanted no one to take notice of me so that I could observe these famous creatures at my ease and listen to the clever things they said. I have a recollection of large unbending women with great noses and rapacious eyes who wore their clothes as though they were armor, and of little mouse-like spinsters with soft voices and shrewd glance. I never ceased to be fascinated by their persistence in eating buttered toast with their gloves on, and I observed with admiration the unconcern with which they wiped their fingers on the chair when they thought no one was looking. It must have been bad for the furniture, but I suppose the hostess took her revenge on the furniture of her friends when in turn she visited them. Some of them were dressed passionably, and they said they couldn't for the life of them see why you should be dowdy just because you had written a novel. If you had a neat figure, you might as well make the most of it, and a smart shoe and a small foot had never prevented an editor from taking your stuff. But others thought this frivolous. They wore art fabrics and barbaric jewelry. The men were as seldom eccentric in appearance. They tried to look as little like authors as possible. They wished to be taken for men of the world, and could have passed anywhere for managing clerks of a city firm. They always seemed a little tired. I had never known writers before, and I found them very strange, but I do not think that they ever seemed to me quite real. I remember that I thought their conversation brilliant, and I used to listen with astonishment to the stinging humor with which they would tear a brother author to pieces the moment his back was turned. The artist has this advantage over the rest of the world that his friends offer not only their appearance and their character to his satire but also their work. I despaired of ever expressing myself with such apness or with such fluency. In those days conversation was still cultivated as an art. A neat repartee was more highly valued than the crackling of thorns under a pot, and the epigram, not yet a mechanical appliance by which the dull may achieve the resemblance of wit, gave sprightliness to the small talk of the urbane. It is sad that I can remember nothing at all of this scintillation, but I think the conversation never settled down so comfortably as when it turned to the details of the trade which was the other side of the art we practiced. When we had done discussing the merits of the latest book it was natural to wonder how many copies had been sold, what advance the author had received, and how much he was likely to make out of it. Then we would speak of his publisher, and of that, comparing the generosity of one with the meanness of another, we would argue whether it was better to go to one who gave handsome royalties or to another who pushed a book for all it was worth. Some advertised badly and some well, some were modern and some were old-fashioned. Then we would talk of agents and the offers they had obtained for us, of editors and the sort of contributions they welcomed, how much they paid a thousand and whether they paid promptly or otherwise. To me it was all very romantic. It gave me an intimate sense of being a member of some mystic brotherhood. So ends Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, and Chapter 6, The Moon and Sixpence. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 4 No one was kinder to me at that time than Rose Waterford. She combined a masculine intelligence with a feminine perversity and the novels she wrote were original and disconcerting. It was at her house one day when I met Charles Strickland's wife. Miss Waterford was giving a tea-party, and her small room was more than usually full. Everyone seemed to be talking, and I, sitting in silence, felt awkward, but I was too shy to break into any of the groups that seemed absorbed in their own affairs. Miss Waterford was a good hostess, and seeing my embarrassment came up to me. I want to talk to you about Mrs. Strickland, she said. What does she do? I asked. I was conscious of my ignorance, and if Mrs. Strickland was a well-known writer I thought it as well to ascertain the fact before I spoke to her. Rose Waterford cast down her eyes demurely to give greater effect to her reply. She gives luncheon parties. You've only two roar out a little, and she'll ask you. Rose Waterford was a cynic. She looked upon life as an opportunity for writing novels and the public as her raw material. Now and then she invited members of it to her house if they showed an appreciation of her talent and entertained with proper lavishness. She held her weakness for lions in good-humoured contempt, but played to them her part of the distinguished woman of letters with decorum. I was led up to Mrs. Strickland, and for ten minutes we talked together. I noticed nothing about her except that she had a pleasant voice, she had a flat in Westminster overlooking the unfinished cathedral, and because we lived in the same neighbourhood we felt friendly disposed to one another. The army and navy stores are a bond of union between all who dwell between the river and St. James Park. Mrs. Strickland asked me for my address, and a few days later I received an invitation to luncheon. My engagements were few, and I was glad to accept. When I arrived a little late, because in my fear of being too early I had walked three times round the cathedral, I found the party already complete. Mrs. Waterford was there, and Mrs. Jay, Richard Twining, and George Road. We were all writers. It was a fine day, early in spring, and we were in good humour. We talked about a hundred things, Ms. Waterford, torn between the aestheticism of her early youth, when she used to go to parties in Sage Green, holding a daffodil, and the flippancy of her mature years, which tended to high heels and paris frocks, wore a new hat. It put her in high spirits, and I never heard her more malicious about our common friends. Mrs. Jay, aware that impropriety is the soul of wit, made observations in tones hardly above a whisper that might well have tinged the snowy tablecloth with a rosy hue. Richard Twining bubbled over with quaint absurdities, and George Road conscious that he need not exhibit a brilliancy which was almost a byword, opened his mouth only to put food into it. Mrs. Strickland did not talk much, but she had a pleasant gift for keeping the conversation general, and when there was a pause she threw in just the right remark to get it going once more. She was a woman of thirty-seven, rather tall and plump without being fat. She was not pretty, but her face was pleasing, chiefly, perhaps, on account of her kind brown eyes. Her skin was rather shallow. Her dark hair was elaborately dressed. She was the only woman of the three whose face was free of makeup, and by contrast with the others she seemed simple and unaffected. The dining-room was in the good taste of the period. It was very severe. There was a high dado of white wood and a green paper on which there were etchings by Whistler in neat black frames. The green curtains, with their peacock design hung in straight lines, and the green carpet, set in the pattern of which pale rabbits frolicked among leafy trees, suggested the influence of William Morris. There was blue delft on the chimney-piece. At that time there must have been five hundred dining-rooms in London decorated in exactly the same manner. It was chaste, artistic, and dull. When we left I walked away with Miss Waterford, and the fine day and her new hat persuaded us to saunter through the park. That was a nice party, I said. Did you think the food was good? I told her that if she wanted writers she must read them well. Admirable advice, I answered. But why does she want them? Miss Waterford shrugged her shoulders. She finds them amusing. She wants to be in the movement. I fancy she is rather simple, poor dear, and she thinks