moon and sixpence

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Moon and Sixpenceby W. Somerset Maugham

Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries

from the Encyclopedia of the Self

by Mark Zimmerman

The Moon and Sixpence

by W. Somerset Maugham

Author of "Of Human Bondage"

THE MOO A! S#$E%E

The Moon and Sixpence

%hapter

confess that &hen first made ac'uaintance &ith %har(es

Stric)(and ne*er for a moment discerned that there &as inhim anything out of the ordinary. +et no& fe& &i(( be found

to deny his greatness. do not spea) of that greatness &hichis achie*ed by the fortunate po(itician or the successfu(

so(dier, that is a 'ua(ity &hich be(ongs to the p(ace he

occupies rather than to the man, and a change of circumstancesreduces it to *ery discreet proportions. The $rime Minister out of office is seen- too often- to ha*e been but a pompous

rhetorician- and the enera( &ithout an army is but the tamehero of a mar)et to&n. The greatness of %har(es Stric)(and

&as authentic. t may be that you do not (i)e his art- but ata(( e*ents you can hard(y refuse it the tribute of your

interest. He disturbs and arrests. The time has passed &henhe &as an ob/ect of ridicu(e- and it is no (onger a mar) of

eccentricity to defend or of per*ersity to exto( him.

His fau(ts are accepted as the necessary comp(ement to his merits.t is sti(( possib(e to discuss his p(ace in art- and theadu(ation of his admirers is perhaps no (ess capricious than

the disparagement of his detractors, but one thing can ne*er be doubtfu(- and that is that he had genius. To my mind the

most interesting thing in art is the persona(ity of theartist, and if that is singu(ar- am &i((ing to excuse a

thousand fau(ts. suppose 0e(as'ue1 &as a better painter than E( reco- but custom sta(es one2s admiration for him3

the %retan- sensua( and tragic- proffers the mystery of hissou( (i)e a standing sacrifice. The artist- painter- poet- or

musician- by his decoration- sub(ime or beautifu(- satisfiesthe aesthetic sense, but that is a)in to the sexua( instinct-

and shares its barbarity3 he (ays before you a(so the greater gift of himse(f . To pursue his secret has something of the

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fascination of a detecti*e story. t is a ridd(e &hich shares&ith the uni*erse the merit of ha*ing no ans&er. The most

insignificant of Stric)(and2s &or)s suggests a persona(ity&hich is strange- tormented- and comp(ex, and it is this

sure(y &hich pre*ents e*en those &ho do not (i)e his picturesfrom being indifferent to them, it is this &hich has excited

so curious an interest in his (ife and character .

t &as not ti(( four years after Stric)(and2s death that

Maurice Huret &rote that artic(e in thewhich 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 impossiblenot to be impressed by the claims he made; they seemed

extravagant; but later judgments have confirmed his estimate,and the reputation of Charles trickland is now firmly

established on the lines which he laid down. !he rise of thisreputation is one of the most romantic incidents in the

history of art. "ut # do not propose to deal with Charlestrickland$s work except in so far as it touches upon

his character . # 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 che%ue&book. #t is a grotes%ue

misapprehension which sees in art no more than a craft comprehensible perfectly only to the craftsman' art is amanifestation of emotion , and emotion speaks a language that

all may understand . "ut # will allow that the critic who hasnot a practical knowledge of techni%ue 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, (r. )dward *eggatt, anable writer as well as an admirable painter, has exhaustively

discussed Charles trickland$s work in a little book+- whichis a charming example of a style, for the most part, less

happily cultivated in )ngland than in France.

+- / (odern /rtist' 0otes on the 1ork of Charles

trickland, by )dward *eggatt, /.2.3./. (artin ecker, 45.

(aurice 3uret in his famous article gave an outline of Charlestrickland$s life which was well calculated to whet the

appetites of the in%uiring. 1ith 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 humaninterest would enable him more easily to effect his purpose.

/nd when such as had come in contact with trickland in the past, writers who had known him in *ondon, painters who had

met him in the cafes of (ontmartre, 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 /merica a succession of articles, the reminiscences of one, the

appreciation of another, which added to trickland$snotoriety, and fed without satisfying the curiosity of

the public. !he subject was grateful, and the industrious

1eitbrecht&2otholz in his imposing monograph+6- has been ableto give a remarkable list of authorities.

+6- 7arl trickland' sein *eben und seine 7unst, by 3ugo

1eitbrecht&2otholz, 8h.9. chwingel und 3anisch. *eipzig, 4:.

!he faculty for myth is innate in the human race. #t seizes

with avidity upon any incidents, surprising or mysterious, inthe career of those who have at all distinguished themselves

from their fellows, and invents a legend to which it then

attaches a fanatical belief. #t is the protest of romanceagainst the commonplace of life. !he incidents of the legend become the hero$s surest passport to immortality. !he ironic

philosopher reflects with a smile that ir 1alter 2aleigh ismore safely inshrined in the memory of mankind because he set

his cloak for the irgin <ueen to walk on than because hecarried the )nglish name to undiscovered countries.

Charles trickland lived obscurely. 3e made enemies rather than friends. #t is not strange, then, that those who wrote of

him should have eked out their scanty recollections with alively fancy, and it is evident that there was enough in the

little that was known of him to give opportunity to the romantic scribe; there was much in his life which was strange and terrible,

in his character something outrageous, and in his fatenot a little that was pathetic. #n due course a legend arose

of such circumstantiality that the wise historian would hesitate to attack it.

"ut a wise historian is precisely what the 2ev. 2obert

trickland is not. 3e wrote his biography+=- avowedly toremove certain misconceptions which had gained currency inregard to the later part of his father$s life, and which had

caused considerable pain to persons still living. #t isobvious that there was much in the commonly received account

of trickland$s life to embarrass a respectable family. # have read this work with a good deal of amusement, and upon

this # congratulate myself , since it is colourless and dull. (r. trickland has drawn the portrait of an excellent husband

and father, a man of kindly temper, industrious habits, and

moral disposition. !he modern clergyman has ac%uired in his study of the science which # believe is called exegesis anastonishing facility for explaining things away, but the

subtlety with which the 2ev. 2obert trickland has

interpreted all the facts in his father$s life which a




























dutiful son might find it inconvenient to remember must surelylead him in the fullness of time to the highest dignities of

the Church. # see already his muscular calves encased in the gaiters episcopal. #t was a hazardous, though maybe a gallant

thing to do, since it is probable that the legend commonlyreceived has had no small share in the growth of trickland$s

reputation; for there are many who have been attracted to his

art by the detestation in which they held his character or thecompassion with which they regarded his death; and the son$swell&meaning efforts threw a singular chill upon the father$s

admirers. #t is due to no accident that when one of his most important works, ,+:- was sold at

Christie$s shortly after the discussion which followed the publication of (r. trickland$s biography, it fetched 8>?09

6=@ less than it had done nine months before when it wasbought by the distinguished collector whose sudden death had

brought it once more under the hammer. 8erhaps Charles

trickland$s power and originality would scarcely have sufficed to turn the scale if the remarkable mythopoeic

faculty of mankind had not brushed aside with impatience a story which disappointed all its craving for the

extraordinary. /nd presently 9r. 1eitbrecht&2otholz produced the work which finally set at rest the misgivings of all

lovers of art.

+=- trickland' !he (an and 3is 1ork, by his son, 2obert trickland. 1m. 3einemann, 4=.

+:- !his was described in Christie$s catalogue as follows'/ nude woman, a native of the ociety #slands, is lying on

the ground beside a brook. "ehind is a tropical *andscapewith palm&trees, bananas, etc. AB in. x : in.

9r. 1eitbrecht&2otholz belongs to that school of historianswhich 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 thewriters who take a malicious pleasure in representing the

great figures of romance as patterns of the domestic virtues.

For my part, # should be sorry to think that there was nothing between /nthony and Cleopatra but an economic situation; and

it will re%uire a great deal more evidence than is ever likelyto be available, thank Dod, to persuade me that !iberius was

as blameless a monarch as 7ing Deorge . 9r. 1eitbrecht&2otholz has dealt in such terms with the 2ev. 2obert trickland$s

innocent biography that it is difficult to avoid

feeling a certain sympathy for the unlucky parson. 3is decent reticence is branded as hypocrisy, his circumlocutions areroundly called lies, and his silence is vilified as treachery.

/nd on the strength of peccadillos, reprehensible in an

author, but excusable in a son, the /nglo&axon race is

























accused of prudishness, humbug, pretentiousness, deceit ,cunning, and bad cooking. 8ersonally # think it was rash of

(r. trickland, in refuting the account which had gained belief of a certain unpleasantness between his father and

mother, to state that Charles trickland in a letter written from 8aris had described her as an excellent woman, since

9r. 1eitbrecht&2otholz was able to print the letter in

facsimile, and it appears that the passage referred to ran in fact as follows' # wish she was in hell.E #t is not thus that the Churchin its great days dealt with evidence that was unwelcome.

9r. 1eitbrecht&2otholz was an enthusiastic admirer of Charlestrickland, and there was no danger that he would whitewash him.

3e had an unerring eye for the despicable motive inactions that had all the appearance of innocence. 3e was a

psycho&pathologist, as well as a student of art, and the subconscious had few secrets from him. 0o mystic ever saw

deeper meaning in common things. !he mystic sees theineffable, and the psycho&pathologist the unspeakable.

!here is a singular fascination in watching the eagerness withwhich the learned author ferrets out every circumstance which may

throw discredit on his hero. 3is heart warms to him when hecan bring forward some example of cruelty or meanness, and he

exults like an in%uisitor at the of an hereticwhen with some forgotten story he can confound the filial piety

of the 2ev. 2obert trickland. 3is industry has been amazing. 0othing has been too small to escape him, and youmay be sure that if Charles trickland left a laundry bill

unpaid it will be given you , and if he foreboreto return a borrowed half&crown no detail of the transaction

will be omitted.

Chapter ##

1hen so much has been written about Charles trickland, it may

seem unnecessary that # should write more. / painter$smonument is his work. #t is true # knew him more intimatelythan most' # met him first before ever he became a painter,

and # saw him not infre%uently during the difficult years he spent in 8aris; but # do not suppose # should ever have set

down my recollections if the hazards of the war had not takenme to !ahiti. !here, as is notorious, he spent the last years

of his life; and there # came across persons who were familiar with him. # find myself in a position to throw light on just

that part of his tragic career which has remained most obscure.

#f they who believe in trickland$s greatness are right,the personal narratives of such as knew him in the

flesh can hardly be superfluous. 1hat would we not give for the reminiscences of someone who had been as intimately
























ac%uainted with )l Dreco as # was with trickland

"ut # seek refuge in no such excuses. # forget who it was

that recommended men for their soul$s good to do each day twothings they disliked' it was a wise man, and it is a precept

that # have followed scrupulously; for every day # have got upand # have gone to bed. "ut there is in my nature a strain of

asceticism, and # have subjected my flesh each week to a more severe mortification. # have never failed to read the *iterary

upplement of . #t is a salutary discipline toconsider the vast number of books that are written, the fair

hopes with which their authors see them published, and the fate which awaits them. 1hat chance is there that any book

will make its way among that multitude /nd the successful books are but the successes of a season. 3eaven knows what

pains the author has been at, what bitter experiences he hasendured and what heartache suffered, to give some chance

reader a few hours$ relaxation or to while away the tedium of a journey. /nd if # may judge from the reviews, many of these

books are well and carefully written; much thought has gone totheir composition; to some even has been given the anxious

labour of a lifetime. !he moral # 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 aught else, care nothing for praise or censure, failure or success.

0ow the war has come, bringing with it a new attitude.Gouth has turned to gods we of an earlier day knew not, and it

is possible to see already the direction in which those who comeafter us will move. !he younger generation, conscious of

strength and tumultuous, have done with knocking at the door;they have burst in and seated themselves in our seats.

!he air is noisy with their shouts. >f their elders some, byimitating 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.!he wiser go their way with a decent grace. #n their chastened

smile is an indulgent mockery. !hey remember that they tootrod down a sated generation, with just such clamor and with

just such scorn, and they foresee that these brave torch&bearerswill presently yield their place also. !here is no last word.

!he new evangel was old when 0ineveh reared her greatnessto the sky. !hese gallant words which seem so novel to those

that speak them were said in accents scarcely changed a hundred

times before. !he pendulum swings backwards and forwards.!he circle is ever travelled anew.

ometimes 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. 1ho now, for example, thinks

of Deorge Crabbe 3e was a famous poet in his day, and theworld recognised his genius with a unanimity which the greater

complexity of modern life has rendered infre%uent. 3e had learnt his craft at the school of /lexander 8ope, and he wrote

moral stories in rhymed couplets. !hen came the French

2evolution and the 0apoleonic 1ars, and the poets sang new songs. (r. Crabbe continued to write moral stories in rhymed couplets. # think he must have read the verse of these young

men who were making so great a stir in the world, and # fancyhe found it poor stuff. >f course, much of it was. "ut the

odes of 7eats and of 1ordsworth, a poem or two by Coleridge, a few more by helley, discovered vast realms of the spirit that

none had explored before. (r. Crabbe was as dead as mutton,but (r. Crabbe continued to write moral stories in rhymed couplets.

# have read desultorily the writings of the younger generation.

#t may be that among them a more fervid 7eats, a moreethereal helley, has already published numbers the world

will willingly remember . # cannot tell. # admire their polish && their youth is already so accomplished that it seems

absurd to speak of promise && # marvel at the felicity of their style; but with all their copiousness Htheir vocabulary

suggests that they fingered 2oget$s in their cradlesI they say nothing to me' to my mind they know too

much and feel too obviously; # cannot stomach the heartiness

with which they slap me on the back or the emotion with whichthey hurl themselves on my bosom; their passion seems to me alittle anaemic and their dreams a trifle dull. # do not like them.

# am on the shelf. # will continue to write moral stories inrhymed couplets. "ut # should be thrice a fool if # did it for

aught but my own entertainment.

Chapter ###

"ut all this is by the way.

# was very young when # wrote my first book. "y a lucky chanceit excited attention, and various persons sought my ac%uaintance.

#t is not without melancholy that # wander among myrecollections of the world of letters in *ondon when first,

bashful but eager, # was introduced to it. #t is long since # fre%uented it, and if the novels that describe its present

singularities are accurate much in it is now changed. !hevenue is different. Chelsea and "loomsbury have taken the

place of 3ampstead, 0otting 3ill Date, and 3igh treet, 7ensington.!hen it was a distinction to be under forty, but now to

be more than twenty&five is absurd. # think in thosedays we were a little shy of our emotions , and the fear of

ridicule tempered the more obvious forms of pretentiousness.








































# do not believe that there was in that genteel "ohemia anintensive culture of chastity, but # do not remember so crude

a promiscuity as seems to be practised in the present day.1e did not think it hypocritical to draw over our vagaries the

curtain of a decent silence. !he spade was not invariablycalled a bloody shovel. 1oman had not yet altogether come

into her own.

# lived near ictoria tation, and # recall long excursions by

bus to the hospitable houses of the literary. #n my timidity # wandered up and down the street while # screwed up my

courage to ring the bell; and then, sick with apprehension,was ushered into an airless room full of people. # was

introduced to this celebrated person after that one, and thekind words they said about my book made me excessively

uncomfortable. # felt they expected me to say clever things,and # never could think of any till after the party was over.

# tried to conceal my embarrassment by handing round cups of tea and rather ill&cut bread&and&butter. # wanted no one to

take notice of me, so that # could observe these famouscreatures at my ease and listen to the clever things they said.

# have a recollection of large, unbending women with great noses and rapacious eyes, who wore their clothes as though

they were armour; and of little, mouse&like spinsters, with soft voices and a shrewd glance. # never ceased to be

fascinated by their persistence in eating buttered toast withtheir gloves on, and # observed with admiration the unconcern

with which they wiped their fingers on their chair when theythought no one was looking. #t must have been bad for the

furniture, but # suppose the hostess took her revenge on the furniture of her friends when, in turn, she visited them.

ome of them were dressed fashionably, and they said theycouldn$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 youmight as well make the most of it, and a smart shoe on a small

foot had never prevented an editor from taking your stuff. "ut others thought this frivolous, and they wore art fabrics and barbaric jewelry. !he men were seldom eccentric in appearance.

!hey tried to look as little like authors as possible.!hey wished to be taken for men of the world, and could

have passed anywhere for the managing clerks of a city firm.!hey always seemed a little tired. # had never known

writers before, and # found them very strange, but # do not think they ever seemed to me %uite real .

# remember that # thought their conversation brilliant, and # used to listen with astonishment to the stinging humour withwhich they would tear a brother&author to pieces the moment that his back was turned. !he 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. # despaired of ever expressing myself with such aptness

or with such fluency. #n 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 a semblance

of wit , gave sprightliness to the small talk of the urbane.

#t is sad that # can remember nothing of all this scintillation. "ut # think the conversation never settled down socomfortably as when it turned to the details of the

trade which was the other side of the art we practised.1hen 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. !hen we would speak of this 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. ome advertised badly and some well. ome were

modern and some were old&fashioned. !hen 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 athousand, and whether they paid promptly or otherwise. !o me

it was all very romantic. #t gave me an intimate sense of being a member of some mystic brotherhood.

Chapter #

0o one was kinder to me at that time than 2ose 1aterford.he combined a masculine intelligence with a feminine perversity,

and the novels she wrote were original and disconcerting. #t was at her house one day that # met Charles trickland$s wife.

(iss 1aterford was giving a tea&party, and her small room wasmore than usually full. )veryone seemed to be talking, and #,

sitting in silence, felt awkward; but # was too shy to break into any of the groups that seemed absorbed in their own affairs.

(iss 1aterford was a good hostess, and seeing my embarrassment came up to me.

# want you to talk to (rs. trickland, she said.he$s raving about your book.

1hat does she do # asked.

# was conscious of my ignorance, and if (rs. trickland was a

well&known writer # thought it as well to ascertain the fact

before # spoke to her.

2ose 1aterford cast down her eyes demurely to give greater effect to her reply.

he gives luncheon&parties. Gou$ve only got to roar a



































little, and she$ll ask you.

2ose 1aterford was a cynic. he looked upon life as an

opportunity for writing novels and the public as her rawmaterial. 0ow and then she invited members of it to her house

if they showed an appreciation of her talent and entertained with proper lavishness. he held their weakness for lions in

good&humoured contempt, but played to them her part of thedistinguished woman of letters with decorum.

# was led up to (rs. trickland, and for ten minutes wetalked together. # noticed nothing about her except that she

had a pleasant voice. he had a flat in 1estminster, overlooking the unfinished cathedral, and because we lived in the same

neighbourhood we felt friendly disposed to one another.!he /rmy and 0avy tores are a bond of union between all who dwell

between the river and t. James$s 8ark. (rs. trickland asked

me for my address, and a few days later # received aninvitation to luncheon.

(y engagements were few, and # was glad to accept . 1hen #

arrived, a little late, because in my fear of being too early # had walked three times round the cathedral, # found the

party already complete. (iss 1aterford was there and (rs. Jay, 2ichard !wining and Deorge 2oad. 1e were all writers.

#t was a fine day, early in spring, and we were in a good humour.1e talked about a hundred things. (iss 1aterford,

torn between the aestheticism of her early youth, when sheused to go to parties in sage green, holding a daffodil, and

the flippancy of her maturer years, which tended to high heelsand 8aris frocks, wore a new hat. #t put her in high spirits.

# had never heard her more malicious about our common friends. (rs. 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.

2ichard !wining bubbled over with %uaint absurdities, and

Deorge 2oad, conscious that he need not exhibit a brilliancy whichwas almost a by&word, opened his mouth only to put food into it.

(rs. trickland 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 set it going once more.

he 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. 3er skin was rather sallow. 3er dark hair was elaborately dressed.

he was the only woman of the three whose face was

free of make&up, and by contrast with the others she seemed simple and unaffected.

