Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  Their life in its own way was an idyl, and it managed to achieve a singular beauty. The absurdity that clung to everything connected with Dirk Stroeve gave it a curious note, like an unresolved discord, but made it somehow more modern, more human; like a rough joke thrown into a serious scene, it heightened the poignancy which all beauty has.

  Chapter XXIV

  Shortly before Christmas Dirk Stroeve came to ask me to spend the holiday with him. He had a characteristic sentimentality about the day and wanted to pass it among his friends with suitable ceremonies. Neither of us had seen Strickland for two or three weeks — I because I had been busy with friends who were spending a little while in Paris, and Stroeve because, having quarreled with him more violently than usual, he had made up his mind to have nothing more to do with him. Strickland was impossible, and he swore never to speak to him again. But the season touched him with gentle feeling, and he hated the thought of Strickland spending Christmas Day by himself; he ascribed his own emotions to him, and could not bear that on an occasion given up to good-fellowship the lonely painter should be abandoned to his own melancholy. Stroeve had set up a Christmas-tree in his studio, and I suspected that we should both find absurd little presents hanging on its festive branches; but he was shy about seeing Strickland again; it was a little humiliating to forgive so easily insults so outrageous, and he wished me to be present at the reconciliation on which he was determined.

  We walked together down the Avenue de Clichy, but Strickland was not in the cafe. It was too cold to sit outside, and we took our places on leather benches within. It was hot and stuffy, and the air was gray with smoke. Strickland did not come, but presently we saw the French painter who occasionally played chess with him. I had formed a casual acquaintance with him, and he sat down at our table. Stroeve asked him if he had seen Strickland.

  “He’s ill,” he said. “Didn’t you know?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Very, I understand.”

  Stroeve’s face grew white.

  “Why didn’t he write and tell me? How stupid of me to quarrel with him. We must go to him at once. He can have no one to look after him. Where does he live?”

  “I have no idea,” said the Frenchman.

  We discovered that none of us knew how to find him. Stroeve grew more and more distressed.

  “He might die, and not a soul would know anything about it. It’s dreadful. I can’t bear the thought. We must find him at once.”

  I tried to make Stroeve understand that it was absurd to hunt vaguely about Paris. We must first think of some plan.

  “Yes; but all this time he may be dying, and when we get there it may be too late to do anything.”

  “Sit still and let us think,” I said impatiently.

  The only address I knew was the Hotel des Belges, but Strickland had long left that, and they would have no recollection of him. With that queer idea of his to keep his whereabouts secret, it was unlikely that, on leaving, he had said where he was going. Besides, it was more than five years ago. I felt pretty sure that he had not moved far. If he continued to frequent the same cafe as when he had stayed at the hotel, it was probably because it was the most convenient. Suddenly I remembered that he had got his commission to paint a portrait through the baker from whom he bought his bread, and it struck me that there one might find his address. I called for a directory and looked out the bakers. There were five in the immediate neighbourhood, and the only thing was to go to all of them. Stroeve accompanied me unwillingly. His own plan was to run up and down the streets that led out of the Avenue de Clichy and ask at every house if Strickland lived there. My commonplace scheme was, after all, effective, for in the second shop we asked at the woman behind the counter acknowledged that she knew him. She was not certain where he lived, but it was in one of the three houses opposite. Luck favoured us, and in the first we tried the concierge told us that we should find him on the top floor.

  “It appears that he’s ill,” said Stroeve.

  “It may be,” answered the concierge indifferently. “En effet, I have not seen him for several days.”

  Stroeve ran up the stairs ahead of me, and when I reached the top floor I found him talking to a workman in his shirt-sleeves who had opened a door at which Stroeve had knocked. He pointed to another door. He believed that the person who lived there was a painter. He had not seen him for a week. Stroeve made as though he were about to knock, and then turned to me with a gesture of helplessness. I saw that he was panic-stricken.

  “Supposing he’s dead?”

  “Not he,” I said.