we're all wonderful. After all, it pleases her to ask us to luncheon, and it doesn't hurt us. I like her for it. Looking back, I think that Mrs. Strickland was the most harmless of all the lion-hunters that pursue their quarry from the rarefied heights of Hempstead to the nethermost studios of Shaney Walk. She had led a very quiet youth in the country, and the books that came down from Moody's Library brought with them not only their own romance but the romance of London. She had a real passion for reading, rare of her kind, who, for the most part, are more interested in the author than in his book, in the painter than in his pictures, and she invented a world of the imagination in which she lived with a freedom she never acquired in the world of every day. When she came to know writers it was like adventuring upon a stage which, till then, she had only known from the other side of the footlights. She saw them dramatically and really seemed herself to live a larger life because she entertained them and visited them in their fastness. She accepted the rules by which they played the game of life as valid for them, but never for a moment thought of regulating her own conduct in accordance with them. Their moral eccentricities, like their oddities of dress, their wild theories and paradoxes, were an entertainment which amused her, but had not the slightest influence on her convictions. Is there a Mr. Strickland? I asked. Oh, yes. He's something in the city. I believe he's a stockbroker. He's very dull. Are they good friends? Oh, they adore one another. You'll meet him if you dine there, but she doesn't often have people to dinner. He's very quiet. He's not in the least interested in literature or the arts. Why do nice women marry dull men? Because intelligent men won't marry nice women. I could not think of any retort to this. So I asked if Mrs. Strickland had children. Yes, she has a boy and a girl. They're both at school. The subject was exhausted, and we began to talk of other things. So ends Chapter 4 Chapter 5 During the summer I met Mrs. Strickland not infrequently. I went now and then to pleasant little luncheons at her flat and to rather more formidable tea parties. We took a fancy to one another. I was very young, and perhaps she liked the idea of guiding my virgin steps on the hard road of letters. While for me it was pleasant to have someone I could go to with my small troubles, certain of an attentive ear and reasonable counsel. Mrs. Strickland had the gift of sympathy. It is a charming faculty, but one often abused by those who are conscious of its possession. For there is something ghoulish in the avidity with which they will pounce upon the misfortune of their friends, so that they may exercise their dexterity. It gushes forth like an oil well, and the sympathetic pour out their sympathy with an abandon that is sometimes embarrassing to their victims. There are bosoms on which so many tears have been shed that I cannot be due them with mine. Mrs. Strickland used her advantage with tact. You felt that you obliged her by accepting her sympathy. When, in the enthusiasm of my youth, I remarked on this to Rose Waterford, she said, Milk is very nice, especially with the drop of brandy in it, but the domestic cow is only too glad to be relevant. A swollen udder is very uncomfortable. Rose Waterford had a blistering tongue. No one could say such bitter things. On the other hand, no one could do more charming ones. There is another thing I liked in Mrs. Strickland. She managed her surroundings with elegance. Her flat was always neat and cheerful, gay with flowers, and the chintzes in the drawing-room, notwithstanding their severe design, were bright and pretty. The meals in the artistic little dining-room were pleasant. The table looked nice. The two maids were trim and cum-lay the food well-cooked. It was impossible not to see that Mrs. Strickland was an excellent housekeeper.  There were photographs in the drawing-room of her son and daughter. The son, his name was Robert, was a boy of sixteen at Rugby, and you saw him in flannels in a cricket cap, and again in a tailcoat and stand-up color. He had his mother's candid brow and fine, reflective eyes. He looked clean, healthy, and normal. I don't know that he's very clever, she said, one day when I was looking at the photograph, but I know he's good. He has a charming character. The daughter was fourteen. Her hair, thick and dark like her mother's, fell over her shoulders in fine profusion, and she had the same kindly expression and sedate untroubled eyes. They are both of them the image of you, I said. Yes, I think they are more like me than their father. Why have you never let me meet him? I asked. Would you like to? She smiled. Her smile really was very sweet, and she blushed a little. It was singular that a woman of her age should flush so readily. Perhaps her naivete was her greatest charm. You know, he's not at all literary, she said. He's a perfect Philistine. She said this not disparagingly, but affectionately rather, as though acknowledging the worst about him. She wished to protect him from the aspersions of her friends. He's on the stock exchange, and he's a typical broker. I think he'd bore you to death. Does he bore you? I asked. You see, I happen to be his wife. I'm very fond of him. She smiled to cover her shyness, and I fancied she had a fear that I would make the sort of jibe that such a confession could hardly have failed to elicit from Rose Waterbird. She hesitated a little. Her eyes grew tender. He doesn't pretend to be a genius. He doesn't even make much money on the stock exchange, but he's awfully good and kind. I think I should like him very much. I'll ask you to dine with us quietly some time, but mind you come at your own risk. Don't blame me if you have a very dull evening. So ends Chapter 5, Chapter 6 But when at last I met Charles Strickland it was under circumstances which allowed me to do no more than just make his acquaintance. One morning Mrs. Strickland sent me round a note to say that she was giving a dinner party that evening, and one of her guests had failed her. She asked me to stop the gap. She wrote, It's only decent to warn you that you'll be bored to extinction. It was a thoroughly dull party for the beginning, but if you will come I shall be uncommonly grateful and you and I can have a little chat by ourselves. It was only neighborly to accept. When Mrs. Strickland introduced me to her husband he gave me a rather indifferent hand to shake. Turning to him gaily she attempted a small jest. I asked him to show him that I really had a husband. I think he was beginning to doubt it. Strickland gave the polite little laugh with which people acknowledge of facetiousness in which they see nothing funny but did not speak. New arrivals claimed my host's attention and I was left to myself. When at last we were all assembled waiting for dinner to be announced I reflected while I chatted with the woman I had been asked to take in that civilized man practices a strange ingenuity in wasting on tedious exercises the brief span of his life. It was the kind of party which makes you wonder why the hostess has trouble to bid her guests and why the guests have trouble to come. There were ten people they met with indifference and would part with relief. It was of course a purely social function the Strickland's owed dinners to a number of persons whom they took no interest in and so had asked them. These persons had accepted. Why? To avoid the tedium of dining teta-teta to give their servants a rest because there was no reason to refuse because they were owed a dinner. The dining room was inconveniently crowded. There was a K.C. and his wife a government official and his wife Mrs Strickland's sister and her husband Colonel McAndrew and a wife of the Member of Parliament. It was because the Member of Parliament found that he could not leave the house