!he dining&room was in the good taste of the period. #t was

very severe. !here was a high dado of white wood and a green








































paper on which were etchings by 1histler in neat black frames.!he green curtains with their peacock design, hung in straight

lines, and the green carpet, in the pattern of which palerabbits frolicked among leafy trees, suggested the influence

of 1illiam (orris. !here was blue delft on the chimneypiece. /t that time there must have been five hundred dining&rooms in

*ondon decorated in exactly the same manner. #t was chaste,

artistic, and dull.

1hen we left # walked away with (iss 1aterford, and the fineday and her new hat persuaded us to saunter through the 8ark.

!hat was a very nice party, # said.

9id you think the food was good # told her that if she

wanted writers she must feed them well.

/dmirable advice, # answered. "ut why does she want them

(iss 1aterford shrugged her shoulders.

he finds them amusing. he wants to be in the movement. # fancy she$s rather simple, poor dear, and she thinks we$re

all wonderful. /fter all, it pleases her to ask us to luncheon,and it doesn$t hurt us. # like her for it.

*ooking back, # think that (rs. trickland was the most

harmless of all the lion&hunters that pursue their %uarry fromthe rarefied heights of 3ampstead to the nethermost studios of Cheyne 1alk. he had led a very %uiet youth in the country,

and the books that came down from (udie$s *ibrary brought withthem not only their own romance, but the romance of *ondon.

he had a real passion for reading Hrare in her kind, who for the most part are more interested in the author than in his book,

in the painter than in his picturesI, and she invented aworld of the imagination in which she lived with a freedom she

never ac%uired in the world of every day. 1hen she came toknow writers it was like adventuring upon a stage which till

then she had known only from the other side of the footlights.he saw them dramatically, and really seemed herself to live a

larger life because she entertained them and visited them intheir fastnesses. he accepted the rules with which they

played the game of life as valid for them, but never for amoment thought of regulating her own conduct in accordance

with them. !heir 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.

#s there a (r. trickland # asked

>h yes; he$s something in the city. # believe he$s a






































stockbroker. 3e$s very dull.

/re they good friends

!hey adore one another. Gou$ll meet him if you dine there. "ut she doesn$t often have people to dinner. 3e$s very %uiet .

3e$s not in the least interested in literature or the arts.

1hy do nice women marry dull men

"ecause intelligent men won$t marry nice women.

# could not think of any retort to this, so # asked if (rs.trickland had children.

Ges; she has a boy and a girl. !hey$re both at school.

!he subject was exhausted, and we began to talk of other things.

Chapter

9uring the summer # met (rs. trickland not infre%uently. # went now and then to pleasant little luncheons at her flat,

and to rather more formidable tea&parties. 1e took a fancy toone another. # 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 # could go to with my

small troubles, certain of an attentive ear and reasonablecounsel. (rs. trickland had the gift of sympathy. #t is a

charming faculty, but one often abused by those who areconscious of its possession' for there is something ghoulishin the avidity with which they will pounce upon the misfortune

of their friends so that they may exercise their dexterity. #t gushes forth like an oil&well, and the sympathetic pour out

their sympathy with an abandon that is sometimes embarrassing to their victims. !here are bosoms on which so many tears

have been shed that # cannot bedew them with mine.

(rs. trickland used her advantage with tact. Gou felt that youobliged her by accepting her sympathy. 1hen, in theenthusiasm of my youth, # remarked on this to 2ose 1aterford,

she said'

(ilk is very nice, especially with a drop of brandy in it,

but the domestic cow is only too glad to be rid of it. / swollen udder is very uncomfortable.

2ose 1aterford had a blistering tongue. 0o one could say such

bitter things; on the other hand, no one could do morecharming ones.

!here was another thing # liked in (rs. trickland.he managed her surroundings with elegance. 3er flat was always





















neat and cheerful, gay with flowers, and the chintzes in thedrawing&room, notwithstanding their severe design, were bright

and pretty. !he meals in the artistic little dining&room were pleasant ; the table looked nice, the two maids were trim and

comely; the food was well cooked. #t was impossible not to see that (rs. trickland was an excellent housekeeper.

/nd you felt sure that she was an admirable mother. !here were

photographs in the drawing&room of her son and daughter.!he son && his name was 2obert && was a boy of sixteen at 2ugby;and you saw him in flannels and a cricket cap, and again in a

tail&coat and a stand&up collar. 3e had his mother$s candid brow and fine, reflective eyes. 3e looked clean, healthy, and normal.

# don$t know that he$s very clever, she said one day, when # was looking at the photograph, but # know he$s good . 3e has

a charming character .

!he daughter was fourteen. 3er hair, thick and dark like her mother$s, fell over her shoulders in fine profusion, and shehad the same kindly expression and sedate, untroubled eyes.

!hey$re both of them the image of you, # said.

Ges; # think they are more like me than their father.

1hy have you never let me meet him # asked.

1ould you like to

he smiled, her smile was really very sweet, and she blushed a

little; it was singular that a woman of that age should flush so readily. 8erhaps her naivete was her greatest charm.

Gou know , he$s not at all literary, she said. 3e$s a perfect philistine.

he said this not disparagingly, but affectionately rather, as

though, by acknowledging the worst about him, she wished to protect him from the aspersions of her friends.

3e$s on the tock )xchange, and he$s a typical broker. # think he$d bore you to death.

9oes he bore you # asked.

Gou see , # happen to be his wife. #$m very fond of him.

he smiled to cover her shyness, and # fancied she had a fear that # would make the sort of gibe that such a confession

could hardly have failed to elicit from 2ose 1aterford.he hesitated a little. 3er eyes grew tender.





































3e doesn$t pretend to be a genius. 3e doesn$t even make muchmoney on the tock )xchange. "ut he$s awfully good and kind.

# think # should like him very much.

#$ll ask you to dine with us %uietly some time, but mind , you come

at your own risk; don$t blame me if you have a very dull evening.

Chapter #

"ut when at last # met Charles trickland, it was under

circumstances which allowed me to do no more than just makehis ac%uaintance. >ne morning (rs. trickland sent me round a

note to say that she was giving a dinner&party that evening,and one of her guests had failed her. he asked me to stop

the gap. he wrote'

#t$s only decent to warn you that you will be bored toextinction. #t was a thoroughly dull party from thebeginning, but if you will come # shall be uncommonly grateful.

/nd you and # can have a little chat by ourselves.

#t was only neighbourly to accept .

1hen (rs. trickland introduced me to her husband, he gave mea rather indifferent hand to shake. !urning to him gaily,

she attempted a small jest.

# asked him to show him that # really had a husband. # think

he was beginning to doubt it.

trickland gave the polite little laugh with which people

acknowledge a facetiousness in which they see nothing funny,but did not speak. 0ew arrivals claimed my host$s attention,

and # was left to myself . 1hen at last we were all assembled,waiting for dinner to be announced, # reflected, while #

chatted with the woman # had been asked to take in, that

civilised man practises a strange ingenuity in wasting ontedious exercises the brief span of his life. #t was the kind of party which makes you wonder why the hostess has troubled

to bid her guests, and why the guests have troubled to come.!here were ten people. !hey met with indifference, and would

part with relief. #t was, of course, a purely social function.!he tricklands owed dinners to a number of persons,

whom they took no interest in, and so had asked them;these persons had accepted . 1hy !o avoid the tedium of

dining , to give their servants a rest , becausethere was no reason to refuse, because they were owed a dinner.

!he dining&room was inconveniently crowded. !here was a 7.C.and his wife, a Dovernment official and his wife,

(rs. trickland$s sister and her husband, Colonel (ac/ndrew,






























and the wife of a (ember of 8arliament. #t was because the (ember of 8arliament found that he could not leave the 3ouse that # had

been invited. !he respectability of the party was portentous.!he women were too nice to be well dressed, and

too sure of their position to be amusing. !he men were solid.!here was about all of them an air of well&satisfied prosperity.

)veryone talked a little louder than natural in an instinctivedesire to make the party go, and there was a great deal of

noise in the room. "ut there was no general conversation. )ach one talked to his neighbour; to his neighbour on the

right during the soup, fish, and entree; to his neighbour onthe left during the roast, sweet, and savoury. !hey talked of

the political situation and of golf, of their children and thelatest play, of the pictures at the 2oyal /cademy, of the

weather and their plans for the holidays. !here was never a pause, and the noise grew louder. (rs. trickland might

congratulate herself that her party was a success. 3er husband played his part with decorum. 8erhaps he did not talk

very much, and # fancied there was towards the end a look of fatigue in the faces of the women on either side of him.

!hey were finding him heavy. >nce or twice (rs. trickland$s eyesrested on him somewhat anxiously.

/t last she rose and shepherded the ladies out of one room.trickland shut the door behind her, and, moving to the other

end of the table, took his place between the 7.C. and theDovernment official. 3e passed round the port again and

handed us cigars. !he 7.C. remarked on the excellence of thewine, and trickland told us where he got it. 1e began to

chat about vintages and tobacco. !he 7.C. told us of a casehe was engaged in, and the Colonel talked about polo. # had

nothing to say and so sat silent, trying politely to showinterest in the conversation; and because # thought no one was

in the least concerned with me, examined trickland at myease. 3e was bigger than # expected' # do not know why # 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. 3e gave you somewhat

the idea of a coachman dressed up for the occasion. 3e was aman 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 ungainly. 3e was clean

shaven, and his large face looked uncomfortably naked. 3is hair was reddish, cut very short, and his eyes were small,

blue or grey. 3e looked commonplace. # no longer wondered

that (rs. trickland 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. #t 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. >ne would admire his excellent %ualities, but avoid his company.

3e was null. 3e 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 him.

Chapter ##

!he season was drawing to its dusty end, and everyone # knewwas arranging to go away. (rs. trickland was taking her

family to the coast of 0orfolk, so that the children might have the sea and her husband golf. 1e said good&bye to one

another, and arranged to meet in the autumn. "ut on my last day in town, coming out of the tores, # met her with her son

and daughter; like myself , she had been making her final purchases before leaving *ondon, and we were both hot and tired.

# proposed that we should all go and eat ices in the park.

# think (rs. trickland was glad to show me her children,

and she accepted my invitation with alacrity. !hey were evenmore attractive than their photographs had suggested, and she was

right to be proud of them. # was young enough for them not to feel shy, and they chattered merrily about one thing and another.

!hey were extraordinarily nice, healthy young children. #t was very agreeable under the trees.

1hen in an hour they crowded into a cab to go home, # strolled

idly to my club. # was perhaps a little lonely , and it waswith a touch of envy that # thought of the pleasant familylife of which # had had a glimpse. !hey seemed devoted to one

another. !hey had little private jokes of their own which,unintelligible to the outsider, amused them enormously.

8erhaps Charles trickland was dull judged by a standard that demanded above all things verbal scintillation; but his

intelligence was ade%uate to his surroundings, and that is a passport, not only to reasonable success, but still more to

happiness. (rs. trickland was a charming woman, and sheloved him. # pictured their lives, troubled by no untoward

adventure, honest, decent, and, by reason of those twoupstanding, pleasant children, so obviously destined to carry

on the normal traditions of their race and station,not without significance. !hey would grow old insensibly;

they would see their son and daughter come to years of reason,marry 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.

!hat must be the story of innumerable couples, and the pattern

of life it offers has a homely grace. #t 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. 8erhaps it

is only by a kink in my nature, strong in me even in those days,that # felt in such an existence , the share of the great

majority, something amiss. # recognised its social values,

# saw its ordered happiness , but a fever in my blood asked for awilder course. !here seemed to me something alarming in sucheasy delights. #n my heart was a desire to live more dangerously.

# was not unprepared for jagged rocks and treacherous shoals if # could only have change && change and the excitement of

the unforeseen.

Chapter ###

>n reading over what # have written of the tricklands, # am

conscious that they must seem shadowy. # have been able toinvest 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 is mine, # rack my brains to remember idiosyncrasies which might lend them vividness. # feel that

by dwelling on some trick of speech or some %ueer habit # should be able to give them a significance peculiar to themselves.

/s 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 havelittle but a pleasing piece of colour. (y only excuse is that

the impression they made on me was no other. !here was just that shadowiness about them which you find in people whose

lives are part of the social organism, so that they exist init and by it only. !hey are like cells in the body, essential,

but, so long as they remain healthy, engulfed inthe momentous whole. !he tricklands were an average family

in the middle class. / pleasant , hospitable woman, with aharmless craze for the small lions of literary society; a

rather dull man, doing his duty in that state of life in whicha merciful 8rovidence had placed him; two nice&looking,healthy children. 0othing could be more ordinary. # do not

know that there was anything about them to excite theattention of the curious.

1hen # reflect on all that happened later, # ask myself if #

was thick&witted not to see that there was in Charlestrickland at least something out of the common. 8erhaps.

# think that # have gathered in the years that intervene between

then and now a fair knowledge of mankind, but even if when # first met the tricklands # had the experience which # have now,

# do not believe that # should have judged themdifferently. "ut because # have learnt that man is incalculable,

# should not at this time of day be so surprised by the news



























































that reached me when in the early autumn # returned to *ondon.

# had not been back twenty&four hours before # ran across 2ose

1aterford in Jermyn treet.

Gou look very gay and sprightly, # said. 1hat$s the matter

with you

he smiled, and her eyes shone with a malice # knew already.

#t meant that she had heard some scandal about one of her friends, and the instinct of the literary woman was all alert.

Gou did meet Charles trickland, didn$t you

0ot only her face, but her whole body, gave a sense of alacrity. # nodded. # wondered if the poor devil had been

hammered on the tock )xchange or run over by an omnibus.

#sn$t it dreadful 3e$s run away from his wife.

(iss 1aterford certainly felt that she could not do her subject justice on the curb of Jermyn treet, and so,

like an artist, flung the bare fact at me and declared that she knew no details. # could not do her the injustice of supposing

that so trifling a circumstance would have prevented her from giving them, but she was obstinate.

# tell you # know nothing, she said, in reply to my agitated %uestions, and then, with an airy shrug of the shoulders'

# believe that a young person in a city tea&shop has left her situation.

he flashed a smile at me, and, protesting an engagement withher dentist, jauntily walked on. # was more interested than

distressed. #n those days my experience of life at first hand was small, and it excited me to come upon an incident among

people # knew of the same sort as # had read in books.

# confess that time has now accustomed me to incidents of thischaracter among my ac%uaintance. "ut # was a little shocked.trickland was certainly forty, and # thought it disgusting

that a man of his age should concern himself with affairs of the heart. 1ith the superciliousness of extreme youth, # put

thirty&five as the utmost limit at which a man might fall inlove without making a fool of himself . /nd this news was

slightly disconcerting to me personally, because # had written from the country to (rs. trickland, announcing my return, and

had added that unless # heard from her to the contrary, # would come on a certain day to drink a dish of tea with her.

!his was the very day, and # had received no word from (rs.trickland. 9id she want to see me or did she not #t was

likely enough that in the agitation of the moment my note had escaped her memory. 8erhaps # should be wiser not to go.




































>n the other hand, she might wish to keep the affair %uiet ,and it might be highly indiscreet on my part to give any sign that

this strange news had reached me. # was torn between the fear of hurting a nice woman$s feelings and the fear of being in

the way. # felt she must be suffering, and # did not want to see a pain which # could not help; but in my heart was a

desire , that # felt a little ashamed of, to see how she was

taking it. # did not know what to do.

Finally it occurred to me that # would call as though nothing had happened, and send a message in by the maid asking (rs.

trickland if it was convenient for her to see me. !his would give her the opportunity to send me away. "ut # was

overwhelmed with embarrassment when # said to the maid the phrase # had prepared, and while # waited for the answer in a

dark passage # had to call up all my strength of mind not to bolt.!he maid came back. 3er manner suggested to my excited

fancy a complete knowledge of the domestic calamity.

1ill you come this way, sir she said.

# followed her into the drawing&room. !he blinds were partlydrawn to darken the room, and (rs. trickland was sitting with

her back to the light. 3er brother&in&law, Colonel (ac/ndrew, stood in front of the fireplace, warming his back at an unlit fire.

!o myself my entrance seemed excessively awkward. # imagined that my arrival had taken them by surprise, and (rs. trickland

had let me come in only because she had forgotten to put me off. # fancied that the Colonel resented the interruption.

# wasn$t %uite sure if you expected me, # said, trying to seem unconcerned.

>f course # did. /nne will bring the tea in a minute.

)ven in the darkened room, # could not help seeing that (rs.trickland$s face was all swollen with tears. 3er skin,

never very good , was earthy.

Gou remember my brother&in&law, don$t you Gou met at dinner,

just before the holidays.

1e shook hands. # felt so shy that # could think of nothing

to say, but (rs. trickland came to my rescue. he asked mewhat # had been doing with myself during the summer, and with

this help # managed to make some conversation till tea was

brought in. !he Colonel asked for a whisky&and&soda.

Gou$d better have one too, /my, he said.

0o; # prefer tea.

























































!his was the first suggestion that anything untoward had happened. # took no notice, and did my best to engage

(rs. trickland in talk. !he Colonel, still standing in front of the fireplace, uttered no word. # wondered how soon # could

decently take my leave, and # asked myself why on earth (rs.trickland had allowed me to come. !here were no flowers,

and various knick&knacks, put away during the summer, had not been

replaced; there was something cheerless and stiff about theroom 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. # finished tea.

1ill you have a cigarette asked (rs. trickland.

he looked about for the box, but it was not to be seen.

#$m afraid there are none.

uddenly she burst into tears, and hurried from the room.

# was startled. # 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 comforts shewas used to were missing gave her a sudden pang. he realised

that the old life was gone and done with. #t was impossibleto keep up our social pretences any longer.

# dare say you$d like me to go, # said to the Colonel, getting up.

# suppose you$ve heard that blackguard has deserted her, he cried explosively.

# hesitated.

Gou know how people gossip, # answered. # was vaguely told

that something was wrong.

3e$s bolted. 3e$s gone off to 8aris with a woman. 3e$s left /my without a penny.

#$m awfully sorry , # said, not knowing what else to say.

!he Colonel gulped down his whisky. 3e was a tall, lean man

of fifty, with a drooping moustache and grey hair. 3e had pale blue eyes and a weak mouth. # remembered from my

previous meeting with him that he had a foolish face, and was

proud of the fact that for the ten years before he left thearmy he had played polo three days a week.

# don$t suppose (rs. trickland wants to be bothered with me

just now, # said. 1ill you tell her how sorry # am


































#f there$s anything # can do. # shall be delighted to do it.

3e took no notice of me.

# don$t know what$s to become of her. /nd then there are thechildren. /re they going to live on air eventeen years.

1hat about seventeen years

!hey$ve been married, he snapped. # never liked him.>f course he was my brother&in&law, and # made the best of it.

9id you think him a gentleman he ought never to havemarried him.

#s it absolutely final

!here$s only one thing for her to do, and that$s to divorce

him. !hat$s what # was telling her when you came in.$Fire in with your petition, my dear /my,$ # said. KGou owe it

to yourself and you owe it to the children.$ 3e$d better not let me catch sight of him. #$d thrash him within an inch of his life.

# could not help thinking that Colonel (ac/ndrew might have some difficulty in doing this, since trickland had struck me

as a hefty fellow, but # did not say anything. #t is alwaysdistressing when outraged morality does not possess the

strength of arm to administer direct chastisement on the sinner.

# was making up my mind to another attempt at going when (rs. trickland came back. he had dried her eyes and

powdered her nose.

#$m sorry # broke down, she said. #$m glad you didn$t go away.

he sat down. # did not at all know what to say. # felt a

certain shyness at referring to matters which were no concernof mine. # did not then know the besetting sin of woman,

the passion to discuss her private affairs with anyone who is

willing to listen. (rs. trickland seemed to make an effort over herself .

/re people talking about it she asked.

# was taken aback by her assumption that # knew all about her

domestic misfortune.

#$ve only just come back. !he only person #$ve seen is 2ose

1aterford.

(rs. trickland clasped her hands.

!ell me exactly what she said. /nd when # hesitated, she insisted. # particularly want to know.






































Gou know the way people talk. he$s not very reliable, is she he said your husband had left you.

#s that all

# did not choose to repeat 2ose 1aterford$s parting reference

to a girl from a tea&shop. # lied.

he didn$t say anything about his going with anyone

0o.

!hat$s all # wanted to know.