  I knocked. There was no answer. I tried the handle, and found the door unlocked. I walked in, and Stroeve followed me. The room was in darkness. I could only see that it was an attic, with a sloping roof; and a faint glimmer, no more than a less profound obscurity, came from a skylight.

  “Strickland,” I called.

  There was no answer. It was really rather mysterious, and it seemed to me that Stroeve, standing just behind, was trembling in his shoes. For a moment I hesitated to strike a light. I dimly perceived a bed in the corner, and I wondered whether the light would disclose lying on it a dead body.

  “Haven’t you got a match, you fool?”

  Strickland’s voice, coming out of the darkness, harshly, made me start.

  Stroeve cried out.

  “Oh, my God, I thought you were dead.”

  I struck a match, and looked about for a candle. I had a rapid glimpse of a tiny apartment, half room, half studio, in which was nothing but a bed, canvases with their faces to the wall, an easel, a table, and a chair. There was no carpet on the floor. There was no fireplace. On the table, crowded with paints, palette-knives, and litter of all kinds, was the end of a candle. I lit it. Strickland was lying in the bed, uncomfortably because it was too small for him, and he had put all his clothes over him for warmth. It was obvious at a glance that he was in a high fever. Stroeve, his voice cracking with emotion, went up to him.

  “Oh, my poor friend, what is the matter with you? I had no idea you were ill. Why didn’t you let me know? You must know I’d have done anything in the world for you. Were you thinking of what I said? I didn’t mean it. I was wrong. It was stupid of me to take offence.”

  “Go to hell,” said Strickland.

  “Now, be reasonable. Let me make you comfortable. Haven’t you anyone to look after you?”

  He looked round the squalid attic in dismay. He tried to arrange the bed-clothes. Strickland, breathing laboriously, kept an angry silence. He gave me a resentful glance. I stood quite quietly, looking at him.

  “If you want to do something for me, you can get me some milk,” he said at last. “I haven’t been able to get out for two days.” There was an empty bottle by the side of the bed, which had contained milk, and in a piece of newspaper a few crumbs.

  “What have you been having?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “For how long?” cried Stroeve. “Do you mean to say you’ve had nothing to eat or drink for two days? It’s horrible.”

  “I’ve had water.”

  His eyes dwelt for a moment on a large can within reach of an outstretched arm.

  “I’ll go immediately,” said Stroeve. “Is there anything you fancy?”

  I suggested that he should get a thermometer, and a few grapes, and some bread. Stroeve, glad to make himself useful, clattered down the stairs.

  “Damned fool,” muttered Strickland.

  I felt his pulse. It was beating quickly and feebly. I asked him one or two questions, but he would not answer, and when I pressed him he turned his face irritably to the wall. The only thing was to wait in silence. In ten minutes Stroeve, panting, came back. Besides what I had suggested, he brought candles, and meat-juice, and a spirit-lamp. He was a practical little fellow, and without delay set about making bread-and-milk. I took Strickland’s temperature. It was a hundred and four. He was obviously very ill.

  Chapter XXV

 
Presently we left him. Dirk was going home to dinner, and I proposed to find a doctor and bring him to see Strickland; but when we got down into the street, fresh after the stuffy attic, the Dutchman begged me to go immediately to his studio. He had something in mind which he would not tell me, but he insisted that it was very necessary for me to accompany him. Since I did not think a doctor could at the moment do any more than we had done, I consented. We found Blanche Stroeve laying the table for dinner. Dirk went up to her, and took both her hands.

  “Dear one, I want you to do something for me,” he said.

  She looked at him with the grave cheerfulness which was one of her charms. His red face was shining with sweat, and he had a look of comic agitation, but there was in his round, surprised eyes an eager light.

  “Strickland is very ill. He may be dying. He is alone in a filthy attic, and there is not a soul to look after him. I want you to let me bring him here.”

  She withdrew her hands quickly, I had never seen her make so rapid a movement; and her cheeks flushed.