that I had been invited. The respectability of the party was portentious. The women were too nice to be well-dressed and too sure of their position to be amusing. The men were solid. There was about all of them an air of well-satisfied prosperity. Everyone talked a little louder than natural in an instinctive desire to make the party go, and there was a great deal of noise in the room. But there was no general conversation. Each one talked to his neighbor, to his neighbor on the right during the soup, fish and entree, to his neighbor on the left during the roast, sweet and savoury. They talked of the political situation and of golf, of their children and the latest play, of the pictures at the Royal Academy, of the weather, and their plans for the holidays. There was never a pause, and the noise grew louder. Mrs Strickland might congratulate herself that the party was a success. Her husband had played his part with decorum. Perhaps he did not talk very much, and I fancied there was towards the end a look of fatigue in the faces of the women on either side of him. They were finding him heavy. Once or twice Mrs Strickland's eyes rested on him somewhat anxiously. At last she rose and shepherded the ladies out of one room. Strickland shut the door behind her and, moving to the other end of the table, took his place between the K. C. and the government official. He passed round the port again and handed us cigars. The K. C. remarked on the excellence of the wine, and Strickland told us where he got it. We began to chat about vintages and tobacco. The K. C. told us of a case he was engaged in, and the Colonel talked about polo. I had nothing to say, and so sat silent, trying politely to show interest in the conversation, and because I thought no one was in the least concerned with me, examined Strickland at my ease. He was bigger than I expected. I do not know why I had imagined him slender and of insignificant appearance. In point of fact he was broad and heavy with large hands and feet, and he wore his evening clothes clumsily. He gave you somewhat the idea of a coachman dressed up for the occasion. He was a man of forty, not good-looking, and yet not ugly, for his features were rather good, but they were all a little larger than life-size, and the effect was ungamely. He was clean-shaven, and his large face looked uncomfortably naked. His hair was reddish, cut very short, and his eyes were small, blue, or gray. He looked commonplace. I no longer wondered that Miss Strickland felt a certain embarrassment about him. He was scarcely a credit to a woman who wanted to make herself a position in the world of art and letters. It was obvious that he had no social gifts, but these a man can do without. He had no eccentricity, even, to take him out of the common run. He was just a good, dull, honest, plain man. One would admire his excellent qualities, but avoid his company. He was null. He was probably a worthy member of society, a good husband and father, an honest broker, but there was no reason to waste one's time over from a Florida in May 2006. CHAPTER VII The season was drawing to its dusty end, and every one I knew was arranging to go away. Mrs. Strickland was taking her family to the coast of Norfolk, so that the children might have the sea and her husband golf. We said good-bye to one another, and arranged to meet in the autumn. But on my last day in town, coming out of the stores, I met her, with her son and daughter. Like myself, she had been making her final purchases before leaving London, and we were both hot and tired. I proposed that we should all go up and eat ices in the park. I think Mrs. Strickland was glad to show me her children, and she accepted my invitation with an equity. They were even more attractive than their photographs had suggested, and she was right to be proud of them. I was young enough for them not to feel shy, and they chattered merrily about one thing and another. They were extraordinarily nice, healthy young children. It was very agreeable under the trees. When in an hour they crowded into a cab to go home, I strolled idly to my club. I was perhaps a little lonely, and it was with a touch of envy that I thought of the pleasant family life of which I had had a glimpse. They seemed devoted to one another. They had little private jokes of their own which, unintelligible to the outsider, amused them enormously. Perhaps Charles Strickland was dull, judged by a standard that demanded above all things verbal scintillation, but his intelligence was adequate to his surroundings, and that is a passport not only to reasonable success, but still more to happiness. This Strickland was a charming woman, and she loved him. I pictured their lives, troubled by no untoward adventure, honest, decent, and by reason of those two upstanding, pleasant children so obviously destined to carry on the normal traditions of their race and station, not without significance. They would grow old insensibly. They would see their son and daughter come to years of reason, probably in due course, the one a pretty girl, future mother of healthy children, the other a handsome manly fellow, obviously a soldier, and at last, prosperous in their dignified retirement, beloved by their descendants, after a happy, not unuseful life in the fullness of their age, they would sink into the grave. That must be the story of innumerable couples, and the pattern of life it offers has a homely grace. It reminds you of a placid rivulet, meandering smoothly through green pastures, and shaded by pleasant trees, till at last it falls into the vasty sea. But the sea is so calm, so silent, so indifferent, that you are troubled suddenly by a vague uneasiness. Perhaps it is only by a kink in my nature among me even in those days that I felt such an existence, the share of the great majority, something amiss. I recognized its social values, I saw its ordered happiness, but a fever in my blood asked for a wilder course. There seemed to me something alarming in such easy delights. In my heart was a desire to live more dangerously. I was not unprepared for jagged rocks and treacherous shoals if I could have some change, change, and the excitement of the unforeseen. So ends Chapter 7, Chapter 8 On reading over what I have written of the Stricklands I am conscious that they must seem shadowy. I have been able to invest them with none of those characteristics which make the persons of a book exist with a real life of their own, and wondering if the fault was mine I racked my brains to remember idiosyncrasies which might lend them vividness. I feel that by dwelling on some trick of speech or some queer habit I should be able to give them a significance peculiar to themselves. As they stand they are like the figures in an old tapestry. They do not separate themselves from the background and at a distance seem to lose their pattern, so that you have little but a pleasing piece of color. My only excuse is that the impression they made on me was no other. There was just that shadowiness about them which you find in people whose lives are part of the social organism so that they exist in it and buy it only. They are like cells in the body, essential but so long as they remain healthy engulfed in the momentous whole. The Stricklands were an average family in the middle class, a pleasant hospitable woman with a harmless craze for the small lions of literary society, a rather dull man doing his duty in that state of life in which a merciful providence had placed him. Two nice-looking, healthy children, nothing could be more ordinary. I do not know that there was anything about them to excite the attention of the curious. When I reflect on all that happened later I ask myself if I was thick-witted not to see that there was in Charles Strickland at least something out of the common. Perhaps. I think that I have gathered in the years that intervene between then and now a fair knowledge of mankind, but even if when I first met the Stricklands I had the experience which I have now I do not believe that I should have judged them differently. But because I have learned that man is incalculable I should not at this time of day be so surprised by the news that reached me when in the early autumn I returned to London. I had not been back twenty-four hours before I ran across Rose Waterford in German Street.  