# was a little puzzled, but at all events # understood that #

might now take my leave. 1hen # shook hands with (rs.trickland # told her that if # could be of any use to her #

should be very glad. he smiled wanly.

!hank you so much. # don$t know that anybody can do anything

for me.

!oo shy to express my sympathy, # turned to say good&bye to

the Colonel. 3e did not take my hand.

#$m just coming. #f you$re walking up ictoria treet, #$ll come along with you.

/ll right, # said. Come on.

Chapter #L

!his is a terrible thing, he said, the moment we got out into the street.

# realised that he had come away with me in order to discussonce more what he had been already discussing for hours with

his sister&in&law.

1e don$t know who the woman is, you know , he said. /ll weknow is that the blackguard$s gone to 8aris.

# thought they got on so well.

o they did. 1hy, just before you came in /my said they$d

never had a %uarrel in the whole of their married life.Gou know /my. !here never was a better woman in the world.

ince these confidences were thrust on me, # saw no harm inasking a few %uestions.

"ut do you mean to say she suspected nothing



























0othing. 3e spent /ugust with her and the children in 0orfolk. 3e was just the same as he$d always been. 1e went

down for two or three days, my wife and #, and # played golf with him. 3e came back to town in eptember to let his

partner go away, and /my stayed on in the country.!hey$d taken a house for six weeks, and at the end of her tenancy

she wrote to tell him on which day she was arriving in *ondon.

3e answered from 8aris. 3e said he$d made up his mind not tolive with her any more.

1hat explanation did he give

(y dear fellow, he gave no explanation. #$ve seen theletter. #t wasn$t more than ten lines.

"ut that$s extraordinary.

1e happened then to cross the street, and the traffic prevented us from speaking. 1hat Colonel (ac/ndrew had told me seemed very improbable, and # suspected that (rs.

trickland, for reasons of her own, had concealed from him some part of the facts. #t 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. !he Colonel caught me up.

>f course, there was no explanation he could give except that

he$d gone off with a woman. # suppose he thought she could find that out for herself . !hat$s the sort of chap he was.

1hat is (rs. trickland going to do

1ell, the first thing is to get our proofs. #$m going over to 8aris myself .

/nd what about his business

!hat$s where he$s been so artful. 3e$s been drawing in hishorns for the last year.

9id he tell his partner he was leaving

0ot a word.

Colonel (ac/ndrew had a very sketchy knowledge of businessmatters, and # had none at all, so # did not %uite understand

under what conditions trickland had left his affairs.

# gathered that the deserted partner was very angry and threatened proceedings. #t appeared that when everything was

settled he would be four or five hundred pounds out of pocket.

#t$s lucky the furniture in the flat is in /my$s name.
























he$ll have that at all events.

9id you mean it when you said she wouldn$t have a bob

>f course # did. he$s got two or three hundred pounds and the furniture.

"ut how is she going to live

Dod knows.

!he affair seemed to grow more complicated, and the Colonel,

with his expletives and his indignation, confused rather thaninformed me. # was glad that, catching sight of the clock at

the /rmy and 0avy tores, he remembered an engagement to playcards at his club, and so left me to cut across t. James 8ark.

Chapter L

/ day or two later (rs. trickland sent me round a note asking

if # could go and see her that evening after dinner. # found her alone. 3er black dress, simple to austerity, suggested

her bereaved condition , and # was innocently astonished that notwithstanding a real emotion she was able to dress the part

she had to play according to her notions of seemliness.

Gou said that if # wanted you to do anything you wouldn$t

mind doing it, she remarked.

#t was %uite true.

1ill you go over to 8aris and see Charlie

#

# was taken aback. # reflected that # had only seen him once.

# did not know what she wanted me to do.

Fred is set on going. Fred was Colonel (ac/ndrew. "ut #$m

sure he$s not the man to go. 3e$ll only make things worse. # don$t know who else to ask.

3er voice trembled a little, and # felt a brute even to hesitate.

"ut #$ve not spoken ten words to your husband. 3e doesn$t know me. 3e$ll probably just tell me to go to the devil.

!hat wouldn$t hurt you, said (rs. trickland, smiling.

1hat is it exactly you want me to do

he did not answer directly.











































# think it$s rather an advantage that he doesn$t know you.Gou see , he never really liked Fred; he thought him a fool; he

didn$t understand soldiers. Fred would fly into a passion,and there$d be a %uarrel, and things would be worse instead

of better. #f you said you came on my behalf, he couldn$t refuse to listen to you.

# haven$t known you very long, # answered. # don$t see howanyone can be expected to tackle a case like this unless he

knows all the details. # don$t want to pry into what doesn$t concern me. 1hy don$t you go and see him yourself

Gou forget he isn$t alone.

# held my tongue. # saw myself calling on Charles trickland

and sending in my card; # saw him come into the room,holding it between finger and thumb'

!o what do # owe this honour

#$ve come to see you about your wife.

2eally. 1hen you are a little older you will doubtless learn

the advantage of minding your own business. #f you will be so good as to turn your head slightly to the left, you will see

the door. # wish you good&afternoon.

# foresaw that it would be difficult to make my exit withdignity, and # wished to goodness that # had not returned to

*ondon till (rs. trickland had composed her difficulties.

# stole a glance at her. he was immersed in thought . 8resently she looked up at me, sighed deeply, and smiled.

#t was all so unexpected, she said. 1e$d been married seventeen years. # sever dreamed that Charlie was the sort of

man to get infatuated with anyone. 1e always got on very well together. >f course, # had a great many interests that he

didn$t share.

3ave you found out who && # did not %uite know how to

express myself && who the person, who it is he$s gone awaywith

0o. 0o one seems to have an idea. #t$s so strange.Denerally when a man falls in love with someone people see

them about together, lunching or something, and her friendsalways come and tell the wife. # had no warning && nothing.

3is letter came like a thunderbolt. # thought he was perfectly happy.

he began to cry, poor thing, and # felt very sorry for her.


































































"ut in a little while she grew calmer.

#t$s no good making a fool of myself , she said, drying

her eyes. !he only thing is to decide what is the best thing to do.

he went on, talking somewhat at random, now of the recent

past, then of their first meeting and their marriage;but presently # began to form a fairly coherent picture of their lives; and it seemed to me that my surmises had not

been incorrect. (rs. trickland was the daughter of an #ndian civilian, who on his retirement had settled in the depths

of the country, but it was his habit every /ugust to take his family to )astbourne for change of air; and it was here,

when she was twenty, that she met Charles trickland. 3e was twenty&three. !hey played together, walked 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. !hey lived in *ondon, first in 3ampstead, and then,as he grew more prosperous, in town. !wo children were born

to them.

3e always seemed very fond of them. )ven if he was tired of me,

# wonder that he had the heart to leave them. #t$s all soincredible. )ven now # can hardly believe it$s true.

/t last she showed me the letter he had written.

# was curious to see it, but had not ventured to ask for it.

(G 9)/2 /(G,

think you will find everything all right in the flat. # have given /nne your instructions, and dinner will be ready

for you and the children when you come. # shall not be thereto meet you. # have made up my mind to live apart from you,

and # am going to 8aris in the morning. # shall post thisletter on my arrival. # shall not come back. (y decision is

irrevocable.

Gours always,E

C3/2*) !2#C7*/09.

0ot a word of explanation or regret. 9on$t you think it$s inhuman

#t$s a very strange letter under the circumstances, # replied.

!here$s only one explanation, and that is that he$s not himself .

# don$t know who this woman is who$s got hold of him,but she$s made him into another man. #t$s evidently been















































going on a long time.

1hat makes you think that

Fred found that out. (y husband said he went to the clubthree or four nights a week to play bridge. Fred knows one of

the members, and said something about Charles being a great

bridge&player. !he man was surprised. 3e said he$d never even seen Charles in the card&room. #t$s %uite clear now that when # thought Charles was at his club he was with her.

# was silent for a moment. !hen # thought of the children.

#t must have been difficult to explain to 2obert, # said.

>h, # never said a word to either of them. Gou see , we only

came up to town the day before they had to go back to school.

# had the presence of mind to say that their father had beencalled away on business.

#t 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. (rs. trickland$s voicebroke again.

/nd what is to happen to them, poor darlings 3ow are we

going to live

he struggled for self&control , and # saw her hands clench and unclench spasmodically. #t was dreadfully painful .

>f course #$ll go over to 8aris if you think # can do any good ,but you must tell me exactly what you want me to do.

# want him to come back.

# understood from Colonel (ac/ndrew that you$d made up your mind to divorce him.

#$ll never divorce him, she answered with a sudden violence.!ell him that from me. 3e$ll never be able to marry that woman.

#$m as obstinate as he is, and #$ll never divorce him. # have to think of my children.

# think she added this to explain her attitude to me, but # thought it was due to a very natural jealousy rather than to

maternal solicitude.

/re you in love with him still

# don$t know. # want him to come back. #f he$ll do that

we$ll let bygones be bygones. /fter all, we$ve been married





















































for seventeen years. #$m a broadminded woman. # wouldn$t have minded what he did as long as # knew nothing about it.

3e must know that his infatuation won$t last. #f he$ll comeback now everything can be smoothed over, and no one will know

anything about it.

#t chilled me a little that (rs. trickland should be

concerned with gossip, for # did not know then how great a part is played in women$s life by the opinion of others.

#t throws a shadow of insincerity over their most deeply felt emotions.

#t was known where trickland was staying. 3is partner, in aviolent letter, sent to his bank, had taunted him with hiding

his whereabouts' and trickland, in a cynical and humourousreply, had told his partner exactly where to find him. 3e was

apparently living in an 3otel.

#$ve never heard of it, said (rs. trickland. "ut Fred

knows it well. 3e says it$s very expensive.

he flushed darkly. # 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.

#t can$t go on at his age, she said. /fter all, he$s forty.

# could understand it in a young man, but # think it$shorrible in a man of his years, with children who are nearly

grown up. 3is health will never stand it.

/nger struggled in her breast with misery.

!ell him that our home cries out for him. )verything is just

the same, and yet everything is different. # can$t livewithout him. #$d sooner kill myself . !alk to him about the past,

and all we$ve gone through together. 1hat am # to sayto the children when they ask for him 3is room is exactly as

it was when he left it. #t$s waiting for him. 1e$re all waiting for him.

0ow she told me exactly what # should say. he gave meelaborate answers to every possible observation of his.

Gou will do everything you can for me she said pitifully.!ell him what a state #$m in.

# saw that she wished me to appeal to his sympathies by everymeans in my power. he was weeping freely. # was

extraordinarily touched . # felt indignant at trickland$scold cruelty, and # promised to do all # could to bring him back.

# agreed to go over on the next day but one, and to
















































stay in 8aris till # had achieved something. !hen, as it was growing late and we were both exhausted by so much emotion ,

# left her.

Chapter L#

9uring the journey # thought over my errand with misgiving.

0ow that # was free from the spectacle of (rs. trickland$sdistress # could consider the matter more calmly. # was puzzled by the contradictions that # saw in her behaviour .

he was very unhappy , but to excite my sympathy she was ableto make a show of her unhappiness. #t was evident that she

had been prepared to weep, for she had provided herself with a sufficiency of handkerchiefs; # admired her forethought, but

in retrospect it made her tears perhaps less moving. # could not decide whether she desired the return of her husband

because she loved him, or because she dreaded the tongue of

scandal; and # was perturbed by the suspicion that the anguishof love contemned was alloyed in her broken heart with the

pangs, sordid to my young mind , of wounded vanity. # had not

yet learnt how contradictory is human nature; # did not knowhow much pose there is in the sincere, how much baseness in

the noble , nor how much goodness in the reprobate.

"ut there was something of an adventure in my trip, and my

spirits rose as # approached 8aris. # saw myself , too, fromthe dramatic standpoint, and # was pleased with my role of the

trusted friend bringing back the errant husband to his forgiving wife. # made up my mind to see trickland the

following evening, for # felt instinctively that the hour must be chosen with delicacy. /n appeal to the emotions is little

likely to be effectual before luncheon. (y own thoughts werethen constantly occupied with love, but # never could imagine

connubial bliss till after tea.

# en%uired at my hotel for that in which Charles trickland

was living. #t was called the 3otel des "elges. "ut theconcierge, somewhat to my surprise, had never heard of it.

# had understood from (rs. trickland that it was a large and sumptuous place at the back of the 2ue de 2ivoli. 1e looked

it out in the directory. !he only hotel of that name was inthe 2ue des (oines. !he %uarter was not fashionable; it was

not even respectable. # shook my head.

#$m sure that$s not it, # said.

!he concierge shrugged his shoulders. !here was no other hotel of that name in 8aris. #t occurred to me that

trickland had concealed his address, after all. #n giving his partner the one # knew he was perhaps playing a trick on him.

# do not know why # had an inkling that it would appeal to trickland$s sense of humour to bring a furious stockbroker


































































over to 8aris on a fool$s errand to an ill&famed house in amean street. till, # thought # had better go and see.

0ext day about six o$clock # took a cab to the 2ue des (oines,but dismissed it at the corner, since # preferred to walk to the

hotel and look at it before # went in. #t was a street of small shops subservient to the needs of poor people, and about

the middle of it, on the left as # walked down, was the 3otel

des "elges. (y own hotel was modest enough, but it wasmagnificent in comparison with this. #t was a tall, shabbybuilding, that cannot have been painted for years, and it had

so bedraggled an air that the houses on each side of it looked neat and clean. !he dirty windows were all shut. #t was not

here that Charles trickland lived in guilty splendour withthe unknown charmer for whose sake he had abandoned honour and duty.

# was vexed, for # felt that # had been made a fool of,and # nearly turned away without making an en%uiry. # went in

only to be able to tell (rs. trickland that # had done my best.

!he door was at the side of a shop. #t stood open, and just

within was a sign' # 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. !here was abench outside, on which it might be presumed the night porter

passed uneasy nights. !here was no one about, but under anelectric bell was written # rang, and presently a

waiter appeared. 3e was a young man with furtive eyes and a sullen look. 3e was in shirt&sleeves and carpet slippers.

# do not know why # made my en%uiry as casual as possible.

9oes (r. trickland live here by any chance # asked.

0umber thirty&two. >n the sixth floor.

# was so surprised that for a moment # did not answer.

#s he in

!he waiter looked at a board in the

3e hasn$t left his key. Do up and you$ll see.

# thought it as well to put one more %uestion.

!he waiter looked at me suspiciously as # made my way upstairs.

!hey were dark and airless. !here was a foul and musty smell . !hree flights up a 1oman in a dressing&gown,

with touzled hair, opened a door and looked at me silently as # passed. /t length # reached the sixth floor, and knocked at

the door numbered thirty&two. !here was a sound within, and the door was partly opened. Charles trickland stood before me.



















3e uttered not a word. 3e evidently did not know me.

# told him my name. # tried my best to assume an airy manner.

Gou don$t remember me. # had the pleasure of dining with youlast July.

Come in, he said cheerily. #$m delighted to see you.!ake a pew.

# entered. #t was a very small room, overcrowded with

furniture of the style which the French know as *ouis 8hilippe. !here was a large wooden bedstead on which was a

billowing red eiderdown, and there was a large wardrobe,a round table, a very small washstand, and two stuffed chairs

covered with red rep. )verything was dirty and shabby.!here was no sign of the abandoned luxury that Colonel (ac/ndrew

had so confidently described. trickland threw on the floor theclothes that burdened one of the chairs, and # sat down on it.

1hat can # do for you he asked.

#n that small room he seemed even bigger than # remembered him.

3e wore an old 0orfolk jacket, and he had not shaved for several days. 1hen last # saw him he was spruce enough,

but he looked ill at ease' now, untidy and ill&kempt,he looked perfectly at home. # did not know how he would

take the remark # had prepared.

#$ve come to see you on behalf of your wife.

# was just going out to have a drink before dinner.Gou$d better come too. 9o you like absinthe

# can drink it.

Come on, then.

3e put on a bowler hat much in need of brushing.

1e might dine together. Gou owe me a dinner, you know.

Certainly. /re you alone

# flattered myself that # had got in that important %uestionvery naturally.

>h yes. #n point of fact #$ve not spoken to a soul for three days. (y French isn$t exactly brilliant.

# wondered as # preceded him downstairs what had happened to

the little lady in the tea&shop. 3ad they %uarrelled already,or was his infatuation passed #t seemed hardly likely if,
































as appeared, he had been taking steps for a year to make hisdesperate plunge. 1e walked to the /venue de Clichy, and sat

down at one of the tables on the pavement of a large cafe.

Chapter L##

!he /venue de Clichy was crowded at that hour, and a lively

fancy might see in the passers&by the personages of many a sordid romance. !here were clerks and shopgirls; old fellowswho might have stepped out of the pages of 3onore de "alzac;

members, male and female, of the professions which make their profit of the frailties of mankind. !here is in the streets

of the poorer %uarters of 8aris a thronging vitality whichexcites the blood and prepares the soul for the unexpected.

9o you know 8aris well # asked.

0o. 1e came on our honeymoon. # haven$t been since.

3ow on earth did you find out your hotel

#t was recommended to me. # wanted something cheap.

!he absinthe came, and with due solemnity we dropped water

over the melting sugar.

# thought #$d better tell you at once why # had come to see you,

# said, not without embarrassment.

3is eyes twinkled. # thought somebody would come along sooner or later. #$ve had a lot of letters from /my.

!hen you know pretty well what #$ve got to say.

#$ve not read them.

# lit a cigarette to give myself a moment$s time. # did not

%uite know now how to set about my mission. !he elo%uent phrases # had arranged, pathetic or indignant, seemed out of place on the /venue de Clichy. uddenly he gave a chuckle.

"eastly job for you this, isn$t it

>h, # don$t know , # answered.

1ell, look here, you get it over, and then we$ll have a

jolly evening.

# hesitated.

3as it occurred to you that your wife is frightfully unhappy


























he$ll get over it.

# cannot describe the extraordinary callousness with which he

made this reply. #t disconcerted me, but # did my best not to show it. # adopted the tone used by my ?ncle 3enry,

a clergyman, when he was asking one of his relatives for a subscription to the /dditional Curates ociety.

Gou don$t mind my talking to you frankly

3e shook his head, smiling.

3as she deserved that you should treat her like this

0o.

3ave you any complaint to make against her

0one.

!hen, isn$t it monstrous to leave her in this fashion,

after seventeen years of married life, without a fault to find with her

(onstrous.

# glanced at him with surprise. 3is cordial agreement with

all # said cut the ground from under my feet. #t made my position complicated, not to say ludicrous. # was prepared tobe persuasive, touching , and hortatory, admonitory 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 # had no experience , since my own practice has always been to deny everything.

1hat, then asked trickland.

# tried to curl my lip.

1ell, if you acknowledge that, there doesn$t seem much moreto be said.

# don$t think there is.

# felt that # was not carrying out my embassy with any great skill. # was distinctly nettled.

3ang it all, one can$t leave a woman without a bob.

1hy not

3ow is she going to live













#$ve supported her for seventeen years. 1hy shouldn$t she support herself for a change

he can$t.

*et her try.

>f course there were many things # might have answered to this. # might have spoken of the economic position of woman,

of the contract, tacit and overt, which a man accepts by hismarriage, and of much else; but # felt that there was only one

point which really signified.

9on$t you care for her any more

0ot a bit, he replied.

!he matter was immensely serious for all the parties concerned,but there was in the manner of his answer such a cheerful

effrontery that # had to bite my lips in order not to laugh. # reminded myself that his behaviour was abominable.

# worked myself up into a state of moral indignation.

9amn it all, there are your children to think of.

!hey$ve never done you any harm. !hey didn$t ask to bebrought into the world. #f you chuck everything like this,

they$ll be thrown on the streets.

!hey$ve had a good many years of comfort . #t$s much more

than the majority of children have. "esides, somebody will look after them. 1hen it comes to the point, the (ac/ndrews

will pay for their schooling.

"ut aren$t you fond of them !hey$re such awfully nice kids.

9o you mean to say you don$t want to have anything more to dowith them

# liked them all right when they were kids, but now they$re growing up # haven$t got any particular feeling for them.

#t$s just inhuman.