  “Oh no.”

  “Oh, my dear one, don’t refuse. I couldn’t bear to leave him where he is. I shouldn’t sleep a wink for thinking of him.”

  “I have no objection to your nursing him.”

  Her voice was cold and distant.

  “But he’ll die.”

  “Let him.”

  Stroeve gave a little gasp. He wiped his face. He turned to me for support, but I did not know what to say.

  “He’s a great artist.”

  “What do I care? I hate him.”

  “Oh, my love, my precious, you don’t mean that. I beseech you to let me bring him here. We can make him comfortable. Perhaps we can save him. He shall be no trouble to you. I will do everything. We’ll make him up a bed in the studio. We can’t let him die like a dog. It would be inhuman.”

  “Why can’t he go to a hospital?”

  “A hospital! He needs the care of loving hands. He must be treated with infinite tact.”

  I was surprised to see how moved she was. She went on laying the table, but her hands trembled.

  “I have no patience with you. Do you think if you were ill he would stir a finger to help you?”

  “But what does that matter? I should have you to nurse me. It wouldn’t be necessary. And besides, I’m different; I’m not of any importance.”

  “You have no more spirit than a mongrel cur. You lie down on the ground and ask people to trample on you.”

  Stroeve gave a little laugh. He thought he understood the reason of his wife’s attitude.

  “Oh, my poor dear, you’re thinking of that day he came here to look at my pictures. What does it matter if he didn’t think them any good? It was stupid of me to show them to him. I dare say they’re not very good.”

  He looked round the studio ruefully. On the easel was a half-finished picture of a smiling Italian peasant, holding a bunch of grapes over the head of a dark-eyed girl.

  “Even if he didn’t like them he should have been civil. He needn’t have insulted you. He showed that he despised you, and you lick his hand. Oh, I hate him.”

  “Dear child, he has genius. You don’t think I believe that I have it. I wish I had; but I know it when I see it, and I honour it with all my heart. It’s the most wonderful thing in the world. It’s a great burden to its possessors. We should be very tolerant with them, and very patient.”

  I stood apart, somewhat embarrassed by the domestic scene, and wondered why Stroeve had insisted on my coming with him. I saw that his wife was on the verge of tears.

  “But it’s not only because he’s a genius that I ask you to let me bring him here; it’s because he’s a human being, and he is ill and poor.”

  “I will never have him in my house — never.”

  Stroeve turned to me.

  “Tell her that it’s a matter of life and death. It’s impossible to leave him in that wretched hole.”

  “It’s quite obvious that it would be much easier to nurse him here,” I said, “but of course it would be very inconvenient. I have an idea that someone will have to be with him day and night.”

  “My love, it’s not you who would shirk a little trouble.”

  “If he comes here, I shall go,” said Mrs. Stroeve violently.

  “I don’t recognize you. You’re so good and kind.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake, let me be. You drive me to distraction.”

  Then at last the tears came. She sank into a chair, and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook convulsively. In a moment Dirk was on his knees beside her, with his arms round her, kissing her, calling her all sorts of pet names, and the facile tears ran down his own cheeks. Presently she released herself and dried her eyes.

  “Leave me alone,” she said, not unkindly; and then to me, trying to smile: “What must you think of me?”

  Stroeve, looking at her with perplexity, hesitated. His forehead was all puckered, and his red mouth set in a pout. He reminded me oddly of an agitated guinea-pig.

  “Then it’s No, darling?” he said at last.

  She gave a gesture of lassitude. She was exhausted.

  “The studio is yours. Everything belongs to you. If you want to bring him here, how can I prevent you?”

  A sudden smile flashed across his round face.

  “Then you consent? I knew you would. Oh, my precious.”

  Suddenly she pulled herself together. She looked at him with haggard eyes. She clasped her hands over her heart as though its beating were intolerable.

  “Oh, Dirk, I’ve never since we met asked you to do anything for me.”