What's the matter with you? She smiled and her eyes shone with a malice I knew already. It meant that she had heard some scandal about one of her friends and the instinct of the literary woman was all alert. You did meet Charles Strickland, didn't you? Not only her face, but her whole body gave a sense of alacrity, I nodded. I wondered if the poor devil had been hammered on the stock exchange or run over by an omnibus. Isn't it dreadful? He's run away from his wife. Miss Waterford certainly felt that she could not do her subject justice on the curb of German Street, and so, like an artist, flung the bare fact at me and declared that she knew no details. I could not do her the injustice of supposing that so trifling a circumstance would have prevented her from giving them, but she was obstinate. I tell you I know nothing, she said, in reply to my agitated questions, and then, with an airy shrug of her shoulders, I believed that a young person in a city tea-shop has left her situation. She flashed a smile at me, and, protesting an engagement with her dentist, gently walked on. I was more interested than distressed. In those days my experience of life at first hand was small, and it excited me to come upon an incident among people I knew of the same sort as I had read in books. I confess that time has now accustomed me to incidents of this character among my acquaintances, but I was a little shocked. Strickland was certainly forty, and I thought it disgusting that a man of his age should concern himself with affairs of the heart. With the superciliousness of extreme youth I put thirty-five as the utmost limit at which a man might fall in love without making a fool of himself. And this news was slightly disconcerting to me personally, because I had written from the country to Mrs. Strickland, announcing my return, and had added that, unless I heard from her to the contrary, I would come on a certain day to drink a dish of tea with her. This was that very day, and I had received no word from Mrs. Strickland. Did she want to see me, or did she not? It was likely enough that in the agitation of the moment my note had escaped her memory. Perhaps I should be wiser not to go. On the other hand she might wish to keep the affair quiet, and it might be highly and discreet on my part to give any sign that this strange news had reached me. I was torn between the fear of hurting a nice woman's feelings, and the fear of being in the way. I felt she must be suffering, and I did not want to see a pain which I could not help. But in my heart was a desire that I felt a little ashamed of, to see how she was taking it. I did not know what to do. Finally it occurred to me that I would call as though nothing had happened, and send a message in by the maid asking Mrs. Strickland if it was convenient for her to see me. This would give her the opportunity to send me away. But I was overwhelmed with embarrassment when I said to the maid the phrase I had prepared, and while I waited for the answer in a dark passage, I had to call up all my strength of mind not to bolt. The maid came back. Her manner suggested to my excited fancy a complete knowledge of the domestic calamity. Will you come this way, sir? She said. I followed her into the drawing-room. The blinds were partly drawn to darken the room, and Mrs. Strickland was sitting with her back to the light. Her brother-in-law, Colonel McCandrew, stood in front of the fireplace, warming his back at an unlit fire. To myself, my entrance seemed excessively awkward. I imagined that my arrival had taken them by surprise, and Mrs. Strickland had let me come in only because she had forgotten to put me off. I fancied that the Colonel resented the interruption. I wasn't quite sure if you expected me, I said, trying to seem unconcerned. Of course I did, and we'll bring the tea in a minute. Even in the darkened room I could not help seeing that Mrs. Strickland's face was all swollen with tears. Her skin, never very good, was earthy. You remember my brother-in-law, don't you? You met at dinner just before the holidays. We shook hands. I felt so shy that I could think of nothing to say, but Mrs. Strickland came to my rescue. She asked me what I had been doing with myself during the summer, and with this help I managed to make some conversation till tea was brought in. The Colonel asked for a whiskey and soda. You'd better have one too, Amy, he said. No, I prefer tea. This was the first suggestion that anything untoward had happened. I took no notice and did my best to engage Mrs. Strickland in talk. The Colonel, still standing in front of the fireplace, uttered no word. I wondered how soon I could decently take my leave, and I asked myself why on earth Mrs. Strickland had allowed me to come. There were no flowers, and various knickknacks put away during the summer had not been replaced. There was something cheerless and stiff about the room, which had always seemed so friendly. It gave you an odd feeling, as though someone were lying dead on the other side of the wall. I finished tea. Well, you have a cigarette, asked Mrs. Strickland. She looked about through the box, but it was not to be seen. I'm afraid there are none. Suddenly she burst into tears, and hurried from the room. I was startled. I suppose now that the lack of cigarettes brought as a rule by her husband forced him back upon her recollection, and the new feeling that the small comfort she was used to were missing gave her a sudden pang. She realized that the old life was gone and done with. It was impossible to keep up our social pretenses any longer. I dare say you'd like me to go, I said to the Colonel, getting up. I suppose you've heard the black-art deserted her, he cried explosively. I hesitated. You know how people gossip, I answered. I was vaguely told that something was wrong. He's bolted. He's gone off to Paris with a woman. He's left Amy without a penny. Oh, I'm awfully sorry, I said. Not knowing what else to say. The Colonel gulped down his whiskey. He was a tall, lean man of 50 with a drooping moustache and gray hair. He had pale blue eyes and a weak mouth. I remembered from my previous meeting with him that he had a foolish face and was proud of the fact that for the 10 years before he left the army he had played polo three days a week. I don't suppose Mrs. Strickland wants to be bothered with me just now, I said. Will you tell her how sorry I am? If there's anything I can do, I shall be delighted to do it. He took no notice of me. I don't know what's to become of her. And then there are the children. How are they going to live on air, 17 years? What about 17 years? They've been married, he snapped. I never liked him. Of course he was my brother-in-law and I made the best of it. Did you think him a gentleman? She ought never to have married him. Is it absolutely final? There's only one thing for her to do and that's to divorce him. That's what I was telling her to do when you came in. Fire in with your petition, my dear Amy, I said. You owe it to yourself and you owe it to the children. You need better not let me catch sight of him. I'd thrash him to within an inch of his life. I could not help thinking that Colonel McAndrew might have some difficulty doing this since Strickland had struck me as a hefty fellow, but I did not say anything. It is always distressing when outrage to morality does not possess the strength of arm to administer direct chastisement on the sinner. I was making up my mind to another attempt