# dare say.

Gou don$t seem in the least ashamed.

#$m not.

# tried another tack.

)veryone will think you a perfect swine.




































*et them.

1on$t it mean anything to you to know that people loathe and

despise you

0o.

3is brief answer was so scornful that it made my %uestion,natural though it was, seem absurd. # reflected for a minute

or two.

# wonder if one can live %uite comfortably when one$sconscious of the disapproval of one$s fellows /re you sure

it won$t begin to worry you )veryone has some sort of aconscience , and sooner or later it will find you out.

upposing your wife died, wouldn$t you be tortured by remorse

3e did not answer, and # waited for some time for him to speak. /t last # had to break the silence myself .

1hat have you to say to that

>nly that you$re a damned fool.

/t all events, you can be forced to support your wife and

children, # retorted, somewhat pi%ued. # suppose the lawhas some protection to offer them.

Can the law get blood out of a stone # haven$t any money.

#$ve got about a hundred pounds.

# began to be more puzzled than before. #t was true that his

hotel pointed to the most straitened circumstances.

1hat are you going to do when you$ve spent that

)arn some.

3e was perfectly cool, and his eyes kept that mocking smile

which made all # said seem rather foolish. # paused for alittle while to consider what # had better say next. "ut it

was he who spoke first.

1hy doesn$t /my marry again he$s comparatively young, and

she$s not unattractive. # can recommend her as an excellent wife. #f she wants to divorce me # don$t mind giving her the

necessary grounds.

0ow it was my turn to smile. 3e was very cunning, but it wasevidently this that he was aiming at. 3e had some reason to

conceal the fact that he had run away with a woman, and he wasusing every precaution to hide her whereabouts. # answered

















with decision.

Gour wife says that nothing you can do will ever induce her

to divorce you. he$s %uite made up her mind . Gou can put any possibility of that definitely out of your head.

3e looked at me with an astonishment that was certainly not

feigned. !he smile abandoned his lips, and he spoke %uite seriously.

"ut, my dear fellow, # don$t care. #t doesn$t matter atwopenny damn to me one way or the other.

# laughed.

>h, come now; you mustn$t think us such fools as all that.1e happen to know that you came away with a woman.

3e gave a little start, and then suddenly burst into a shout of laughter. 3e laughed so uproariously that people sitting

near us looked round, and some of them began to laugh too.

# don$t see anything very amusing in that.

8oor /my, he grinned.

!hen his face grew bitterly scornful.

1hat poor minds women have gotM *ove. #t$s always love.!hey think a man leaves only because he wants others. 9o you think # should be such a fool as to do what #$ve

done for a woman

9o you mean to say you didn$t leave your wife for another woman

>f course not.

>n your word of honour

# don$t know why # asked for that. #t was very ingenuous of me.

>n my word of honour.

!hen, what in Dod$s name have you left her for

# want to paint.

# looked at him for %uite a long time. # did not understand .

# thought he was mad. #t must be remembered that # was very young, and # looked upon him as a middle&aged man. # forgot

everything but my own amazement.

"ut you$re forty.





























!hat$s what made me think it was high time to begin.

3ave you ever painted

# rather wanted to be a painter when # was a boy, but my father made me go into business because he said there was no

money in art. # began to paint a bit a year ago. For the

last year #$ve been going to some classes at night.

1as that where you went when (rs. trickland thought you were playing bridge at your club

!hat$s it.

1hy didn$t you tell her

# preferred to keep it to myself .

Can you paint

0ot yet. "ut # shall. !hat$s why #$ve come over here.

# couldn$t get what # wanted in *ondon. 8erhaps # can here.

9o you think it$s likely that a man will do any good when he starts at your age (ost men begin painting at eighteen.

# can learn %uicker than # could when # was eighteen.

1hat makes you think you have any talent

3e did not answer for a minute. 3is gaze rested on the passing throng, but # do not think he saw it. 3is answer was

no answer.

#$ve got to paint.

/ren$t you taking an awful chance

3e looked at me. 3is eyes had something strange in them, so that # felt rather uncomfortable.

3ow old are you !wenty&three

#t seemed to me that the %uestion was beside the point.

#t was natural that # should take chances; but he was a man whose youth was past, a stockbroker with a position of

respectability, a wife and two children. / course that would

have been natural for me was absurd for him. # wished to be%uite fair.

>f course a miracle may happen, and you may be a great painter,

but you must confess the chances are a million to oneagainst it. #t$ll be an awful sell if at the end you have to

























acknowledge you$ve made a hash of it.

#$ve got to paint, he repeated.

upposing you$re never anything more than third&rate, do youthink it will have been worth while to give up everything

/fter all, in any other walk in life it doesn$t matter if

you$re not very good ; you can get along %uite comfortably if you$re just ade%uate; but it$s different with an artist.

Gou blasted fool, he said.

# don$t see why, unless it$s folly to say the obvious.

# tell you #$ve got to paint. # can$t help myself . 1hen aman 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.

!here was real passion in his voice, and in spite of myself #

was impressed. # 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. # could not understand . 3e seemed

really to be possessed of a devil, and # felt that it might suddenly turn and rend him. Get he looked ordinary enough.

(y eyes, resting on him curiously, caused him noembarrassment. # wondered what a stranger would have taken

him to be, sitting there in his old 0orfolk jacket and hisunbrushed bowler; 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. 3is mouth was large, his lips were heavyand sensual. 0o; # could not have placed him.

Gou won$t go back to your wife # said at last.

0ever.

he$s willing to forget everything that$s happened and start afresh.he$ll never make you a single reproach.

he can go to hell.

Gou don$t care if people think you an utter blackguardGou don$t care if she and your children have to beg their bread

0ot a damn.

# was silent for a moment in order to give greater force to my

next remark. # spoke as deliberately as # could.

Gou are a most unmitigated cad.































0ow that you$ve got that off your chest, let$s go and have dinner.

Chapter L###

# dare say it would have been more seemly to decline this proposal. # think perhaps # should have made a show of the

indignation # really felt , and # am sure that Colonel

(ac/ndrew at least would have thought well of me if # had beenable to report my stout refusal to sit at the same table witha man of such character . "ut the fear of not being able to

carry it through effectively has always made me shy of assuming the moral attitude; and in this case the certainty

that my sentiments would be lost on trickland made it peculiarly embarrassing to utter them. >nly the poet or the

saint can water an asphalt pavement in the confident anticipation that lilies will reward his labour.

# paid for what we had drunk, and we made our way to a cheaprestaurant, crowded and gay, where we dined with pleasure.

# had the appetite of youth and he of a hardened conscience.!hen we went to a tavern to have coffee and li%ueurs.

# had said all # had to say on the subject that had brought meto 8aris, and though # felt it in a manner treacherous to (rs.

trickland not to pursue it, # could not struggle against hisindifference. #t re%uires the feminine temperament to repeat

the same thing three times with unabated zest. # solaced

myself by thinking that it would be useful for me to find out what # could about trickland$s state of mind . #t alsointerested me much more. "ut this was not an easy thing to do,

for trickland was not a fluent talker. 3e seemed toexpress himself with difficulty, as though words were not the

medium with which his mind worked; and you had to guess theintentions of his soul by hackneyed phrases, slang, and vague,

unfinished gestures. "ut though he said nothing of anyconse%uence, there was something in his personality which

prevented him from being dull. 8erhaps it was sincerity. 3e did not seem to care much about the 8aris he was now seeing

for the first time H# did not count the visit with his wifeI,and he accepted sights which must have been strange to him

without any sense of astonishment. # have been to 8aris ahundred times, and it never fails to give me a thrill of excitement;

# can never walk its streets without feeling myself on the verge of adventure. trickland remained placid.

*ooking back, # think now that he was blind to everything but to some disturbing vision in his soul .

>ne rather absurd incident took place. !here were a number of harlots in the tavern' some were sitting with men, others by

themselves; and presently # noticed that one of these waslooking at us. 1hen she caught trickland$s eye she smiled.

# do not think he saw her. #n a little while she went out,







































































but in a minute returned and, passing our table, very politelyasked us to buy her something to drink. he sat down and #

began to chat with her; but, it was plain that her interest was in trickland. # explained that he knew no more than two

words of French. he tried to talk to him, partly by signs, partly in pidgin French, which, for some reason, she thought

would be more comprehensible to him, and she had half a dozen

phrases of )nglish. he made me translate what she could onlyexpress in her own tongue, and eagerly asked for the meaning of his replies. 3e was %uite good&tempered , a little amused,

but his indifference was obvious.

# think you$ve made a con%uest, # laughed.

#$m not flattered.

#n his place # should have been more embarrassed and less calm.

he had laughing eyes and a most charming mouth.he was young. # wondered what she found so attractive in

trickland. he made no secret of her desires , and # wasbidden to translate.

he wants you to go home with her.

#$m not taking any, he replied.

# put his answer as pleasantly as # could. #t seemed to me a

little ungracious to decline an invitation of that sort,and # ascribed his refusal to lack of money.

"ut # like him, she said. !ell him it$s for love.

1hen # translated this, trickland shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

!ell her to go to hell, he said.

3is manner made his answer %uite plain, and the girl threw

back her head with a sudden gesture. 8erhaps she reddened under her paint. he rose to her feet.

she said.

he walked out of the inn. # was slightly vexed.

!here wasn$t any need to insult her that # can see , # said.

/fter all, it was rather a compliment she was paying you.

!hat sort of thing makes me sick, he said roughly.

# looked at him curiously. !here was a real distaste in his

face, and yet it was the face of a coarse and sensual man. # suppose the girl had been attracted by a certain brutality in it.

























# could have got all the women # wanted in *ondon. # didn$t come here for that.

Chapter L#

9uring the journey back to )ngland # thought much of

trickland. # tried to set in order what # had to tell his wife.

#t was unsatisfactory, and # could not imagine that shewould be content with me; # was not content with myself .trickland perplexed me. # could not understand his motives.

1hen # had asked him what first gave him the idea of being a painter, he was unable or unwilling to tell me. # could make

nothing of it. # tried to persuade myself than an obscure feeling of revolt had been gradually coming to a head in his

slow mind , but to challenge this was the undoubted fact that he had never shown any impatience with the monotony of his life.

#f, seized by an intolerable boredom, he had determined

to be a painter merely to break with irksome ties, it would have been comprehensible, and commonplace; but commonplace is

precisely what # felt he was not. /t last, because # was

romantic, # devised an explanation which # acknowledged to be far&fetched, but which was the only one that in any way

satisfied me. #t was this' # asked myself whether there wasnot in his soul some deep&rooted instinct of creation, which

the circumstances of his life had obscured, but which grewrelentlessly, as a cancer may grow in the living tissues,

till at last it took possession of his whole being and forced him irresistibly to action. !he cuckoo lays its egg in the

strange bird$s nest, and when the young one is hatched it shoulders its foster&brothers out and breaks at last the nest

that has sheltered it.

"ut how strange it was that the creative instinct should seize

upon this dull stockbroker, to his own ruin, perhaps, and tothe misfortune of such as were dependent on him; and yet no

stranger than the way in which the spirit of Dod has seized men,

powerful and rich, pursuing them with stubborn vigilancetill at last, con%uered, they have abandoned the joy of theworld and the love of women for the painful austerities of

the cloister. Conversion may come under many shapes, and it maybe brought about in many ways. 1ith some men it needs a

cataclysm, as a stone may be broken to fragments by the furyof a torrent; but with some it comes gradually, as a stone may

be worn away by the ceaseless fall of a drop of water.trickland had the directness of the fanatic and the ferocity

of the apostle.

"ut to my practical mind it remained to be seen whether the

passion which obsessed him would be justified of its works.1hen # asked him what his brother&students at the night

classes he had attended in *ondon thought of his painting,











































he answered with a grin'

!hey thought it a joke.

3ave you begun to go to a studio here

Ges. !he blighter came round this morning && the master, you know; when he saw my drawing he just raised his eyebrowsand walked on.

trickland chuckled. 3e did not seem discouraged.

3e was independent of the opinion of his fellows.

/nd it was just that which had most disconcerted me in my

dealings with him. 1hen people say they do not care what others think of them, for the most part they deceive themselves.

Denerally they mean only that they will do as

they choose, in the confidence that no one will know their vagaries; and at the utmost only that they are willing to act contrary to the opinion of the majority because they are

supported by the approval of their neighbours. #t is not difficult to be unconventional in the eyes of the world when

your unconventionality is but the convention of your set. #t affords you then an inordinate amount of self&esteem.

Gou have the self&satisfaction of courage without theinconvenience of danger. "ut the desire for approbation is

perhaps the most deeply seated instinct of civilised man.

0o one runs so hurriedly to the cover of respectability as theunconventional woman who has exposed herself to the slings and arrows of outraged propriety. # do not believe the people whotell me they do not care a row of pins for the opinion of

their fellows. #t is the bravado of ignorance. !hey meanonly that they do not fear reproaches for peccadillos which

they are convinced none will discover.

"ut here was a man who sincerely did not mind what peoplethought of him, and so convention had no hold on him; he was

like a wrestler whose body is oiled; you could not get a gripon him; it gave him a freedom which was an outrage.

# remember saying to him'

*ook here, if everyone acted like you, the world couldn$t go on.

!hat$s a damned silly thing to say. )veryone doesn$t want toact like me. !he great majority are perfectly content to do

the ordinary thing.

/nd once # sought to be satirical.

Gou evidently don$t believe in the maxim' /ct so that everyone of your actions is capable of being made into a universal rule.




































# never heard it before, but it$s rotten nonsense.

1ell, it was 7ant who said it.

# don$t care; it$s rotten nonsense.

0or with such a man could you expect the appeal to conscienceto be effective. Gou might as well ask for a rejectionwithout a mirror. # take it that conscience is the guardian

in the individual of the rules which the community has evolved for its own preservation. #t is the policeman in all our

hearts, set there to watch that we do not break its laws. #t is the spy seated in the central stronghold of the ego.

(an$s desire for the approval of his fellows is so strong, his dread of their censure so violent, that he himself has brought his

enemy within his gates; and it keeps watch over him, vigilant always in the interests of its master to crush any half&formed

desire to break away from the herd. #t will force him to place the good of society before his own. #t is the very

strong link that attaches the individual to the whole. /nd man, subservient to interests he has persuaded himself are

greater than his own, makes himself a slave to his taskmaster. 3e sits him in a seat of honour. /t last, like a courtier

fawning on the royal stick that is laid about his shoulders,he prides himself on the sensitiveness of his conscience.

!hen he has no words hard enough for the man who does not recognise its sway; for, a member of society now, he realises

accurately enough that against him he is powerless. 1hen # saw that trickland was really indifferent to the blame his

conduct must excite, # could only draw back in horror as froma monster of hardly human shape.

!he last words he said to me when # bade him good&night were'

!ell /my it$s no good coming after me. /nyhow, # shall

change my hotel, so she wouldn$t be able to find me.

(y own impression is that she$s well rid of you, # said.

(y dear fellow, # only hope you$ll be able to make her see it.

"ut women are very unintelligent.

Chapter L

1hen # reached *ondon # found waiting for me an urgent re%uest that # should go to (rs. trickland$s as soon after dinner as

# could. # found her with Colonel (ac/ndrew and his wife. (rs. trickland$s sister was older than she, not unlike her,

but more faded; and she had the efficient air, as though shecarried the "ritish )mpire in her pocket, which the wives of

senior officers ac%uire from the consciousness of belonging toa superior caste. 3er manner was brisk, and her good&breeding








































scarcely concealed her conviction that if you were not a soldier you might as well be a counter&jumper. he hated the

Duards, whom she thought conceited, and she could not trust herself to speak of their ladies, who were so remiss in calling.

3er gown was dowdy and expensive.

(rs. trickland was plainly nervous.

1ell, tell us your news, she said.

# saw your husband. #$m afraid he$s %uite made up his mind

not to return. # paused a little. 3e wants to paint.

1hat do you mean cried (rs. trickland, with the utmost astonishment.

9id you never know that he was keen on that sort of thing.

3e must be as mad as a hatter, exclaimed the Colonel.

(rs. trickland frowned a little. he was searching among her recollections.

# remember before we were married he used to potter about with a paint&box. "ut you never saw such daubs. 1e used to

chaff him. 3e had absolutely no gift for anything like that.

>f course it$s only an excuse, said (rs. (ac/ndrew.

(rs. trickland pondered deeply for some time. #t was %uite

clear that she could not make head or tail of my announcement.he had put some order into the drawing&room by now,

her housewifely instincts having got the better of her dismay;and it no longer bore that deserted look, like a furnished house

long to let, which # had noticed on my first visit after thecatastrophe. "ut now that # had seen trickland in 8aris it

was difficult to imagine him in those surroundings. # thought

it could hardly have failed to strike them that there was something incongruous in him.

"ut if he wanted to be an artist, why didn$t he say so

asked (rs. trickland at last. # should have thought # wasthe last person to be unsympathetic to && to aspirations of

that kind.

(rs. (ac/ndrew tightened her lips. # imagine that she had

never looked with approval on her sister$s leaning towards

persons who cultivated the arts. he spoke of culchaw derisively.

(rs. trickland continued'




























/fter all, if he had any talent # should be the first toencourage it. # wouldn$t have minded sacrifices. #$d much

rather be married to a painter than to a stockbroker. #f it weren$t for the children, # wouldn$t mind anything. # could

be just as happy in a shabby studio in Chelsea as in this flat.

(y dear, # have no patience with you, cried (rs. (ac/ndrew.

Gou don$t mean to say you believe a word of this nonsense

"ut # think it$s true , # put in mildly.

he looked at me with good&humoured contempt.

/ man doesn$t throw up his business and leave his wife and children at the age of forty to become a painter unless

there$s a woman in it. # suppose he met one of your &&artistic friends, and she$s turned his head.

/ spot of colour rose suddenly to (rs. trickland$s pale cheeks.

1hat is she like

# hesitated a little. # knew that # had a bombshell.

!here isn$t a woman.

Colonel (ac/ndrew and his wife uttered expressions of incredulity,

and (rs. trickland sprang to her feet.

9o you mean to say you never saw her

!here$s no one to see. 3e$s %uite alone.

!hat$s preposterous, cried (rs. (ac/ndrew.

# knew # ought to have gone over myself , said the Colonel.Gou can bet your boots #$d have routed her out fast enough.

# wish you had gone over, # replied, somewhat tartly.

Gou$d have seen that every one of your suppositions was wrong. 3e$s not at a smart hotel. 3e$s living in one tiny

room in the most s%ualid way. #f he$s left his home, it$s not to live a gay life. 3e$s got hardly any money.

9o you think he$s done something that we don$t know about,and is lying doggo on account of the police

!he suggestion sent a ray of hope in all their breasts, but # would have nothing to do with it.

#f that were so, he would hardly have been such a fool as to give his partner his address, # retorted acidly.

/nyhow, there$s one thing #$m positive of, he didn$t go




































away with anyone. 3e$s not in love. 0othing is farther from his thoughts.

!here was a pause while they reflected over my words.

1ell, if what you say is true , said (rs. (ac/ndrew at last,

things aren$t so bad as # thought .

(rs. trickland glanced at her, but said nothing.

he was very pale now, and her fine brow was dark and lowering.

# could not understand the expression of her face. (rs. (ac/ndrew continued'

#f it$s just a whim, he$ll get over it.

1hy don$t you go over to him, /my hazarded the Colonel.

!here$s no reason why you shouldn$t live with him in 8aris for a year. 1e$ll look after the children. # dare say he$d

got stale. ooner or later he$ll be %uite ready to come back to *ondon, and no great harm will have been done.

# wouldn$t do that, said (rs. (ac/ndrew. #$d give him all the rope he wants. 3e$ll come back with his tail between his

legs and settle down again %uite comfortably. (rs. (ac/ndrewlooked at her sister coolly. 8erhaps you weren$t very wise

with him sometimes. (en are %ueer creatures, and one has to

know how to manage them.

(rs. (ac/ndrew shared the common opinion of her sex that a manis always a brute to leave a woman who is attached to him, but

that a woman is much to blame if he does. raisons %ue la raison ne connait pas.E

(rs. trickland looked slowly from one to another of us.