  “You know there’s nothing in the world that I wouldn’t do for you.”

  “I beg you not to let Strickland come here. Anyone else you like. Bring a thief, a drunkard, any outcast off the streets, and I promise you I’ll do everything I can for them gladly. But I beseech you not to bring Strickland here.”

  “But why?”

  “I’m frightened of him. I don’t know why, but there’s something in him that terrifies me. He’ll do us some great harm. I know it. I feel it. If you bring him here it can only end badly.”

  “But how unreasonable!”

  “No, no. I know I’m right. Something terrible will happen to us.”

  “Because we do a good action?”

  She was panting now, and in her face was a terror which was inexplicable. I do not know what she thought. I felt that she was possessed by some shapeless dread which robbed her of all self-control. As a rule she was so calm; her agitation now was amazing. Stroeve looked at her for a while with puzzled consternation.

  “You are my wife; you are dearer to me than anyone in the world. No one shall come here without your entire consent.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, and I thought she was going to faint. I was a little impatient with her; I had not suspected that she was so neurotic a woman. Then I heard Stroeve’s voice again. It seemed to break oddly on the silence.

  “Haven’t you been in bitter distress once when a helping hand was held out to you? You know how much it means. Couldn’t you like to do someone a good turn when you have the chance?”

  The words were ordinary enough, and to my mind there was in them something so hortatory that I almost smiled. I was astonished at the effect they had on Blanche Stroeve. She started a little, and gave her husband a long look. His eyes were fixed on the ground. I did not know why he seemed embarrassed. A faint colour came into her cheeks, and then her face became white — more than white, ghastly; you felt that the blood had shrunk away from the whole surface of her body; and even her hands were pale. A shiver passed through her. The silence of the studio seemed to gather body, so that it became an almost palpable presence. I was bewildered.

  “Bring Strickland here, Dirk. I’ll do my best for him.”

  “My precious,” he smiled.

  He wanted to take her in his arms, but she avoided him.

  “Don’t be affectionate before strangers
, Dirk,” she said. “It makes me feel such a fool.”

  Her manner was quite normal again, and no one could have told that so shortly before she had been shaken by such a great emotion.

  Chapter XXVI

  Next day we moved Strickland. It needed a good deal of firmness and still more patience to induce him to come, but he was really too ill to offer any effective resistance to Stroeve’s entreaties and to my determination. We dressed him, while he feebly cursed us, got him downstairs, into a cab, and eventually to Stroeve’s studio. He was so exhausted by the time we arrived that he allowed us to put him to bed without a word. He was ill for six weeks. At one time it looked as though he could not live more than a few hours, and I am convinced that it was only through the Dutchman’s doggedness that he pulled through. I have never known a more difficult patient. It was not that he was exacting and querulous; on the contrary, he never complained, he asked for nothing, he was perfectly silent; but he seemed to resent the care that was taken of him; he received all inquiries about his feelings or his needs with a jibe, a sneer, or an oath. I found him detestable, and as soon as he was out of danger I had no hesitation in telling him so.

  “Go to hell,” he answered briefly.

  Dirk Stroeve, giving up his work entirely, nursed Strickland with tenderness and sympathy. He was dexterous to make him comfortable, and he exercised a cunning of which I should never have thought him capable to induce him to take the medicines prescribed by the doctor. Nothing was too much trouble for him. Though his means were adequate to the needs of himself and his wife, he certainly had no money to waste; but now he was wantonly extravagant in the purchase of delicacies, out of season and dear, which might tempt Strickland’s capricious appetite. I shall never forget the tactful patience with which he persuaded him to take nourishment. He was never put out by Strickland’s rudeness; if it was merely sullen, he appeared not to notice it; if it was aggressive, he only chuckled. When Strickland, recovering somewhat, was in a good humour and amused himself by laughing at him, he deliberately did absurd things to excite his ridicule. Then he would give me little happy glances, so that I might notice in how much better form the patient was. Stroeve was sublime.