at going when Mrs. Strickland came back. She had dried her eyes and powdered her nose. I'm sorry I broke down, she said. I'm glad you didn't go away. She sat down. I did not at all know what to say. I felt a certain shyness at referring to matters which were no concern of mine. I did not then know the besetting sin of woman, the passion to discuss her private affairs with anyone who is willing to listen. Mrs. Strickland seemed to make an effort over herself. Are people talking about it? She asked. I was taken aback by her assumption that I knew all about her domestic misfortune. I've only just come back. The only person I've seen is Rose Waterford, Mrs. Strickland clasped her hands. Tell me exactly what she said. And when I hesitated, she insisted, I particularly want to know. You know the way people talk. She's not very reliable, is she? She said your husband had left you. Is that all? I did not choose to repeat Rose Waterford's parting reference to a girl from a tea shop. I lied. She didn't say anything about his going with anyone? No. That's all I wanted to know. I was a little puzzled, but at all events I understood that I might now take my leave. When I shook hands with Mrs. Strickland, I told her that if I could be of any use to her, I should be very glad. She smiled wanily. Thank you so much. I don't know that anybody can do anything for me. Too shy to express my sympathy, I turned to say good-bye to the Colonel. He did not take my hand. I'm just coming. If you're walking a pictorious retell, I'll come along with you. All right, I said. Come on. So ends Chapter 8, Chapter 9. This is a terrible thing, he said, the moment we got out into the street. I realized that he had come away with me in order to discuss once more what he had been already discussing for hours with his sister-in-law. We don't know who the woman is, you know, he said. All we know is that the Blackard's gone to Paris. I thought they got on so well. So they did. Why, just before you came in, Amy said that they'd never had a quarrel in the whole of their married life. You know, Amy, there never was a better woman in the world. Since these confidences were thrust on me, I saw no harm in asking a few questions. But do you mean to say she suspected nothing? Nothing. He spent August with her and the children in Norfolk. He was just the same as he'd always been. We went down for two or three days. My wife and I and I played golf with him. He came back to town in September to let his partner go away and Amy stayed on in the country. They'd taken a house for six weeks. And at the end of the tenancy she wrote to tell him on which day she'd be arriving in London. He answered from Paris. He said that he'd made up his mind not to live with her anymore. What explanation did he give? My dear fellow, he gave no explanation. I've seen the letter. It wasn't more than ten lines. But that's extraordinary. We happened then to cross the street and the traffic prevented us from speaking. What Colonel McAndrew had told me seemed very improbable. And I suspected that Mrs. Strickland for reasons of her own had concealed from him some part of the facts. It was clear that a man after seventeen years of wedlock did not leave his wife without certain occurrences which must have led her to suspect that all was not well with their married life. The Colonel caught me up.  I suppose he thought she could find that out for herself as a sort of chap he was. What is Mrs. Strickland going to do? Well, the first thing is to get out our proofs. I'm going over to Paris myself. And what about his business? That's where he'd been so artful he's been drawing in his horns for the last year. Did he tell his partner he was leaving? Not a word. Colonel McAndrew had a very sketchy knowledge of business matters and I had none at all. So I did not quite understand under what conditions Strickland had left his affairs. I gathered that the deserted partner was very angry and threatened proceedings. It appeared that when everything was settled he would be four or five hundred pounds out of pocket. It's lucky the furniture and the flat is the name of his name. She'll have that at all events. Did you mean it when you said she wouldn't have a bob? Of course I did. She's got two or three hundred pounds and the furniture. But how is she going to live? God knows. The affair seemed to grow more complicated and the Colonel, with his expletives and his indignation confused rather than informed me. I was glad that, catching sight of the clock at the army and navy stores, he remembered an engagement to play cards at his club and so he left me to cut across St. James Park. So ends Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11 and Chapter 12 of The Moon and Sixpence. This is a Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. The Moon and Sixpence by William Somerset-Malm. Recorded for Librevox by Chip in Tampa, Florida, in May 2006. Chapter 10. A day or two later Mrs. Strickland sent me round a note asking if I could go see her that evening after dinner. I found her alone. Her black dress, simple to austerity, suggested her bereaved condition, and I was innocently astonished that, not withstanding a real emotion, she was able to dress the part she had to play according to her notions of seamliness. You said that if I wanted you to do anything you wouldn't mind doing it, she remarked. It was quite true. Will you go over to Paris and see Charlie? I? I was taken aback. I reflected that I had only seen him once. I did not know what she wanted me to do. Fred is set on going. Fred was Colonel McCandrew, but I'm sure he's not the man to go. He'll only make things worse. I don't know who else to ask. Her voice trembled a little, and I felt a brute even to hesitate. But I've not spoken ten words to your husband. He doesn't know me. He'll probably just tell me to go to the devil. That wouldn't hurt you, said Mrs. Strickland, smiling. What is it exactly you want me to do? She did not answer me directly. I think it's rather an advantage that he doesn't know you. You see, he never really liked Fred.  He didn't understand soldiers. Fred would fly into a passion, and there'd be a quarrel, and things would be worse instead of better. If you said you came on my behalf, he couldn't refuse to listen to you. I haven't known you very long, I answered. I don't see how anyone can be expected to tackle a case like this unless he knows all the details. I don't want to pry into what doesn't concern me. Why don't you go and see him yourself? You forget he isn't alone. I held my tongue. I saw myself calling on Charles Strickland and sending in my card. I saw him come into the room, holding it between his finger and thumb. To what do I owe this honour? I came to see you about your wife. Really. When you are a little older, you will doubt less learn the advantage of minding your own business. If you will be so good as to turn your head slightly to the left, you will see the door. I wish you good afternoon. I foresaw that it would be difficult to make my exit with dignity, and I wished to goodness that I had not returned to London till Mrs. Strickland had composed her difficulties. I stole a glance at her. She was immersed in thought. Presently she looked up at me, sighed deeply, and smiled. It was all so unexpected, she said. We'd been married seventeen years. I never dreamed that Charlie was the sort of man to get infatuated with any one. We always got on very well together. Of course, I had a great many interests that he didn't share. Have you found out who—I did not know quite how to express myself—who the person who he's gone away with? No. No one seems to have an idea. It's so strange. Generally, when a man falls in love with someone, people see them about together, lunching or something. And her friends always come and tell the wife, I had no warning, nothing. His letter came as a thunderbolt. I thought he was perfectly happy. She began to cry, poor thing. And I felt sorry for her. But in a little while she grew calmer.  