3e$ll never come back, she said.

>h, my dear, remember what we$ve just heard . 3e$s been used to comfort and to having someone to look after him. 3ow long

do you think it$ll be before he gets tired of a scrubby roomin a scrubby hotel "esides, he hasn$t any money. 3e must

come back.

/s long as # thought he$d run away with some woman # thought

there was a chance. # don$t believe that sort of thing ever answers. 3e$d have got sick to death of her in three months.

"ut if he hasn$t gone because he$s in love, then it$s finished.

>h, # think that$s awfully subtle, said the Colonel,

putting into the word all the contempt he felt for a %uality so alien to the traditions of his calling. 9on$t you believe it.

3e$ll come back, and, as 9orothy says, # dare say he$ll be



































none the worse for having had a bit of a fling.

"ut # don$t want him back, she said.

/myM

#t was anger that had seized (rs. trickland, and her pallor was the pallor of a cold and sudden rage. he spoke %uickly now,with little gasps.

# could have forgiven it if he$d fallen desperately in love

with someone and gone off with her. # should have thought that natural. # shouldn$t really have blamed him. # should

have thought he was led away. (en are so weak, and women are so unscrupulous. "ut this is different. # hate him.

#$ll never forgive him now.

Colonel (ac/ndrew and his wife began to talk to her together.!hey were astonished. !hey told her she was mad. !hey could not understand . (rs. trickland turned desperately to me.

9on$t see she cried.

#$m not sure. 9o you mean that you could have forgiven him

if he$d left you for a woman, but not if he$s left you for an ideaGou think you$re a match for the one, but against the

other you$re helpless

(rs. trickland gave mt a look in which # read no great

friendliness, but did not answer. 8erhaps # had struck home.he went on in a low and trembling voice'

# never knew it was possible to hate anyone as much as # hate him. 9o you know , #$ve been comforting myself by thinking

that however long it lasted he$d want me at the end # knewwhen he was dying he$d send for me, and # was ready to go;

#$d have nursed him like a mother, and at the last #$d have told

him that it didn$t matter, #$d loved him always, and # forgavehim everything.

# have always been a little disconcerted by the passion womenhave for behaving beautifully at the death&bed of those they love.ometimes it seems as if they grudge the longevity which

postpones their chance of an effective scene.

"ut now && now it$s finished. #$m as indifferent to him asif he were a stranger. # should like him to die miserable,

poor, and starving, without a friend. # hope he$ll rot with some loathsome disease. #$ve done with him.

# thought it as well then to say what trickland had suggested.

























































#f you want to divorce him, he$s %uite willing to do whatever is necessary to make it possible.

1hy should # give him his freedom

# don$t think he wants it. 3e merely thought it might be

more convenient to you.

(rs. trickland shrugged her shoulders impatiently. # think

# was a little disappointed in her. # expected then people tobe more of a piece than # do now, and # was distressed to find

so much vindictiveness in so charming a creature. # did not realise how motley are the %ualities that go to make up a

human being . 0ow # am well aware that pettiness and grandeur,malice and charity, hatred and love, can find place side by

side in the same human heart.

# wondered if there was anything # could say that would easethe sense of bitter humiliation which at present tormented

(rs. trickland. # thought # would try.

Gou know , #$m not sure that your husband is %uite responsible

for his actions. # do not think he is himself . 3e seems tome to be possessed by some power which is using him for its

own ends, and in whose hold he is as helpless as a fly in a spider$s web. #t$s as though someone had cast a spell over him.

#$m reminded of those strange stories one sometimes

hears of another personality entering into a man and driving out the old one. !he soul lives unstably in the body, and iscapable of mysterious transformations. #n the old days theywould say Charles trickland had a devil.

(rs. (ac/ndrew smoothed down the lap of her gown, and gold

bangles fell over her wrists.

/ll that seems to me very far&fetched, she said acidly.

# don$t deny that perhaps /my took her husband a little too much for granted. #f she hadn$t been so busy with her own affairs,

# can$t believe that she wouldn$t have suspected something wasthe matter. # don$t think that /lec could have something on

his mind for a year or more without my having a pretty shrewd idea of it.

!he Colonel stared into vacancy, and # wondered whether anyonecould be %uite so innocent of guile as he looked.

"ut that doesn$t prevent the fact that Charles trickland isa heartless beast. he looked at me severely. # can tell

you why he left his wife && from pure selfishness and nothing else whatever.

!hat is certainly the simplest explanation, # said.














































"ut # thought it explained nothing. 1hen, saying # was tired, # rose to go, (rs. trickland made no attempt to detain me.

Chapter L#

1hat followed showed that (rs. trickland was a woman

of character . 1hatever anguish she suffered she concealed.

he saw shrewdly that the world is %uickly bored by therecital of misfortune, and willingly avoids the sight of distress.1henever she went out && and compassion for her misadventure

made her friends eager to entertain her && she bore ademeanour that was perfect. he was brave, but not too obviously;

cheerful, but not brazenly; and she seemed moreanxious to listen to the troubles of others than to discuss

her own. 1henever she spoke of her husband it was with pity. 3er attitude towards him at first perplexed me. >ne day she

said to me'

Gou know , #$m convinced you were mistaken about Charles being alone.

From what #$ve been able to gather from certain sources that # can$t tell you, # know that he didn$t leave

)ngland by himself .

#n that case he has a positive genius for covering up his tracks.

he looked away and slightly coloured.

1hat # mean is, if anyone talks to you about it, please don$t contradict it if they say he eloped with somebody.

>f course not.

he changed the conversation as though it were a matter to

which she attached no importance. # discovered presently that a peculiar story was circulating among her friends. !hey said

that Charles trickland had become infatuated with a Frenchdancer, whom he had first seen in the ballet at the )mpire,

and had accompanied her to 8aris. # could not find out howthis had arisen, but, singularly enough, it created much

sympathy for (rs. trickland, and at the same time gave her not a little prestige. !his was not without its use in the

calling which she had decided to follow. Colonel (ac/ndrewhad not exaggerated when he said she would be penniless, and

it was necessary for her to earn her own living as %uickly as she could. he made up her mind to profit by her ac%uaintance

with so many writers, and without loss of time began to learn

shorthand and typewriting. 3er education made it likely that she would be a typist more efficient than the average, and her story made her claims appealing. 3er friends promised to send

her work, and took care to recommend her to all theirs.

!he (ac/ndrews, who were childless and in easy circumstances,

































arranged to undertake the care of the children, and (rs.trickland had only herself to provide for. he let her flat

and sold her furniture. he settled in two tiny rooms in1estminster, and faced the world anew. he was so efficient

that it was certain she would make a success of the adventure.

Chapter L##

#t was about five years after this that # decided to live in 8aris for a while. # was growing stale in *ondon. # was

tired of doing much the same thing every day. (y friends pursued their course with uneventfulness; they had no longer

any surprises for me, and when # met them # knew pretty well what they would say; even their love&affairs had a tedious banality.

1e were like tram&cars running on their lines from terminusto terminus, and it was possible to calculate within small

limits the number of passengers they would carry. *ife was

ordered too pleasantly. # was seized with panic. # gaveup my small apartment, sold my few belongings, and resolved to

start afresh.

# called on (rs. trickland before # left. # had not seen her for some time, and # noticed changes in her; it was not only

that she was older, thinner, and more lined; # think her character had altered. he had made a success of her

business, and now had an office in Chancery *ane; she did little typing herself , but spent her time correcting the work

of the four girls she employed. he had had the idea of giving it a certain daintiness, and she made much use of blue

and red inks; she bound the copy in coarse paper, that looked vaguely like watered silk, in various pale colours; and she

had ac%uired a reputation for neatness and accuracy. he wasmaking money. "ut she could not get over the idea that to

earn her living was somewhat undignified, and she was inclined to remind you that she was a lady by birth. he could not

help bringing into her conversation the names of people she

knew which would satisfy you that she had not sunk in the social scale. he was a little ashamed of her courage and business capacity, but delighted that she was going to dine

the next night with a 7.C. who lived in outh 7ensington.he was pleased to be able to tell you that her son was at Cambridge,

and it was with a little laugh that she spoke of the rushof dances to which her daughter, just out, was invited.

# suppose # said a very stupid thing.

#s she going into your business # asked.

>h no; # wouldn$t let her do that, (rs. trickland answered.he$s so pretty. #$m sure she$ll marry well.

# should have thought it would be a help to you.





































everal people have suggested that she should go on the stage, but of course # couldn$t consent to that, # know all

the chief dramatists, and # could get her a part to&morrow,but # shouldn$t like her to mix with all sorts of people.

# was a little chilled by (rs. trickland$s exclusiveness.

9o you ever hear of your husband

0o; # haven$t heard a word. 3e may be dead for all # know.

# may run across him in 8aris. 1ould you like me to let youknow about him

he hesitated a minute.

#f he$s in any real want #$m prepared to help him a little.

#$d send you a certain sum of money, and you could give it him gradually, as he needed it.

!hat$s very good of you, # said.

"ut # knew it was not kindness that prompted the offer. #t is

not true that suffering ennobles the character ; happiness doesthat sometimes, but suffering, for the most part, makes men

petty and vindictive.

Chapter L###

#n point of fact, # met trickland before # had been a

fortnight in 8aris.

# %uickly found myself a tiny apartment on the fifth floor of

a house in the 2ue des 9ames, and for a couple of hundred francs bought at a second&hand dealer$s enough furniture to

make it habitable. # arranged with the concierge to make mycoffee in the morning and to keep the place clean. !hen #

went to see my friend 9irk troeve.

9irk troeve was one of those persons whom, according to your

character , you cannot think of without derisive laughter or anembarrassed shrug of the shoulders. 0ature had made him a buffoon.

3e was a painter, but a very bad one, whom # had met in 2ome, and # still remembered his pictures. 3e had a

genuine enthusiasm for the commonplace. 3is soul palpitating with love of art, he painted the models who hung about the

stairway of "ernini in the 8iazza de pagna, undaunted by

their obvious pictures%ueness; and his studio was full of canvases on which were portrayed moustachioed, large&eyed

peasants in peaked hats, urchins in becoming rags, and women

in bright petticoats. ometimes they lounged at the steps of a church, and sometimes dallied among cypresses against a
















































cloudless sky; sometimes they made love by a 2enaissance well&head,and sometimes they wandered through the Campagna by the side

of an ox&waggon. !hey were carefully drawn and carefully painted. / photograph could not have been more exact. >ne of

the painters at the illa (edici had called him de la "oite a Chocoloats.E !o look at his pictures you would

have thought that (onet, (anet, and the rest of the

#mpressionists had never been.

# don$t pretend to be a great painter, he said, #$m not a (ichael /ngelo, no, but # have something. # sell. # bring

romance into the homes of all sorts of people. 9o you know ,they buy my pictures not only in 3olland, but in 0orway and

weden and 9enmark #t$s mostly merchants who buy them, and rich tradesmen. Gou can$t imagine what the winters are like

in those countries, so long and dark and cold. !hey like tothink that #taly is like my pictures. !hat$s what they

expect. !hat$s what # expected #taly to be before # camehere.

/nd # think that was the vision that had remained with himalways, dazzling his eyes so that he could not see the truth;

and notwithstanding the brutality of fact, he continued to seewith the eyes of the spirit an #taly of romantic brigands and

pictures%ue ruins. #t was an ideal that he painted && a poor one,common and shop&soiled, but still it was an ideal; and it

gave his character a peculiar charm.

#t was because # felt this that 9irk troeve was not to me,

as to others, merely an object of ridicule. 3is fellow&paintersmade no secret of their contempt for his work, but he earned a

fair amount of money, and they did not hesitate to make freeuse of his purse. 3e was generous , and the needy, laughing at

him because he believed so naively their stories of distress,borrowed from him with effrontery. 3e was very emotional , yet

his feeling , so easily aroused, had in it something absurd,

so that you accepted his kindness, but felt no gratitude.!o take money from him was like robbing a child, and you despised him because he was so foolish. # imagine that a pickpocket,

proud of his light fingers, must feel a sort of indignationwith the careless woman who leaves in a cab a vanity&bag with

all her jewels in it. 0ature had made him a butt, but had denied him insensibility. 3e writhed under the jokes,

practical and otherwise, which were perpetually made at hisexpense, and yet never ceased , it seemed wilfully, to expose

himself to them. 3e was constantly wounded, and yet his good&

nature was such that he could not bear malice' the viper might sting him, but he never learned by experience , and had no sooner recovered from his pain than he tenderly placed it oncemore in his bosom. 3is life was a tragedy written in the

terms of knockabout farce. "ecause # did not laugh at him he


















































was grateful to me, and he used to pour into my sympatheticear the long list of his troubles. !he saddest thing about

them was that they were grotes%ue, and the more pathetic they were,the more you wanted to laugh.

"ut though so bad a painter, he had a very delicate feeling for art, and to go with him to picture&galleries was a rare treat.

3is enthusiasm was sincere and his criticism acute. 3e was catholic. 3e had not only a true appreciation of the

old masters, but sympathy with the moderns. 3e was %uick todiscover talent, and his praise was generous. # think # have

never known a man whose judgment was surer. /nd he was better educated than most painters. 3e was not, like most of them,

ignorant of kindred arts, and his taste for music and literature gave depth and variety to his comprehension of painting.

!o a young man like myself his advice and guidance wereof incomparable value.

1hen # left 2ome # corresponded with him, and about once intwo months received from him long letters in %ueer )nglish,

which brought before me vividly his spluttering, enthusiastic, gesticulating conversation. ome time before # went to 8aris

he had married an )nglishwoman, and was now settled in a studio in (ontmartre. # had not seen him for four years,

and had never met his wife.

Chapter L#L

# had not announced my arrival to troeve, and when # rang thebell of his studio, on opening the door himself , for a moment

he did not know me. !hen he gave a cry of delighted surpriseand drew me in. #t was charming to be welcomed with so much

eagerness. 3is wife was seated near the stove at her sewing,and she rose as # came in. 3e introduced me.

9on$t you remember he said to her. #$ve talked to youabout him often. /nd then to me' "ut why didn$t you let me

know you were coming 3ow long have you been here 3ow long are you going to stay 1hy didn$t you come an hour earlier,

and we would have dined together

3e bombarded me with %uestions. 3e sat me down in a chair,

patting me as though # were a cushion, pressed cigars upon me,cakes, wine. 3e could not let me alone. 3e was heart&broken

because he had no whisky, wanted to make coffee for me,racked his brain for something he could possibly do for me,

and beamed and laughed, and in the exuberance of his delight sweated at every pore.

Gou haven$t changed, # said, smiling, as # looked at him.

3e had the same absurd appearance that # remembered . 3e was a

































fat little man, with short legs, young still && he could not have been more than thirty && but prematurely bald. 3is face

was perfectly round, and he had a very high colour, a white skin, red cheeks, and red lips. 3is eyes were blue and round

too, he wore large gold&rimmed spectacles, and his eyebrowswere so fair that you could not see them. 3e reminded you of

those jolly, fat merchants that 2ubens painted.

1hen # told him that # meant to live in 8aris for a while, and

had taken an apartment, he reproached me bitterly for not having let him know. 3e would have found me an apartment

himself , and lent me furniture && did # really mean that # had gone to the expense of buying it && and he would have helped

me to move in. 3e really looked upon it as unfriendly that # had not given him the opportunity of making himself useful to me.

(eanwhile, (rs. troeve sat %uietly mending her stockings,without talking, and she listened to all he said with a %uiet

smile on her lips.

o, you see , #$m married, he said suddenly; what do you

think of my wife

3e beamed at her, and settled his spectacles on the bridge of

his nose. !he sweat made them constantly slip down.

1hat on earth do you expect me to say to that # laughed.

2eally , 9irk, put in (rs. troeve, smiling.

"ut isn$t she wonderful # tell you, my boy, lose no time; get married as soon as ever you can. #$m the happiest man alive.

*ook at her sitting there. 9oesn$t she make a pictureChardin, eh #$ve seen all the most beautiful women

in the world; #$ve never seen anyone more beautiful than (adame 9irk troeve.

#f you don$t be %uiet , 9irk, # shall go away.

, he said.

he flushed a little, embarrassed by the passion in his tone. 3is letters had told me that he was very much in love with his

wife, and # saw that he could hardly take his eyes off her. # could not tell if she loved him. 8oor pantaloon, he was not

an object to excite love, but the smile in her eyes wasaffectionate, and it was possible that her reserve concealed a

very deep feeling . he was not the ravishing creature that his love&sick fancy saw , but she had a grave comeliness.

he was rather tall, and her gray dress, simple and %uitewell&cut, did not hide the fact that her figure was beautiful.

#t was a figure that might have appealed more to the sculptor than to the costumier. 3er hair, brown and abundant, was


















































plainly done, her face was very pale, and her features were good without being distinguished. he had %uiet gray eyes.

he just missed being beautiful, and in missing it was not even pretty. "ut when troeve spoke of Chardin it was not

without reason, and she reminded me curiously of that pleasant housewife in her mob&cap and apron whom the great painter has

immortalised. # could imagine her sedately busy among her

pots and pans, making a ritual of her household duties, sothat they ac%uired a moral significance; # did not supposethat she was clever or could ever be amusing, but there was

something in her grave intentness which excited my interest. 3er reserve was not without mystery. # wondered why she had

married 9irk troeve. !hough she was )nglish, # could not exactly place her, and it was not obvious from what rank in

society she sprang, what had been her upbringing, or how shehad lived before her marriage. he was very silent, but when

she spoke it was with a pleasant voice, and her manners

were natural.

# asked troeve if he was working.

1orking #$m painting better than #$ve ever painted before.

1e sat in the studio, and he waved his hand to an unfinished picture on an easel. # gave a little start. 3e was painting

a group of #talian peasants, in the costume of the Campagna,lounging on the steps of a 2oman church.

#s that what you$re doing now # asked.

Ges. # can get my models here just as well as in 2ome.

9on$t you think it$s very beautiful said (rs. troeve.

!his foolish wife of mine thinks #$m a great artist, said he.

3is apologetic laugh did not disguise the pleasure that he felt .

3is eyes lingered on his picture. #t was strange that his critical sense, so accurate and unconventional when he

dealt with the work of others, should be satisfied in himself with what was hackneyed and vulgar beyond belief.

how him some more of your pictures, she said.

hall #

!hough he had suffered so much from the ridicule of his friends,

9irk troeve, eager for praise and naively self&satisfied ,could never resist displaying his work. 3e brought out

a picture of two curly&headed #talian urchins playing marbles.

































/ren$t they sweet said (rs. troeve.

/nd then he showed me more. # discovered that in 8aris he had

been painting just the same stale, obviously pictures%uethings that he had painted for years in 2ome. #t was all

false, insincere, shoddy; and yet no one was more honest, sincere, and frank than 9irk troeve. 1ho could resolve

the contradiction

# do not know what put it into my head to ask'

# say, have you by any chance run across a painter called Charles trickland

Gou don$t mean to say you know him cried troeve.

"east, said his wife.

troeve laughed.

3e went over to her and kissed bothher hands. he doesn$t like him. 3ow strange that you

should know tricklandM

# don$t like bad manners, said (rs. troeve.

9irk, laughing still, turned to me to explain.

Gou see , # asked him to come here one day and look at my pictures. 1ell, he came, and # showed him everything # had.

troeve hesitated a moment with embarrassment. # do not knowwhy he had begun the story against himself ; he felt an

awkwardness at finishing it. 3e looked at && at my pictures,and he didn$t say anything. # thought he was reserving his

judgment till the end. /nd at last # said' K!here, that$sthe lotM$ 3e said' K# came to ask you to lend me twenty francs.$

/nd 9irk actually gave it him, said his wife indignantly.

# was so taken aback. # didn$t like to refuse. 3e put the

money in his pocket, just nodded, said $!hanks,$ and walked out.

9irk troeve, telling the story, had such a look of blank

astonishment on his round, foolish face that it was almost impossible not to laugh.

# shouldn$t have minded if he$d said my pictures were bad,

but he said nothing && nothing.

/nd you tell the story, 9irk, aid his wife.

#t was lamentable that one was more amused by the ridiculous figure cut by the 9utchman than outraged by trickland$s





















brutal treatment of him.