The only thing is to decide what's the best thing to do. She went on, talking somewhat at random—now of the recent past, now of their first meeting and their marriage. But presently I began to form a fairly coherent picture of their lives. And it seemed to me that my surmises had not been incorrect. Mrs. Strickland was the daughter of an Indian civilian who, on his retirement, had settled in the depths of the country. But it was his habit, every August, to take his family to Eastbourne for a change of air. And it was here, when she was twenty, that she met Charles Strickland, he was twenty-three. They played together, walked out on the front together, listened together to the nigger minstrels, and she had made up her mind to accept him a week before he proposed to her. They lived in London, first in Hampstead, then, as he grew more prosperous, in town. Two children were born to them. He has always seemed very fond of them. Even if he was tired of me, I wonder that he had the heart to leave them. It's all so incredible. Even now I can hardly believe it's true. At last she showed me the letter he had written. I was curious to see it, but had not ventured to. Ask for it. My dear Amy, I think you will find everything all right in the flat I have given and your instructions, and dinner will be ready for you and the children when you come home. I shall not be there to meet you. I have made up my mind to live apart from you, and I am going to Paris in the morning. I shall post this letter on my arrival. I shall not come back. My decision is irrevocable. Yours always Charles Strickland. Not a word of explanation or regret. Don't you think it's inhuman? It's a very strange letter under the circumstances, I've replied. There's only one explanation, and that's that he is not himself. I don't know who this woman is who's got hold of him, but she's made him into another man. It's evidently been going on a long time. What makes you think that? Fred found that out. My husband said he went to the club three or four nights a week to play bridge. Well, Fred knows one of the members, and he said something about Charles being a great bridge player. The man looked surprised. He said he'd never even seen Charles in the card room. It's quite clear now that when I thought Charles was at the club he was with her. I was silent for a moment. Then I thought of the children. It must have been difficult to explain to Robert, I said. Oh, I never said a word to either of them. You see, we only came up to town the day before they had to go back to school. I had the presence of mind to say that their father had been called away on business. It could not have been very easy to be bright and careless with that sudden secret in her heart, nor to give her attention to all the things that needed doing to get her children comfortably packed off. Mrs. Strickland's voice broke again. And what's going to happen to them, poor darlings? How are we going to live? She struggled for self-control, and I saw her hands clench and unclench spasmodically. It was dreadfully painful. Of course I'll go over to Paris if you think I can do any good, but you must tell me exactly what you want me to do. I want him to come back. I understood from Colonel McAndrew that you've made up your mind to divorce him. I'll never divorce him. She answered with a sudden violence. Tell him that from me. He'll never be able to marry that woman. I'm as obstinate as he is, and I'll never divorce him. I have to think of my children. I think that she added this to explain her attitude to me, but I thought it was due to a very natural jealousy rather than to maternal solicitude. Are you in love with him, still? Oh, I don't know. I want him to come back. If he'll do that, we'll let bygones be bygones. After all, we've been married for seventeen years. I'm a broad-minded woman. I wouldn't have minded what he did, as long as I knew nothing about it. He must know that his infatuation won't last. If you come back now, everything can be smoothed over, and no one will know anything about it. It chilled me a little that Mrs. Strickland should be concerned with gossip. For I did not then know how great a part is played in women's life by the opinion of others. It throws a shadow of insincerity over their most deeply felt emotions. It was known where Strickland was staying, his partner in a violent letter sent to his bank had taunted him with hiding his whereabouts, and Strickland, in a cynical and humorous reply, told his partner exactly where to find him. He was apparently living in a hotel. I've never heard of it, said Mrs. Strickland, but Fred knows it well. He says it's very expensive. She flushed darkly. I imagined that she saw her husband installed in a luxurious suite of rooms dining at one smart restaurant after another, and she pictured his days spent at race meetings and his evenings at the play. It can't go on at his age, she said. After all, he's forty. I could understand it in a young man, but I think it's horrible in the man of his years with children who are nearly grown up. His health will never stand it. Anger struggled in her breast with misery. Tell him that our home cries out for him. Everything is just the same, and yet everything is different. I can't live without him. I'd sooner kill myself. Talk to him about the past, and all we've gone through together. What am I to say to the children when they ask for him? His room's exactly as it was when he left it. It's waiting for him. We're all waiting for him. Now she told me exactly what I should say. She gave me elaborate answers to every possible observation of his. You will do everything you can for me, she said piddly. Tell him what estate I'm in. I saw that she wished me to appeal to his sympathies by every means in my power. She was weeping freely. I was extraordinarily touched. I felt indignant at Strickland's cold cruelty, and I promised to do all I could to bring him back. I agreed to go over on the next day but one, and to stay in Paris until I had achieved something. Then, as it was growing late, and we were both exhausted by so much emotion, I left her. So ends Chapter 10 Chapter 11 During the journey I thought over my errand with misgiving, now that I was free from the spectacle of Mrs. Strickland's distress I could consider the matter more calmly. I was puzzled by the contradictions that I saw in her behavior. She was very unhappy, but to excite my sympathies she was able to make a show of her unhappiness. It was evidence that she had been prepared to weep, for she had provided herself with a sufficiency of handkerchiefs. I admired her forethought. But in retrospect it made her tears perhaps less moving. I could not decide whether she desired the return of her husband because she loved him, or because she dreaded the tongue of Scandal, and I was perturbed by the suspicion that the anguish of love condemned was alloyed in her broken heart with the pangs sorted to my young mind of wounded vanity. I had not yet learned how contradictory is human nature. I did not know how much pose there is in the sincere, how much baseness in the noble, nor how much goodness in the reprobate. But there was something of an adventure in my trip, and my spirits rose as I approached Paris. I saw myself too from the dramatic standpoint, and I was pleased with my role of the trusted friend, bringing back the errant husband to his forgiving wife. I made up my mind to see Strickland the following evening, for I felt instinctively that the hour must be chosen with delicacy. An appeal to the emotions is little likely to be effectual before luncheon. My own thoughts were then constantly occupied with love, but I never could imagine cannubial bliss until after tea. I inquired at my hotel for that in which Charles Strickland was living. It was called the Hotel de Belge, but the Concierge, somewhat to my surprise, had never heard of it. I had understood from Mrs. Strickland that it was a large and sumptuous place at the back of the Rue de Rivoli. We looked it out in the directory. The only hotel of that name was in the Rue de Mouin. The quarter was not fashionable. It was not even respectable. I shook my head. I'm sure that's not it, I said. The Concierge shrugged his shoulders. There was no other hotel of that name in Paris. It occurred to me that Strickland had concealed his address after all. In giving his partner the one I knew, he was perhaps playing a trick on him. I do not know why I had an inkling that it would appeal to Strickland's sense of humour to bring a furious stockbroker over to Paris on the Fouls errand to an ill-famed house in a mean street. Still, I thought I had better go and see. The next day, about six o'clock, I took a cab to the Rue de Mouin, but dismissed it at the corner since I preferred to walk to the hotel and look at it before I went in. It was a street of small shops subservient to the needs of poor people, and about the middle of it, on the left, as I walked down, was the Hotel de Belge. My own hotel was modest enough, but it was magnificent in comparison with this. It was a tall, shabby building that cannot have been painted for years, and it had so bedraggled an air that the houses on either side of it looked neat and clean. The dirty windows were all shut. It was not here that Charles Strickland lived in guilty splendour with the unknown charmer for whose sake he had abandoned honour and duty. I was vexed, for I felt that I had been made a fool of, and I nearly turned away without making an inquiry. I went in only to be able to tell Mrs. Strickland that I had done my best. The door was at the side of a shop. It stood open, and just within was a sign, Bureau au Premier. I walked up narrow stairs, and on the landing found a sort of box glassed in, within which were a desk and a couple of chairs. There was a bench outside, on which it might be presumed the night-porter passed uneasy nights. There was no one about, but under an electric bell was written Garçon. I rang, and presently a waiter appeared. He was a young man with furtive eyes and a sullen look. He was in shirt-sleeves and carpet-slippers. I do not know why I made my inquiry as casual as possible. Does Mr. Strickland live here by any chance? I asked. Number 32 On the Sixth Wall I was so surprised that for a moment I did not answer. Is he in? The waiter looked at a board in the bureau. He hasn't left his key. Go up, and you'll see. I thought it as well to put one more question. Madame Mélan? Monsieur Essel. The waiter looked at me suspiciously as I made my way upstairs, they were dark and airless. There was a foul and musty spell. Three flights up a woman in a dressing-gown with puzzled hair opened the door and looked at me silently as I passed. At length I reached the sixth floor and knocked at the door number 32. There was a sound within, and the door was partly opened. Charles Strickland stood before me. He uttered not a word. He evidently did not know me. I told him my name. I tried my best to assume an airy manner. You don't remember me.  Come in! he said cheerily. I'm delighted to see you. Take a pew. I entered. It was a very small room overcrowded with furniture of the style which the French know as Louis-Philippe. There was a large wooden bedstead on which there was a billowing red iderdown, and there was a large wardrobe, a round table of very small washstand, and two stuffed chairs covered with red wrap. Everything was dirty and shabby. There was no sign of the abandoned luxury that Colonel McAndrew had so confidently described. Strickland threw on the floor the clothes that burdened one of the chairs, and I sat down on it. What can I do for you? he asked. In that small room he seemed even bigger than I remembered him. He wore an old Norfolk jacket and had not shaved for several days. When last I saw him he was spruce enough, but he looked ill at ease. Now tidy and ill-kempt he looked perfectly at home. I did not know how he would take the remark I had prepared. I've come to see you on behalf of your wife. Well, I was just going out to have a drink before dinner. You'd better come too. Do you like absinthe? I can drink it. Come on then. He put on a boulder hat, much in need of brushing. We must dine together. You owe me a dinner, you know. Certainly. Are you alone? I flattered myself that I had got in that important question very naturally. Oh, yes, in point of fact I have not spoken to a soul for three days. My French isn't exactly brilliant. I wondered, as I proceeded him downstairs, what had happened to the little lady in the tea-shop? Had they quarrelled already? Or was his infatuation passed? It seemed hardly likely if, as appeared, he had been taking steps for a year to make his desperate plunge. We walked to the avenue de cliché, and sat down at one of the tables on the pavement to the large café. So ends Chapter 11 Chapter 12 The avenue de cliché was crowded at that hour, and a lively fancy might see in the passers-by the personages of many assorted romance. There were clerks and shop-girls, old fellows who might have stepped out of the pages of Honor de Balzac, members, male and female, of the professions which make their profit of the frailties of mankind. There is, in the streets of the poorer quarters of Paris, a thronging vitality which excites the blood and prepares the soul for the unexpected. Do you know Paris well? I asked. No, we came on our honeymoon, haven't been here since. How on earth did you find your hotel? It was recommended to me. I wanted something cheap. The absence came, and with due solemnity we dropped water over the melting sugar. I thought I'd better tell you at once why I had come to see you, I said, not without embarrassment. His eyes twinkled. I thought someone would come along sooner or later. I've had a lot of letters from Amy. Then you know pretty well what I've got to say, though I've not read them. I lit a cigarette to give myself the moment's time. I did not quite know now how to set about my mission. The eloquent phrases I had arranged, pathetic or indignant, seemed out of place on the avenue de cliché. Suddenly gave me a chuckle. Beastly job for you, this, isn't it? Oh, I don't know, I answered. Well, look here. You get it over, then we'll have a jolly evening. I hesitated.  She'll get over it. I cannot describe the extraordinary callousness with which he made this reply. It disconcerted me, but I did my best not to show it. I adopted the tone used by my uncle Henry, a clergyman, when he was asking one of his relatives for a subscription to the additional curates society.  