# hope # shall never see him again, said (rs. troeve.

troeve smiled and shrugged his shoulders. 3e had alreadyrecovered his good&humour.

!he fact remains that he$s a great artist, a very great artist.

trickland # exclaimed. #t can$t be the same man.

/ big fellow with a red beard. Charles trickland.

/n )nglishman.

3e had no beard when # knew him, but if he has grown one it

might well be red. !he man #$m thinking of only began painting five years ago.

!hat$s it. 3e$s a great artist.

#mpossible.

3ave # ever been mistaken 9irk asked me. # tell you he

has genius. #$m convinced of it. #n a hundred years, if youand # are remembered at all, it will be because we knew

Charles trickland.

# was astonished, and at the same time # was very much excited. # remembered suddenly my last talk with him.

1here can one see his work # asked. #s he having any success

1here is he living

0o; he has no success. # don$t think he$s ever sold a picture.

1hen you speak to men about him they only laugh. "ut # knowE he$s a great artist. /fter all, they laughed

at (anet. Corot never sold a picture. # don$t know where he

lives, but # can take you to see him. 3e goes to a cafe inthe /venue de Clichy at seven o$clock every evening. #f youlike we$ll go there to&morrow.

#$m not sure if he$ll wish to see me. # think # may remind him of a time he prefers to forget. "ut #$ll come all the same.

#s there any chance of seeing any of his pictures

0ot from him. 3e won$t show you a thing. !here$s a littledealer # know who has two or three. "ut you mustn$t go without me;

you wouldn$t understand . # must show them to you myself .

9irk, you make me impatient, said (rs. troeve. 3ow can you talk like that about his pictures when he treated you as
















































he did he turned to me. 9o you know , when some 9utch people came here to buy 9irk$s pictures he tried to persuade

them to buy trickland$s 3e insisted on bringing them hereto show.

1hat did think of them # asked her, smiling.

!hey were awful.

/h, sweetheart, you don$t understand .

1ell, your 9utch people were furious with you. !hey thought you were having a joke with them.

9irk troeve took off his spectacles and wiped them. 3is flushed face was shining with excitement.

1hy should you think that beauty, which is the most preciousthing in the world, lies like a stone on the beach for the

careless passer&by to pick up idly "eauty is something wonderful and strange that the artist fashions out of the

chaos of the world in the torment of his soul . /nd when hehas made it, it is not given to all to know it. !o recognize

it you must repeat the adventure of the artist. #t is amelody that he sings to you, and to hear it again in your own

heart you want knowledge and sensitiveness and imagination.

1hy did # always think your pictures beautiful, 9irk # admired them the very first time # saw them.

troeve$s lips trembled a little.

Do to bed, my precious. # will walk a few steps with our friend, and then # will come back.

Chapter LL

9irk troeve agreed to fetch me on the following evening and take me to the cafe at which trickland was most likely to be found.

# was interested to learn that it was the same as that at which trickland and # had drunk absinthe when # had gone

over to 8aris to see him. !he fact that he had never changed suggested a sluggishness of habit which seemed to me characteristic.

!here he is, said troeve, as we reached the cafe.

!hough it was >ctober, the evening was warm, and the tables on

the pavement were crowded. # ran my eyes over them, but did not see trickland.

*ook. >ver there, in the corner. 3e$s playing chess.

# noticed a man bending over a chess&board, but could see only



































a large felt hat and a red beard. 1e threaded our way among the tables till we came to him.

trickland.

3e looked up.

3ulloa, fatty. 1hat do you want

#$ve brought an old friend to see you.

trickland gave me a glance, and evidently did not recognise me.

3e resumed his scrutiny of the chessboard.

it down, and don$t make a noise, he said.

3e moved a piece and straightway became absorbed in the game. 8oor troeve gave me a troubled look, but # was not

disconcerted by so little. # ordered something to drink,and waited %uietly till trickland had finished. # welcomed the

opportunity to examine him at my ease. # certainly should never have known him. #n the first place his red beard,

ragged and untrimmed, hid much of his face, and his hair was long;but the most surprising change in him was his extreme thinness.

#t made his great nose protrude more arrogantly;it emphasized his cheekbones; it made his eyes seem larger.

!here were deep hollows at his temples. 3is body was cadaverous.

3e wore the same suit that # had seen him in five yearsbefore; it was torn and stained, threadbare, and it hung upon him loosely, as though it had been made for someone else.

# noticed his hands, dirty, with long nails; they were merelybone and sinew, large and strong; but # had forgotten that

they were so shapely. 3e gave me an extraordinary impressionas he sat there, his attention riveted on his game && an

impression of great strength; and # could not understand whyit was that his emaciation somehow made it more striking.

8resently, after moving, he leaned back and gazed with acurious abstraction at his antagonist. !his was a fat,

bearded Frenchman. !he Frenchman considered the position,then broke suddenly into jovial expletives, and with an

impatient gesture, gathering up the pieces, flung them intotheir box. 3e cursed trickland freely, then, calling for the

waiter, paid for the drinks, and left. troeve drew his chair closer to the table.

0ow # suppose we can talk, he said.

trickland$s eyes rested on him, and there was in them a

malicious expression. # felt sure he was seeking for some gibe,could think of none, and so was forced to silence.























#$ve brought an old friend to see you, repeated troeve,beaming cheerfully.

trickland looked at me thoughtfully for nearly a minute. # did not speak.

#$ve never seen him in my life, he said.

# do not know why he said this, for # felt certain # had

caught a gleam of recognition in his eyes. # was not soeasily abashed as # had been some years earlier.

# saw your wife the other day, # said. # felt sure you$d

like to have the latest news of her.

3e gave a short laugh. 3is eyes twinkled.

1e had a jolly evening together, he said. 3ow long ago is it

Five years.

3e called for another absinthe. troeve, with voluble tongue,explained how he and # had met, and by what an accident we

discovered that we both knew trickland. # do not know if trickland listened. 3e glanced at me once or twice

reflectively, but for the most part seemed occupied with hisown thoughts; and certainly without troeve$s babble the

conversation would have been difficult. #n half an hour the 9utchman, looking at his watch, announced that he must go.

3e asked whether # would come too. # thought , alone , # might get something out of trickland, and so answered that # would stay.

1hen the fat man had left # said'

9irk troeve thinks you$re a great artist.

1hat the hell do you suppose # care

1ill you let me see your pictures

1hy should #

# might feel inclined to buy one.

# might not feel inclined to sell one.

/re you making a good living # asked, smiling.

3e chuckled.

9o # look it






































Gou look half starved.

# am half starved.

!hen come and let$s have a bit of dinner.

1hy do you ask me

0ot out of charity, # answered coolly. # don$t really care

a twopenny damn if you starve or not.

3is eyes lit up again.

Come on, then, he said, getting up. #$d like a decent meal.

Chapter LL#

# let him take me to a restaurant of his choice, but on the

way # bought a paper. 1hen we had ordered our dinner, # propped it against a bottle of t. Dalmier and began to read.1e ate in silence. # felt him looking at me now and again,

but # took no notice. # meant to force him to conversation.

#s there anything in the paper he said, as we approached the end of our silent meal.

# fancied there was in his tone a slight note of exasperation.

# always like to read the on the drama, # said.

# folded the paper and put it down beside me.

#$ve enjoyed my dinner, he remarked.

# think we might have our coffee here, don$t you

Ges.

1e lit our cigars. # smoked in silence. # noticed that now

and then his eyes rested on me with a faint smile of amusement. # waited patiently.

1hat have you been up to since # saw you last he asked at length.

# had not very much to say. #t was a record of hard work and of little adventure; of experiments in this direction and in that;

of the gradual ac%uisition of the knowledge of books and of men. # took care to ask trickland nothing about his own doings.

# showed not the least interest in him, and at last # was rewarded. 3e began to talk of himself . "ut with his poor

gift of expression he gave but indications of what he had gonethrough, and # had to fill up the gaps with my own imagination.



























#t was tantalising to get no more than hintsinto a character that interested me so much. #t was like

making one$s way through a mutilated manuscript. # received the impression of a life which was a bitter struggle against

every sort of difficulty; but # realised that much which would have seemed horrible to most people did not in the least

affect him. trickland was distinguished from most )nglishmen

by his perfect indifference to comfort ; it did not irk him tolive always in one shabby room; he had no need to be

surrounded by beautiful things. # do not suppose he had ever

noticed how dingy was the paper on the wall of the room inwhich on my first visit # found him. 3e did not want arm&chairs

to sit in; he really felt more at his ease on a kitchen chair. 3e ate with appetite, but was indifferent to what he ate;

to him it was only food that he devoured to still the pangs of hunger; and when no food was to be had he seemed

capable of doing without. # learned that for six months he

had lived on a loaf of bread and a bottle of milk a day. 3e was a sensual man, and yet was indifferent to sensual things.

3e looked upon privation as no hardship. !here was something impressive in the manner in which he lived a life wholly of

the spirit .

1hen the small sum of money which he brought with him from *ondon came to an end he suffered from no dismay. 3e sold no

pictures; # think he made little attempt to sell any; he set about finding some way to make a bit of money. 3e told mewith grim humour of the time he had spent acting as guide to

Cockneys who wanted to see the night side of life in 8aris;it was an occupation that appealed to his sardonic temper and

somehow or other he had ac%uired a wide ac%uaintance with themore disreputable %uarters of the city. 3e told me of the

long hours he spent walking about the "oulevard de la (adeleine on the look&out for )nglishmen, preferably the worse

for li%uor, who desired to see things which the law forbade.1hen in luck he was able to make a tidy sum; but the

shabbiness of his clothes at last frightened the sight&seers,and he could not find people adventurous enough to trust

themselves to him. !hen he happened on a job to translate theadvertisements of patent medicines which were sent broadcast

to the medical profession in )ngland. 9uring a strike he had been employed as a house&painter.

(eanwhile he had never ceased to work at his art; but, soontiring of the studios, entirely by himself . 3e had never been

so poor that he could not buy canvas and paint, and really he

needed nothing else. o far as # could make out, he painted with great difficulty, and in his unwillingness to accept help

from anyone lost much time in finding out for himself the

solution of technical problems which preceding generations had already worked out one by one. 3e was aiming at something,







































# knew not what, and perhaps he hardly knew himself ; and # got again more strongly the impression of a man possessed. 3e did

not seem %uite sane. #t seemed to me that he would not showhis pictures because he was really not interested in them.

3e lived in a dream , and the reality meant nothing to him. # had the feeling that he worked on a canvas with all the force

of his violent personality, oblivious of everything in his effort

to get what he saw with the mind$s eye; and then, having finished, not the picture perhaps, for # had an idea that he seldom brought anything to completion, but the passion that

fired him, he lost all care for it. 3e was never satisfied with what he had done; it seemed to him of no conse%uence

compared with the vision that obsessed his mind .

1hy don$t you ever send your work to exhibitions # asked.

# should have thought you$d like to know what people thought about it.

1ould you

# cannot describe the unmeasurable contempt he put into the

two words.

9on$t you want fame #t$s something that most artists

haven$t been indifferent to.

Children. 3ow can you care for the opinion of the crowd,

when you don$t care twopence for the opinion of the individual

1e$re not all reasonable beings, # laughed.

1ho makes fame Critics, writers, stockbrokers, women.

1ouldn$t it give you a rather pleasing sensation to think of people you didn$t know and had never seen receiving emotions ,

subtle and passionate, from the work of your hands )veryonelikes power. # can$t imagine a more wonderful exercise of it

than to move the souls of men to pity or terror.

(elodrama.

1hy do you mind if you paint well or badly

# don$t. # only want to paint what # see.

# wonder if # could write on a desert island, with the

certainty that no eyes but mine would ever see what # had

written.

trickland did not speak for a long time, but his eyes shone strangely, as though he saw something that kindled his soul to






















































ecstasy.

ometimes #$ve thought of an island lost in a boundless sea,

where # could live in some hidden valley, among strange trees,in silence. !here # think # could find what # want.

3e did not express himself %uite like this. 3e used gestures

instead of adjectives, and he halted. # have put into my ownwords what # think he wanted to say.

*ooking back on the last five years, do you think it was

worth it # asked.

3e looked at me, and # saw that he did not know what # meant. # explained.

Gou gave up a comfortable home and a life as happy as the

average. Gou were fairly prosperous. Gou seem to have had arotten time in 8aris. #f you had your time over again would you do what you did

2ather.

9o you know that you haven$t asked anything about your wife

and children 9o you never think of them

0o.

# wish you weren$t so damned monosyllabic. 3ave you never

had a moment$s regret for all the unhappiness you caused them

3is lips broke into a smile, and he shook his head.

# should have thought sometimes you couldn$t help thinking of the past. # don$t mean the past of seven or eight years ago,

but further back still, when you first met your wife, and loved her, and married her. 9on$t you remember the joy with

which you first took her in your arms

# don$t think of the past. !he only thing that matters is

the everlasting present.

# thought for a moment over this reply. #t was obscure,

perhaps, but # thought that # saw dimly his meaning.

/re you happy # asked.

Ges.

# was silent. # looked at him reflectively. 3e held my stare, and presently a sardonic twinkle lit up his eyes.


















































#$m afraid you disapprove of me

0onsense, # answered promptly; # don$t disapprove of the

boa&constrictor; on the contrary, #$m interested in his mental processes.

#t$s a purely professional interest you take in me

8urely.

#t$s only right that you shouldn$t disapprove of me.

Gou have a despicable character .

8erhaps that$s why you feel at home with me, # retorted.

3e smiled dryly, but said nothing. # wish # knew how todescribe his smile. # do not know that it was attractive,

but it lit up his face, changing the expression, which was generally sombre, and gave it a look of not ill&natured malice.

#t was a slow smile, starting and sometimes ending inthe eyes; it was very sensual, neither cruel nor kindly,

but suggested rather the inhuman glee of the satyr. #t was his smile that made me ask him'

3aven$t you been in love since you came to 8aris

# haven$t got time for that sort of nonsense. *ife isn$t

long enough for love and art.

Gour appearance doesn$t suggest the anchorite.

/ll that business fills me with disgust.

3uman nature is a nuisance, isn$t it # said.

1hy are you sniggering at me

"ecause # don$t believe you.

!hen you$re a damned fool.

# paused, and # looked at him searchingly.

1hat$s the good of trying to humbug me # said.

# don$t know what you mean.

# smiled.

*et me tell you. # imagine that for months the matter never comes into your head, and you$re able to persuade yourself

that you$ve finished with it for good and all. Gou rejoice in your freedom, and you feel that at last you can call your soul




























your own. Gou seem to walk with your head among the stars. /nd then, all of a sudden you can$t stand it any more, and you

notice that all the time your feet have been walking in the mud. /nd you want to roll yourself in it. /nd you find some

woman, coarse and low and vulgar, some beastly creature inwhom all the horror of sex is blatant, and you fall upon her

like a wild animal. Gou drink till you$re blind with rage.

3e stared at me without the slightest movement. # held his

eyes with mine. # spoke very slowly.

#$ll tell you what must seem strange, that when it$s over you

feel so extraordinarily pure. Gou feel like a disembodied spirit , immaterial; and you seem to be able to touch beauty as

though it were a palpable thing; and you feel an intimatecommunion with the breeze, and with the trees breaking into leaf,

and with the iridescence of the river. Gou feel like Dod.

Can you explain that to me

3e kept his eyes fixed on mine till # had finished, and thenhe turned away. !here was on his face a strange look, and

# thought that so might a man look when he had died under the torture. 3e was silent. # knew that our conversation

was ended.

Chapter LL##

# settled down in 8aris and began to write a play. # led avery regular life, working in the morning, and in theafternoon lounging about the gardens of the *uxembourg or

sauntering through the streets. # spent long hours in the

*ouvre, the most friendly of all galleries and the most convenient for meditation; or idled on the %uays, fingering

second&hand books that # never meant to buy. # read a pagehere and there, and made ac%uaintance with a great many

authors whom # was content to know thus desultorily. #n theevenings # went to see my friends. # looked in often on the

troeves, and sometimes shared their modest fare. 9irk troeve flattered himself on his skill in cooking #talian

dishes, and # confess that his were very muchbetter than his pictures. #t was a dinner for a 7ing when he

brought in a huge dish of it, succulent with tomatoes, and weate it together with the good household bread and a bottle of

red wine. # grew more intimate with "lanche troeve, and # think , because # was )nglish and she knew few )nglish people,

she was glad to see me. he was pleasant and simple, but she

remained always rather silent, and # knew not why, gave me theimpression that she was concealing something. "ut # thought that was perhaps no more than a natural reserve accentuated by the

verbose frankness of her husband. 9irk never concealed anything. 3e discussed the most intimate matters with a complete

lack of self&consciousness. ometimes he embarrassed


















































his wife, and the only time # saw her put out of countenancewas when he insisted on telling me that he had taken a purge,

and went into somewhat realistic details on the subject.!he perfect seriousness with which he narrated his

misfortunes convulsed me with laughter, and this added to (rs. troeve$s irritation.

Gou seem to like making a fool of yourself , she said.

3is round eyes grew rounder still, and his brow puckered in

dismay as he saw that she was angry.

weetheart, have # vexed you #$ll never take another.

#t was only because # was bilious. # lead a sedentary life. # don$t take enough exercise. For three days # hadn$t ...

For goodness sake, hold your tongue, she interrupted, tears

of annoyance in her eyes.

3is face fell, and he pouted his lips like a scolded child.

3e gave me a look of appeal, so that # might put things right,but, unable to control myself , # shook with helpless laughter.

1e went one day to the picture&dealer in whose shop troevethought he could show me at least two or three of trickland$s

pictures, but when we arrived were told that trickland himself had taken them away. !he dealer did not know why.

"ut don$t imagine to yourself that # make myself bad blood onthat account. # took them to oblige (onsieur troeve, and #

said # would sell them if # could. "ut really && 3e shrugged his shoulders. #$m interested in the young men, but

, you yourself , (onsieur troeve, you don$t think there$s any talent there.

# give you my word of honour, there$s no one painting to&dayin whose talent # am more convinced. !ake my word for it,

you are missing a good affair. ome day those pictures will beworth more than all you have in your shop. 2emember (onet,

who could not get anyone to buy his pictures for a hundred francs.1hat are they worth now

!rue. "ut there were a hundred as good painters as (onet whocouldn$t sell their pictures at that time, and their pictures

are worth nothing still. 3ow can one tell #s merit enough tobring success 9on$t believe it. , it has still

to be proved that this friend of yours has merit. 0o oneclaims it for him but (onsieur troeve.

/nd how, then, will you recognise merit asked 9irk, red inthe face with anger .























































!here is only one way && by success.

8hilistine, cried 9irk.

"ut think of the great artists of the past && 2aphael, (ichael /ngelo, #ngres, 9elacroix && they were all successful.

*et us go, said troeve to me, or # shall kill this man.

Chapter LL###

# saw trickland not infre%uently, and now and then played

chess with him. 3e was of uncertain temper. ometimes hewould sit silent and abstracted, taking no notice of anyone;

and at others, when he was in a good humour, he would talk inhis own halting way. 3e never said a clever thing, but he had

a vein of brutal sarcasm which was not ineffective, and he

always said exactly what he thought . 3e was indifferent tothe susceptibilities of others, and when he wounded them was amused. 3e was constantly offending 9irk troeve so bitterly

that he flung away, vowing he would never speak to him again;but there was a solid force in trickland that attracted the

fat 9utchman against his will, so that he came back, fawning like a clumsy dog, though he knew that his only greeting would

be the blow he dreaded.

# do not know why trickland put up with me. >ur relations

were peculiar. >ne day he asked me to lend him fifty francs.

# wouldn$t dream of it, # replied.

1hy not

#t wouldn$t amuse me.

#$m frightfully hard up, you know.

# don$t care.

Gou don$t care if # starve

1hy on earth should # # asked in my turn.

3e looked at me for a minute or two, pulling his untidy beard.

# smiled at him.

1hat are you amused at he said, with a gleam of anger in

his eyes.

Gou$re so simple. Gou recognise no obligations. 0o one isunder any obligation to you.