He shook his head, smiling. Has she deserved that you treat her like this? No. Have you any complaint to make against her? None. Then isn't it monstrous to leave her in this fashion after seventeen years of married life without a fault to find with her? Monstrous! I glanced at him with surprise. His cordial agreement with all that I said cut the ground from under my feet. It made my position complicated, not to say ludicrous. I was prepared to be persuasive, touching, and oratory, and monetary and expostulating, if need be, vituperative even, indignant and sarcastic. But what the devil does a mentor do when the sinner makes no bones about confessing his sin? I had no experience, since my own practice has always been to deny everything. What's that? asked Strickland. I tried to curl my lip. Well, if you acknowledge that, there doesn't seem much more to be said. I don't think there is. I felt that I was not carrying out my embassy with any great skill. I was distinctly netled. Hang it all, one can't leave a woman without a bob. Why not? How is she going to live? I've supported her for 17 years. Why shouldn't she support herself for a change? She can't let her try. Of course, there were many things I might have answered to this. I might have spoken of the economic position of women, of the contract, tacit and overt which a man accepts by his marriage, and of much else, but I felt that there was only one point which really signified. Don't you care for her anymore? Not a bit, he replied. The matter was immensely serious, were all the parties concerned, but there was in the manner of his answer such a cheerful effrontery that I had to bite my lips in order not to laugh. I reminded myself that his behavior was abominable. I worked myself up into a state of moral indignation. Damn it all! There are your children to think of. They've never done you any harm. They didn't ask to be brought into this world. If you chuck everything like this, they'll be thrown out on the streets. They've had a good many years of comfort. It's much more than the majority of children have. Besides, someone will look after them. When it comes to that point, the McCandrews will pay for their schooling. But aren't you fond of them? They're such awfully nice kids. Do you mean to say that you don't want to have anything more to do with them? I liked them all right when they were kids. But now they're growing up I haven't got any particular feeling for them. That's just inhuman, quite daresay. You don't seem to be the least ashamed. Well, I'm not. I tried another tack. Everyone will think you a perfect swine. Let them. Won't it mean anything to you to know that people loathe and despise you? No. His brief answer was so scornful that it made my question natural though it was seem absurd. I reflected for a minute or two. I wonder if one can live quite comfortably when one's conscience of the disapproval of one's fellows. Are you sure it will begin to worry you? Everyone has some sort of conscience, and sooner or later it will find you out. Supposing your wife died, wouldn't you be tortured by remorse? He did not answer, and I waited for some time for him to speak. At last I had to break the silence myself. What have you to say to that?  At all events you can be forced to support your wife and children, I retorted, somewhat peaked. I suppose the law has some protection to offer them. Can the law get blood out of a stone? I haven't any money. I've got about a hundred pounds. I began to be more puzzled than before. It was true that his hotel pointed to the most straightened circumstances. What are you going to do when you've spent that? Earn some. He was perfectly cool, and his eyes kept that smocking smile which made all I said seem rather foolish. I paused for a little while to consider what I had better say next, but it was he who spoke first. Why doesn't Amy marry again? She's comparatively young, she's not unattractive. I can recommend her as an excellent wife. If she wants to divorce me, I don't mind giving her the necessary grounds. Now it was my turn to smile. He was very cunning, but it was evidently this that he was aiming at. He had some reason to conceal the fact that he had run away with the woman, and he was using every precaution to hide her whereabouts. I answered with decision. Your wife says that nothing you can do will ever induce her to divorce you. She's quite made up her mind. You can put any possibility of that definitely out of your head. He looked at me with astonishment that was certainly not feigned. The smile abandoned his lips, and he spoke quite seriously. But my dear fellow, I don't care. It doesn't matter too many damn to me one way or the other. I laughed. Oh, come now. You mustn't think of such fools as all that. We happen to know you came away with the woman. He gave a little start, and then suddenly burst into a shout of laughter. He laughed so uproariously that people sitting near us looked round, and some of them began to laugh too. I don't see anything very amusing in that. And poor Amy, he grinned. Then his face grew bitterly scornful. What poor minds women have got. Love. It's always love. They think that a man leaves only because he wants others. Do you think I should be such a fool as to do what I've done for a woman? Do you mean to say that you did not leave your wife for another woman? Of course not. On your word of honor. I don't even know why I asked for that. It was very ingenious of me. On my word of honor. Then what in God's name have you left her for? I want to paint. I looked at him for quite a long time. I did not understand. I thought he was mad. It must be remembered that I was very young, and looked upon him as a middle-aged man. I forgot everything but my own amazement. But you're forty. That's what made me think it was high time to begin. Have you ever painted? I rather wanted to be a painter when I was a boy, but my father made me go into business because he said there was no money in art. I began to paint a bit a year ago. For the last year I've been going to some classes at night. Was that where you went when Mrs. Strickland thought you were playing bridge at your club? That's it. Why didn't you tell her? I preferred to keep it to myself. Can you paint? Not yet. But I shall. That's why I came over here. I couldn't get what I wanted in London. Perhaps I can get it here. Do you think it's likely that a man will do any good when he starts at your age? Most men begin painting at eighteen. I can learn quicker than I could when I was eighteen. What makes you think you have any talent? He did not answer for a minute. His gaze rested on the passing throng. But I do not think he saw it. His answer was no answer. I've got to paint. Aren't you taking an awful chance? He looked at me. His eyes had something strange in them, so that I was rather uncomfortable. How old are you? Twenty-three? It seemed to me that the question was beside the point. It was natural that I should take chances, but he was a man whose youth was past, a stockbroker with a position of respectability, a wife, and two children. Of course, that which would have been natural for me was absurd for him. I wished to be quite fair. Of course, miracles may happen, and you may be a great painter, but you must confess the chances are a million to one against it. It'll be an awful sell if at the end you have to acknowledge that you made a hash of it. I've got to paint, he repeated. Supposing you're never anything more than third rate, do you think it will have been worthwhile to give up everything? After all, in any other walk of life, it doesn't matter if you're not very good. You can get along quite comfortably if you're just adequate. But it's different with an artist. You blasted fool, he said. I don't see why, unless it's folly to say the obvious. I tell you, I've got to paint. I can't help myself when a man falls into the water. It doesn't matter how he swims well or badly. He's got to get out, or else he'll drown. There was real passion in his voice, and in spite of myself, I was impressed. I seemed to feel in him some vehement power that was struggling within him. It gave me the sensation of something very strong, overmastering that held him as it were, against his will. I could not understand. He seemed really to be possessed of a devil, and I felt that it might suddenly turn and rend him, yet he looked ordinary enough. My eyes, resting on him curiously, caused him no embarrassment.  His trousers were baggy, his hands were not clean, and his face, with the red stubble of the unshaved chin, the little eyes, and the large, aggressive nose, was uncouth and coarse. His mouth was large, his lips were heavy and sensual. No, I would not have placed him. You won't go back to your wife, I said at last? Never. She's willing to forget everything that's happened and start afresh. She'll never make you a single reproach.   You don't care if she and your children are to beg their bread, not a damn. I was silent for a moment in order to give greater force to my next remark. I spoke as deliberately as I could.   So ends Chapter 12.