1ouldn$t it make you uncomfortable if # went and hanged



























myself because #$d been turned out of my room as # couldn$t pay the rent

0ot a bit.

3e chuckled.

Gou$re bragging. #f # really did you$d be overwhelmed withremorse.

!ry it, and we$ll see , # retorted.

/ smile flickered in his eyes, and he stirred his absinthe in silence.

1ould you like to play chess # asked.

# don$t mind .

1e set up the pieces, and when the board was ready heconsidered it with a comfortable eye. !here is a sense of

satisfaction in looking at your men all ready for the fray.

9id you really think #$d lend you money # asked.

# didn$t see why you shouldn$t.

Gou surprise me.

1hy

#t$s disappointing to find that at heart you are sentimental. # should have liked you better if you hadn$t made that

ingenuous appeal to my sympathies.

# should have despised you if you$d been moved by it, he answered.

!hat$s better, # laughed.

1e began to play. 1e were both absorbed in the game. 1hen it was finished # said to him'

*ook here, if you$re hard up, let me see your pictures. #f there$s anything # like #$ll buy it.

Do to hell, he answered.

3e got up and was about to go away. # stopped him.

Gou haven$t paid for your absinthe, # said, smiling.

3e cursed me, flung down the money and left.

























# did not see him for several days after that, but oneevening, when # was sitting in the cafe, reading a paper,

he came up and sat beside me.

Gou haven$t hanged yourself after all, # remarked.

0o. #$ve got a commission. #$m painting the portrait of a

retired plumber for two hundred francs.+@-

+@- !his picture, formerly in the possession of a wealthymanufacturer at *ille, who fled from that city on the approach

of the Dermans, is now in the 0ational Dallery at tockholm.!he wede is adept at the gentle pastime of fishing in

troubled waters.

3ow did you manage that

!he woman where # get my bread recommended me. 3e$d told her he was looking out for someone to paint him. #$ve got to giveher twenty francs.

1hat$s he like

plendid. 3e$s got a great red face like a leg of mutton,

and on his right cheek there$s an enormous mole with long hairs growing out of it.

trickland was in a good humour, and when 9irk troeve cameup and sat down with us he attacked him with ferocious banter.

3e showed a skill # should never have credited him with in finding the places where the unhappy 9utchman was most

sensitive. trickland employed not the rapier of sarcasm but the bludgeon of invective. !he attack was so unprovoked that

troeve, taken unawares, was defenceless. 3e reminded you of a frightened sheep running aimlessly hither and thither.

3e was startled and amazed. /t last the tears ran from his eyes. /nd the worst of it was that, though you hated trickland,

and the exhibition was horrible, it was impossible not to laugh. 9irk troeve was one of those unlucky persons whose most

sincere emotions are ridiculous.

"ut after all when # look back upon that winter in 8aris,

my pleasantest recollection is of 9irk troeve. !here was something very charming in his little household. 3e and his

wife made a picture which the imagination gratefully dwelt upon, and the simplicity of his love for her had a deliberate grace.

3e remained absurd, but the sincerity of his passionexcited one$s sympathy. # could understand how his wife must

feel for him, and # was glad that her affection was so tender. #f she had any sense of humour, it must amuse her that he

should place her on a pedestal and worship her with such anhonest idolatry, but even while she laughed she must have been
























pleased and touched . 3e was the constant lover, and though she grew old, losing her rounded lines and her fair

comeliness, to him she would certainly never alter.!o him she would always be the loveliest woman in the world.

!here was a pleasing grace in the orderliness of their lives.!hey had but the studio, a bedroom, and a tiny kitchen.

(rs. troeve did all the housework herself ; and while 9irk painted

bad pictures, she went marketing, cooked the luncheon, sewed,occupied herself like a busy ant all the day; and in theevening sat in the studio, sewing again, while 9irk played

music which # am sure was far beyond her comprehension. 3e played with taste , but with more feeling than was always

justified, and into his music poured all his honest, sentimental, exuberant soul .

!heir life in its own way was an idyl, and it managed toachieve a singular beauty. !he absurdity that clung to

everything connected with 9irk troeve 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 LL#

hortly before Christmas 9irk troeve came to ask me to spend

the holiday with him. 3e had a characteristic sentimentalityabout the day and wanted to pass it among his friends with

suitable ceremonies. 0either of us had seen trickland for two or three weeks && # because # had been busy with friends

who were spending a little while in 8aris, and troevebecause, having %uarreled with him more violently than usual,

he had made up his mind to have nothing more to do with him.trickland was impossible, and he swore never to speak to him again.

"ut the season touched him with gentle feeling , and he hated the thought of trickland spending Christmas 9ay by himself ;

he ascribed his own emotions to him, and could not

bear that on an occasion given up to good&fellowship thelonely painter should be abandoned to his own melancholy.troeve had set up a Christmas&tree in his studio, and #

suspected that we should both find absurd little presentshanging on its festive branches; but he was shy about seeing

trickland again; it was a little humiliating to forgive soeasily insults so outrageous, and he wished me to be present

at the reconciliation on which he was determined.

1e walked together down the /venue de Clichy, but trickland

was not in the cafe. #t was too cold to sit outside, and wetook our places on leather benches within. #t was hot and

stuffy, and the air was gray with smoke. trickland did not come,but presently we saw the French painter who occasionally

played chess with him. # had formed a casual ac%uaintance





















































with him, and he sat down at our table. troeve asked him if he had seen trickland.

3e$s ill, he said. 9idn$t you know

eriously

ery, # understand .

troeve$s face grew white.

1hy didn$t he write and tell me 3ow stupid of me to %uarrel

with him. 1e must go to him at once. 3e can have no one tolook after him. 1here does he live

# have no idea, said the Frenchman.

1e discovered that none of us knew how to find him.

troeve grew more and more distressed.

3e might die, and not a soul would know anything about it.

#t$s dreadful. # can$t bear the thought . 1e must find him at once.

# tried to make troeve understand that it was absurd to hunt vaguely about 8aris. 1e must first think of some plan.

Ges; but all this time he may be dying, and when we get there

it may be too late to do anything.

it still and let us think , # said impatiently.

!he only address # knew was the 3otel des "elges, but

trickland had long left that, and they would have norecollection of him. 1ith that %ueer idea of his to keep his

whereabouts secret, it was unlikely that, on leaving, he had said where he was going. "esides, it was more than five years ago.

# felt pretty sure that he had not moved far. #f he

continued to fre%uent the same cafe as when he had stayed at the hotel, it was probably because it was the most convenient.uddenly # 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.

# called for a directory and looked out the bakers. !here were five in the immediate neighbourhood, and the only thing was to

go to all of them. troeve accompanied me unwillingly. 3is own plan was to run up and down the streets that led out

of the /venue de Clichy and ask at every house if trickland

lived there. (y commonplace scheme was, after all, effective , for in the second shop we asked at the woman behind thecounter acknowledged that she knew him. he was not certain

where he lived, but it was in one of the three housesopposite. *uck favoured us, and in the first we tried the





































concierge told us that we should find him on the top floor.

#t appears that he$s ill, said troeve.

#t may be, answered the concierge indifferently. effetE, # have not seen him for severaldays.

troeve ran up the stairs ahead of me, and when # reached thetop floor # found him talking to a workman in his shirt&sleeves

who had opened a door at which troeve had knocked. 3e pointed to another door. 3e believed that the person who lived there

was a painter. 3e had not seen him for a week. troeve madeas though he were about to knock, and then turned to me with

a gesture of helplessness. # saw that he was panic&stricken.

upposing he$s dead

0ot he, # said.

# knocked. !here was no answer. # tried the handle, and found the door unlocked. # walked in, and troeve followed me.

!he room was in darkness. # could only see that it wasan attic, with a sloping roof; and a faint glimmer, no more

than a less profound obscurity, came from a skylight.

trickland, # called.

!here was no answer. #t was really rather mysterious, and it seemed to me that troeve, standing just behind, was trembling

in his shoes. For a moment # hesitated to strike a light. # dimly perceived a bed in the corner, and # wondered whether

the light would disclose lying on it a dead body.

3aven$t you got a match, you fool

trickland$s voice, coming out of the darkness, harshly,

made me start.

troeve cried out.

>h, my Dod, # thought you were dead.

# struck a match, and looked about for a candle. # had a

rapid glimpse of a tiny apartment, half room, half studio, inwhich was nothing but a bed, canvases with their faces to the

wall, an easel, a table, and a chair. !here was no carpet onthe floor. !here was no fire&place. >n the table, crowded

with paints, palette&knives, and litter of all kinds, was theend of a candle. # lit it. trickland was lying in the bed,

uncomfortably because it was too small for him, and he had put all his clothes over him for warmth. #t was obvious at a

glance that he was in a high fever. troeve, his voice

















cracking with emotion , went up to him.

>h, my poor friend, what is the matter with you # had no

idea you were ill. 1hy didn$t you let me know Gou must know #$d have done anything in the world for you. 1ere you

thinking of what # said # didn$t mean it. # was wrong. #t was stupid of me to take offence.

Do to hell, said trickland.

0ow, be reasonable. *et me make you comfortable.

3aven$t you anyone to look after you

3e looked round the s%ualid attic in dismay. 3e tried toarrange the bed&clothes. trickland, breathing laboriously,

kept an angry silence. 3e gave me a resentful glance. # stood %uite %uietly , looking at him.

#f you want to do something for me, you can get me somemilk, he said at last. # haven$t been able to get out for

two days. !here was an empty bottle by the side of the bed,which had contained milk, and in a piece of newspaper a few crumbs.

1hat have you been having # asked.

0othing.

For how long cried troeve. 9o you mean to say you$ve had nothing to eat or drink for two days #t$s horrible.

#$ve had water.

3is eyes dwelt for a moment on a large can within reach of anoutstretched arm.

#$ll go immediately, said troeve. #s there anything you fancy

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

9amned fool, muttered trickland.

# felt his pulse. #t was beating %uickly and feebly. # asked

him one or two %uestions, but he would not answer, and when # pressed him he turned his face irritably to the wall.

!he only thing was to wait in silence. #n ten minutes troeve,

panting, came back. "esides what # had suggested, he brought candles, and meat&juice, and a spirit&lamp. 3e was a

practical little fellow, and without delay set about making

bread&and&milk. # took trickland$s temperature. #t was ahundred and four. 3e was obviously very ill.





















Chapter LL

8resently we left him. 9irk was going home to dinner, and #

proposed to find a doctor and bring him to see trickland;but when we got down into the street, fresh after the stuffy

attic, the 9utchman begged me to go immediately to his studio. 3e had something in mind which he would not tell me, but he

insisted that it was very necessary for me to accompany him.ince # did not think a doctor could at the moment do any more

than we had done, # consented. 1e found "lanche troevelaying the table for dinner. 9irk went up to her, and took

both her hands.

9ear one, # want you to do something for me, he said.

he looked at him with the grave cheerfulness which was one of her charms. 3is 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.

trickland is very ill. 3e may be dying. 3e is alone in a filthy attic, and there is not a soul to look after him.

# want you to let me bring him here.

he withdrew her hands %uickly, # had never seen her make sorapid a movement; and her cheeks flushed.

>h no.

>h, my dear one, don$t refuse. # couldn$t bear to leave him

where he is. # shouldn$t sleep a wink for thinking of him.

# have no objection to your nursing him.

3er voice was cold and distant.

"ut he$ll die.

*et him.

troeve gave a little gasp. 3e wiped his face. 3e turned tome for support, but # did not know what to say.

3e$s a great artist.

1hat do # care # hate him.

>h, my love, my precious, you don$t mean that. # beseech youto let me bring him here. 1e can make him comfortable.

8erhaps we can save him. 3e shall be no trouble to you.

# will do everything. 1e$ll make him up a bed in the studio.1e can$t let him die like a dog. #t would be inhuman.

























1hy can$t he go to a hospital

/ hospitalM 3e needs the care of loving hands. 3e must be

treated with infinite tact.

# was surprised to see how moved she was. he went on laying

the table, but her hands trembled.

# have no patience with you. 9o you think if you were ill he

would stir a finger to help you

"ut what does that matter # should have you to nurse me. #t wouldn$t be necessary. /nd besides, #$m different;

#$m not of any importance.

Gou have no more spirit than a mongrel cur. Gou lie down on

the ground and ask people to trample on you.

troeve gave a little laugh. 3e thought he understood the

reason of his wife$s attitude.

>h, my poor dear, you$re thinking of that day he came here to

look at my pictures. 1hat does it matter if he didn$t think them any good #t was stupid of me to show them to him.

# dare say they$re not very good .

3e looked round the studio ruefully. >n the easel was a

half&finished picture of a smiling #talian peasant, holding abunch of grapes over the head of a dark&eyed girl.

)ven if he didn$t like them he should have been civil. 3e needn$t have insulted you. 3e showed that he despised you,

and you lick his hand. >h, # hate him.

9ear child, he has genius. Gou don$t think # believe that # have it. # wish # had; but # know it when # see it, and #

honour it with all my heart. #t$s the most wonderful thing in

the world. #t$s a great burden to its possessors. 1e should be very tolerant with them, and very patient .

# stood apart, somewhat embarrassed by the domestic scene,

and wondered why troeve had insisted on my coming with him. # saw that his wife was on the verge of tears.

"ut it$s not only because he$s a genius that # ask you to let me bring him here; it$s because he$s a human being , and he is

ill and poor.

# will never have him in my house && never.

troeve turned to me.

!ell her that it$s a matter of life and death.













































#t$s impossible to leave him in that wretched hole.

#t$s %uite obvious that it would be much easier to nurse him

here, # said, but of course it would be very inconvenient. # have an idea that someone will have to be with him day and night.

(y love, it$s not you who would shirk a little trouble.

#f he comes here, # shall go, said (rs. troeve violently.

# don$t recognize you. Gou$re so good and kind.

>h, for goodness sake, let me be. Gou drive me to distraction.

!hen at last the tears came. he sank into a chair,

and buried her face in her hands. 3er shoulders shook convulsively. #n a moment 9irk 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.

8resently she released herself and dried her eyes.

*eave me alone , she said, not unkindly; and then to me,

trying to smile' 1hat must you think of me

troeve, looking at her with perplexity, hesitated.

3is forehead was all puckered, and his red mouth set in a pout. 3e reminded me oddly of an agitated guinea&pig.

!hen it$s 0o, darling he said at last.

he gave a gesture of lassitude. he was exhausted.

!he studio is yours. )verything belongs to you. #f you want

to bring him here, how can # prevent you

/ sudden smile flashed across his round face.

!hen you consent # knew you would. >h, my precious.

uddenly she pulled herself together. he looked at him withhaggard eyes. he clasped her hands over her heart as though

its beating were intolerable.

>h, 9irk, #$ve never since we met asked you to do anything for me.

Gou know there$s nothing in the world that # wouldn$t do for you.

# beg you not to let trickland come here. /nyone else you like. "ring a thief, a drunkard, any outcast off the streets,

and # promise you #$ll do everything # can for them gladly. "ut # beseech you not to bring trickland here.




















"ut why

#$m frightened of him. # don$t know why, but there$s something

in him that terrifies me. 3e$ll do us some great harm. # know it. # feel it. #f you bring him here it can only end badly.

"ut how unreasonableM

0o, no. # know #$m right. omething terrible will happen to us.

"ecause we do a good action

he was panting now, and in her face was a terror which wasinexplicable. # do not know what she thought . # felt that

she was possessed by some shapeless dread which robbed her of all self&control . /s a rule she was so calm; her agitation

now was amazing. troeve looked at her for a while with

puzzled consternation.

Gou are my wife; you are dearer to me than anyone in the world. 0o one shall come here without your entire consent.

he closed her eyes for a moment, and # thought she was going to faint. # was a little impatient with her; # had not

suspected that she was so neurotic a woman. !hen # heard troeve$s voice again. #t seemed to break oddly on the

silence.

3aven$t you been in bitter distress once when a helping hand

was held out to you Gou know how much it means. Couldn$t youlike to do someone a good turn when you have the chance

!he words were ordinary enough, and to my mind there was inthem something so hortatory that # almost smiled. # was

astonished at the effect they had on "lanche troeve.he started a little, and gave her husband a long look.

3is eyes were fixed on the ground. # did not know why he

seemed embarrassed. / 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. / shiver passed through her. !he silence of the studio seemed to gather body,

so that it became an almost palpable presence. # was bewildered.

"ring trickland here, 9irk. #$ll do my best for him.

(y precious, he smiled.

3e wanted to take her in his arms, but she avoided him.

9on$t be affectionate before strangers, 9irk, she said.













































#t makes me feel such a fool.

3er manner was %uite normal again, and no one could have told

that so shortly before she had been shaken by such a great emotion.

Chapter LL#

0ext day we moved trickland. #t needed a good deal of

firmness and still more patience to induce him to come, but hewas really too ill to offer any effective resistance to

troeve$s entreaties and to my determination. 1e dressed him,while he feebly cursed us, got him downstairs, into a cab, and

eventually to troeve$s studio. 3e was so exhausted by thetime we arrived that he allowed us to put him to bed without a word.

3e was ill for six weeks. /t one time it looked asthough he could not live more than a few hours, and # am

convinced that it was only through the 9utchman$s doggednessthat he pulled through. # have never known a more difficult

patient . #t was not that he was exacting and %uerulous;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 in%uiries about his feelings

or his needs with a jibe, a sneer, or an oath. # found himdetestable, and as soon as he was out of danger # had no

hesitation in telling him so.

Do to hell, he answered briefly.

9irk troeve, giving up his work entirely, nursed trickland with tenderness and sympathy. 3e was dexterous to make him

comfortable , and he exercised a cunning of which # should never have thought him capable to induce him to take the

medicines prescribed by the doctor. 0othing was too muchtrouble for him. !hough his means were ade%uate 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 trickland$s capricious appetite. # shall never forget the

tactful patience with which he persuaded him to take nourishment. 3e was never put out by trickland$s rudeness;

if it was merely sullen, he appeared not to notice it; if it was aggressive, he only chuckled. 1hen trickland, recovering

somewhat, was in a good humour and amused himself by laughing at him, he deliberately did absurd things to excite his ridicule.

!hen he would give me little happy glances, so that

# might notice in how much better form the patient was.troeve was sublime.

"ut it was "lanche who most surprised me. he proved herself

not only a capable, but a devoted nurse. !here was nothing inher to remind you that she had so vehemently struggled against
















































her husband$s wish to bring trickland to the studio.he insisted on doing her share of the offices needful to the sick.

he arranged his bed so that it was possible to change the sheet without disturbing him. he washed him. 1hen #

remarked on her competence, she told me with that pleasant little smile of hers that for a while she had worked in a hospital.

he gave no sign that she hated trickland so desperately.

he did not speak to him much, but she was %uick to forestall his wants. For a fortnight it was necessary that someone should stay with him all night, and she took turns at

watching with her husband. # wondered what she thought during the long darkness as she sat by the bedside. trickland was a

weird figure as he lay there, thinner than ever, with hisragged red beard and his eyes staring feverishly into vacancy;

his illness seemed to have made them larger, and they had anunnatural brightness.

9oes he ever talk to you in the night # asked her once.

0ever.

9o you dislike him as much as you did

(ore, if anything.

he looked at me with her calm gray eyes. 3er expression was

so placid, it was hard to believe that she was capable of the

violent emotion # had witnessed.

3as he ever thanked you for what you do for him

0o, she smiled.

3e$s inhuman.

3e$s abominable.

troeve was, of course, delighted with her. 3e could not doenough to show his gratitude for the whole&hearted devotionwith which she had accepted the burden he laid on her.

"ut he was a little puzzled by the behaviour of "lanche and trickland towards one another.

9o you know , #$ve seen them sit there for hours together without saying a word

>n one occasion, when trickland was so much better that in a

day or two he was to get up, # sat with them in the studio. 9irk and # were talking. (rs. troeve sewed, and # thought # recognised the shirt she was mending as trickland$s. 3e lay

on his back; he did not speak. >nce # saw that his eyes were fixed on "lanche troeve, and there was in them a curious irony.























Feeling their gaze, she raised her own, and for a moment they stared at one another. # could not %uite understand

her expression. 3er eyes had in them a strange perplexity,and perhaps && but why && alarm. #n a moment trickland

looked away and idly surveyed the ceiling, but she continued to stare at him, and now her look was %uite inexplicable.

#n a few days trickland began to get up. 3e was nothing but skin and bone. 3is clothes hung upon him like rags on a

scarecrow. 1ith his untidy beard and long hair, his features,always a little larger than life, now emphasised by illness,

he had an extraordinary aspect; but it was so odd that it wasnot %uite ugly. !here was something monumental in his

ungainliness. # do not know how to express precisely theimpression he made upon me. #t was not exactly spirituality

that was obvious, though the screen of the flesh seemed almost transparent, because there was in his face an outrageous

sensuality; but, though it sounds nonsense, it seemed asthough his sensuality were curiously spiritual . !here was in

him something primitive. 3e seemed to partake of thoseobscure forces of nature which the Dreeks personified in

shapes part human and part beast, the satyr and the faun. # thought of (arsyas, whom the god flayed because he had dared

to rival him in song. trickland seemed to bear in his heart strange harmonies and unadventured patterns, and # foresaw for

him an end of torture and despair . # had again the feeling that he was possessed of a devil; but you could not say that it was a devil of evil, for it was a primitive force that

existed before good and ill.

3e was still too weak to paint, and he sat in the studio, silent, occupied with Dod knows what dreams , or reading.

!he books he liked were %ueer; sometimes # would find him poring over the poems of (allarme, and he read them as a child reads,

forming the words with his lips, and # wondered what strangeemotion he got from those subtle cadences and obscure phrases;

and again # found him absorbed in the detective novels of Daboriau. # amused myself by thinking that in his choice of bookshe showed pleasantly the irreconcilable sides of his

fantastic nature. #t was singular to notice that even in theweak state of his body he had no thought for its comfort .

troeve liked his ease, and in his studio were a couple of heavily upholstered arm&chairs and a large divan.

trickland would not go near them, not from any affectationof stoicism, for # found him seated on a three&legged stool

when # went into the studio one day and he was alone ,

but because he did not like them. For choice he sat on akitchen chair without arms. #t often exasperated me to see him.

# never knew a man so entirely indifferent to his surroundings.























































Chapter LL##

!wo or three weeks passed. >ne morning, having come to a

pause in my work, # thought # would give myself a holiday,and # went to the *ouvre. # wandered about looking at the

pictures # knew so well, and let my fancy play idly with theemotions they suggested. # sauntered into the long gallery,

and there suddenly saw troeve. # smiled, for his appearance, so rotund and yet so startled, could never fail to excite a

smile, and then as # came nearer # noticed that he seemed singularly disconsolate. 3e looked woebegone and yet

ridiculous, like a man who has fallen into the water with all his clothes on, and, being rescued from death, frightened still,

feels that he only looks a fool. !urning round, he stared at me, but # perceived that he did not see me. 3is

round blue eyes looked harassed behind his glasses.

troeve, # said.

3e gave a little start, and then smiled, but his smile was rueful.

1hy are you idling in this disgraceful fashion # asked gaily.

#t$s a long time since # was at the *ouvre. # thought #$d

come and see if they had anything new.

"ut you told me you had to get a picture finished this week.

trickland$s painting in my studio.

1ell

# suggested it myself . 3e$s not strong enough to go back tohis own place yet. # thought we could both paint there.

*ots of fellows in the <uarter share a studio. # thought it would be fun. #$ve always thought it would be jolly to have

someone to talk to when one was tired of work.

3e said all this slowly, detaching statement from statement with a little awkward silence, and he kept his kind, foolish

eyes fixed on mine. !hey were full of tears.

# don$t think # understand , # said.

trickland can$t work with anyone else in the studio.

9amn it all, it$s your studio. !hat$s his lookout.

3e looked at me pitifully. 3is lips were trembling.

1hat happened # asked, rather sharply.

3e hesitated and flushed. 3e glanced unhappily at one of the










































pictures on the wall.

3e wouldn$t let me go on painting. 3e told me to get out.

"ut why didn$t you tell him to go to hell

3e turned me out. # couldn$t very well struggle with him. 3e threw my hat after me, and locked the door.

# was furious with trickland, and was indignant with myself ,because 9irk troeve cut such an absurd figure that # felt

inclined to laugh.

"ut what did your wife say

he$d gone out to do the marketing.

#s he going to let her in

# don$t know.

# gazed at troeve with perplexity. 3e stood like a schoolboywith whom a master is finding fault.

hall # get rid of trickland for you # asked.

3e gave a little start, and his shining face grew very red.

0o. Gou$d better not do anything.

3e nodded to me and walked away. #t was clear that for somereason he did not want to discuss the matter. # did not understand .

Chapter LL###

!he explanation came a week later. #t was about ten o$ clock

at night; # had been dining by myself at a restaurant, and

having returned to my small apartment, was sitting in my parlour, reading # heard the cracked tinkling of the bell,and, going into the corridor, opened the door. troeve stood

before me.

Can # come in he asked.

#n the dimness of the landing # could not see him very well,but there was something in his voice that surprised me. #

knew he was of abstemious habit or # should have thought he

had been drinking. # led the way into my sitting room and asked him to sit down.

!hank Dod #$ve found you, he said.























1hat$s the matter # asked in astonishment at his vehemence.

# was able now to see him well. /s a rule he was neat in his

person, but now his clothes were in disorder. 3e looked suddenly bedraggled. # was convinced he had been drinking,

and # smiled. # was on the point of chaffing him on his state.

# didn$t know where to go, he burst out. # came hereearlier, but you weren$t in.

# dined late, # said.

# changed my mind ' it was not li%uor that had driven him to

this obvious desperation. 3is face, usually so rosy, was now strangely mottled. 3is hands trembled.

3as anything happened # asked.

(y wife has left me.

3e could hardly get the words out. 3e gave a little gasp, and the tears began to trickle down his round cheeks. # did not

know what to say. (y first thought was that she had come tothe end of her forbearance with his infatuation for

trickland, and, goaded by the latter$s cynical behaviour , had insisted that he should be turned out. # knew her capable of

temper, for all the calmness of her manner; and if troeve

still refused, she might easily have flung out of the studiowith vows never to return. "ut the little man was sodistressed that # could not smile.

(y dear fellow, don$t be unhappy. he$ll come back.Gou mustn$t take very seriously what women say when they$re

in a passion.

Gou don$t understand . he$s in love with trickland.

1hatM # was startled at this, but the idea had no sooner taken possession of me than # saw it was absurd. 3ow can yoube so silly Gou don$t mean to say you$re jealous of trickland

# almost laughed. Gou know very well that shecan$t bear the sight of him.

Gou don$t understand , he moaned.

Gou$re an hysterical ass, # said a little impatiently.

*et me give you a whisky&and&soda, and you$ll feel better.

# supposed that for some reason or other && and 3eaven knows

what ingenuity men exercise to torment themselves && 9irk had got it into his head that his wife cared for trickland, and

with his genius for blundering he might %uite well have










































offended her so that, to anger him, perhaps, she had taken pains to foster his suspicion.

*ook here, # said, let$s go back to your studio. #f you$vemade a fool of yourself you must eat humble pie. Gour wife

doesn$t strike me as the sort of woman to bear malice.

3ow can # go back to the studio he said wearily.!hey$re there. #$ve left it to them.

!hen it$s not your wife who$s left you; it$s you who$ve left

your wife.

For Dod$s sake don$t talk to me like that.

till # could not take him seriously. # did not for a moment

believe what he had told me. "ut he was in very real distress.

1ell, you$ve come here to talk to me about it. Gou$d better

tell me the whole story.

!his afternoon # couldn$t stand it any more. # went to

trickland and told him # thought he was %uite well enough to go back to his own place. # wanted the studio myself .

0o one but trickland would have needed telling, # said.1hat did he say

3e laughed a little; you know how he laughs, not as though he

were amused, but as though you were a damned fool, and said he$d go at once. 3e began to put his things together.Gou remember # fetched from his room what # thought he needed,

and he asked "lanche for a piece of paper and some string tomake a parcel.

troeve stopped, gasping, and # thought he was going to faint.

!his was not at all the story # had expected him to tell me.

he was very pale, but she brought the paper and the string.

3e didn$t say anything. 3e made the parcel and he whistled a tune. 3e took no notice of either of us. 3is eyes had an

ironic smile in them. (y heart was like lead. # was afraid something was going to happen, and # wished # hadn$t spoken.

3e looked round for his hat. !hen she spoke'

K#$m going with trickland, 9irk,$ she said. K# can$t live

with you any more.$

# tried to speak, but the words wouldn$t come. trickland

didn$t say anything. 3e went on whistling as though it had nothing to do with him.
























troeve stopped again and mopped his face. # kept %uite still. # believed him now, and # was astounded. "ut all the

same # could not understand .

!hen he told me, in a trembling voice, with the tears pouring

down his cheeks, how he had gone up to her, trying to take her in his arms, but she had drawn away and begged him not to

touch her. 3e implored her not to leave him. 3e told her how passionately he loved her, and reminded her of all the

devotion he had lavished upon her. 3e spoke to her of thehappiness of their life. 3e was not angry with her. 3e did

not reproach her.

8lease let me go %uietly , 9irk, she said at last. 9on$t

you understand that # love trickland 1here he goes # shall go.

"ut you must know that he$ll never make you happy. For your

own sake don$t go. Gou don$t know what you$ve got to look forward to.

#t$s your fault. Gou insisted on his coming here.

3e turned to trickland.

3ave mercy on her, he implored him. Gou can$t let her do

anything so mad.

he can do as she chooses, said trickland. he$s not forced to come.

(y choice is made, she said, in a dull voice.

trickland$s injurious calm robbed troeve of the rest of his self&control . "lind rage seized him, and without knowing what

he was doing he flung himself on trickland. trickland wastaken by surprise and he staggered, but he was very strong,

even after his illness, and in a moment, he did not exactly

know how, troeve found himself on the floor.

Gou funny little man, said trickland.

troeve picked himself up. 3e noticed that his wife had remained perfectly still, and to be made ridiculous before her

increased his humiliation. 3is spectacles had tumbled off inthe struggle, and he could not immediately see them.

he picked them up and silently handed them to him. 3e seemed suddenly to realise his unhappiness , and though he knew he was

making himself still more absurd, he began to cry. 3e hid his face in his hands. !he others watched him without a word.

!hey did not move from where they stood.















































>h, my dear, he groaned at last, how can you be so cruel

# can$t help myself , 9irk, she answered.

#$ve worshipped you as no woman was ever worshipped before. #f in anything # did # displeased you, why didn$t you tell me,

and #$d have changed. #$ve done everything # could for you.

he did not answer. 3er face was set, and he saw that he was

only boring her. he put on a coat and her hat. he moved towards the door, and he saw that in a moment she would be

gone. 3e went up to her %uickly and fell on his knees beforeher, seizing her hands' he abandoned all self&respect .

>h, don$t go, my darling. # can$t live without you; # shall

kill myself . #f #$ve done anything to offend you # beg you to forgive me. Dive me another chance. #$ll try harder still to

make you happy.

Det up, 9irk. Gou$re making yourself a perfect fool.

3e staggered to his feet, but still he would not let her go.

1here are you going he said hastily. Gou don$t know what

trickland$s place is like. Gou can$t live there. #t would be awful.

#f # don$t care, # don$t see why you should.

tay a minute longer. # must speak. /fter all, you can$t grudge me that.

1hat is the good #$ve made up my mind . 0othing that you can say will make me alter it.

3e gulped, and put his hand to his heart to ease its painful beating.

#$m not going to ask you to change your mind , but # want youto listen to me for a minute. #t$s the last thing # shall ever ask you. 9on$t refuse me that.

he paused, looking at him with those reflective eyes of hers,which now were so different to him. he came back into the

studio and leaned against the table.

1ell

troeve made a great effort to collect himself .

Gou must be a little reasonable. Gou can$t live on air, you know. trickland hasn$t got a penny.








































# know.

Gou$ll suffer the most awful privations. Gou know why he

took so long to get well. 3e was half starved.

# can earn money for him.

3ow

# don$t know. # shall find a way.

/ horrible thought passed through the 9utchman$s mind ,

and he shuddered.

# think you must be mad. # don$t know what has come over you.

he shrugged her shoulders.

0ow may # go

1ait one second longer.

3e looked round his studio wearily; he had loved it becauseher presence had made it gay and homelike; he shut his eyes

for an instant; then he gave her a long look as though toimpress on his mind the picture of her. 3e got up and took

his hat.

0o; #$ll go.

Gou

he was startled. he did not know what he meant.

# can$t bear to think of you living in that horrible, filthy

attic. /fter all, this is your home just as much as mine.Gou$ll be comfortable here. Gou$ll be spared at least the

worst privations.

3e went to the drawer in which he kept his money and took out

several bank&notes.

# would like to give you half what #$ve got here.

3e put them on the table. 0either trickland nor his wife spoke.

!hen he recollected something else.

1ill you pack up my clothes and leave them with the concierge

#$ll come and fetch them to&morrow. 3e tried to smile. Dood&bye, my dear. #$m grateful for all the happiness you gave

me in the past.






























3e walked out and closed the door behind him. 1ith my mind$seye # saw trickland throw his hat on a table, and, sitting down,

begin to smoke a cigarette.

Chapter LL#L

# kept silence for a little while, thinking of what troeve

had told me. # could not stomach his weakness, and he sawmy disapproval. Gou know as well as # do how trickland lived, he said tremulously. # couldn$t let her live in those

circumstances && # simply couldn$t.

!hat$s your business, # answered.

1hat would have done he asked.

he went with her eyes open. #f she had to put up with

certain inconveniences it was her own lookout.

Ges; but, you see , you don$t love her.

9o you love her still

>h, more than ever. trickland isn$t the man to make a woman happy. #t can$t last. # want her to know that # shall never fail her.

9oes that mean that you$re prepared to take her back

# shouldn$t hesitate. 1hy, she$ll want me more than ever then.1hen she$s alone and humiliated and broken it would be

dreadful if she had nowhere to go.

3e seemed to bear no resentment. # suppose it was commonplace

in me that # felt slightly outraged at his lack of spirit . 8erhaps he guessed what was in my mind , for he said'

# couldn$t expect her to love me as # loved her.

#$m a buffoon. #$m not the sort of man that women love. #$ve always known that. # can$t blame her if she$s fallenin love with trickland.

Gou certainly have less vanity than any man #$ve ever known , # said.

# love her so much better than myself . #t seems to me that when vanity comes into love it can only be because really you

love yourself best. /fter all, it constantly happens that a

man when he$s married falls in love with somebody else;when he gets over it he returns to his wife, and she takes himback, and everyone thinks it very natural. 1hy should it be

different with women

# dare say that$s logical, # smiled, but most men are made










































differently, and they can$t.

"ut while # talked to troeve # was puzzling over the

suddenness of the whole affair. # could not imagine that hehad had no warning. # remembered the curious look # had seen

in "lanche troeve$s eyes; perhaps its explanation was that she was growing dimly conscious of a feeling in her heart that

surprised and alarmed her.

9id you have no suspicion before to&day that there was

anything between them # asked.

3e did not answer for a while. !here was a pencil on the table,

and unconsciously he drew a head on the blotting&paper.

8lease say so, if you hate my asking you %uestions, # said.

#t eases me to talk. >h, if you knew the frightful anguishin my heart. 3e threw the pencil down. Ges, #$ve known it for a fortnight. # knew it before she did.

1hy on earth didn$t you send trickland packing

# couldn$t believe it. #t seemed so improbable.

he couldn$t bear the sight of him. #t was more than improbable;it was incredible. # thought it was merely jealousy.

Gou see , #$ve always been jealous , but # trained myself never

to show it; # was jealous of every man she knew; # was jealous of you. # knew she didn$t love me as # loved her.!hat was only natural, wasn$t it "ut she allowed me to

love her, and that was enough to make me happy. # forced myself to go out for hours together in order to leave them

by themselves; # wanted to punish myself for suspicionswhich were unworthy of me; and when # came back # found they

didn$t want me && not trickland, he didn$t care if # wasthere or not, but "lanche. he shuddered when # went to kiss her.

1hen at last # was certain # didn$t know what to do; # knew they$d only laugh at me if # made a scene.

# thought if # held my tongue and pretended not to see ,everything would come right. # made up my mind to get

him away %uietly , without %uarrelling. >h, if you onlyknew what #$ve sufferedM

!hen he told me again of his asking trickland to go. 3e chose his moment carefully, and tried to make his re%uest

sound casual; but he could not master the trembling of his voice;

and he felt himself that into words that he wished to seem jovial and friendly there crept the bitterness of his jealousy. 3e had not expected trickland to take him up on

the spot and make his preparations to go there and then;above all, he had not expected his wife$s decision to go with him.

# saw that now he wished with all his heart that he had held













































































his tongue. 3e preferred the anguish of jealousy to theanguish of separation.

# wanted to kill him, and # only made a fool of myself .

3e was silent for a long time, and then he said what # knew

was in his mind .

#f #$d only waited, perhaps it would have gone all right.

# shouldn$t have been so impatient. >h, poor child,what have # driven her to

# shrugged my shoulders, but did not speak. # had no sympathy

for "lanche troeve, but knew that it would only pain poor 9irk if # told him exactly what # thought of her.

3e had reached that stage of exhaustion when he could not stop

talking. 3e went over again every word of the scene. 0ow something occurred to him that he had not told me before;now he discussed what he ought to have said instead of what he

did say; then he lamented his blindness. 3e regretted that he had done this, and blamed himself that he had omitted the other.

#t grew later and later, and at last # was as tired as he.

1hat are you going to do now # said finally.

1hat can # do # shall wait till she sends for me.

1hy don$t you go away for a bit

0o, no; # must be at hand when she wants me.

For the present he seemed %uite lost. 3e had made no plans.1hen # suggested that he should go to bed he said he could not

sleep; he wanted to go out and walk about the streets till day. 3e was evidently in no state to be left alone.

# persuaded him to stay the night with me, and # put him into my

own bed. # had a divan in my sitting&room, and could verywell sleep on that. 3e was by now so worn out that he could not resist my firmness. # gave him a sufficient dose of

veronal to insure his unconsciousness for several hours. # thought that was the best service # could render him.

Chapter LLL

"ut the bed # made up for myself was sufficiently

uncomfortable to give me a wakeful night, and # thought a good

deal of what the unlucky 9utchman had told me. # was not somuch puzzled by "lanche troeve$s action, for # saw in that merely the result of a physical appeal. # do not suppose she

had ever really cared for her husband, and what # had taken for love was no more than the feminine response to caresses











































and comfort which in the minds of most women passes for it. #t is a passive feeling capable of being roused for any object ,

as the vine can grow on any tree; and the wisdom of the world recognises its strength when it urges a girl to

marry the man who wants her with the assurance that love will follow. #t is an emotion made up of the satisfaction in security,

pride of property, the pleasure of being desired ,

the gratification of a household, and it is only by an amiablevanity that women ascribe to it spiritual value. #t is anemotion which is defenceless against passion. # suspected

that "lanche troeve$s violent dislike of trickland had in it from the beginning a vague element of sexual attraction.

1ho am # that # should seek to unravel the mysterious intricaciesof sex 8erhaps troeve$s passion excited without satisfying

that part of her nature, and she hated trickland because she felt in him the power to give her what she needed. # think

she was %uite sincere when she struggled against her husband$s

desire to bring him into the studio; # think she was frightened of him, though she knew not why; and # remembered

how she had foreseen disaster. # think in some curious waythe horror which she felt for him was a transference of the

horror which she felt for herself because he so strangelytroubled her. 3is appearance was wild and uncouth; there was

aloofness in his eyes and sensuality in his mouth; he was big and strong; he gave the impression of untamed passion; and

perhaps she felt in him, too, that sinister element which had

made me think of those wild beings of the world$s earlyhistory when matter, retaining its early connection with theearth, seemed to possess yet a spirit of its own. #f he

affected her at all, it was inevitable that she should love or hate him. he hated him.

/nd then # fancy that the daily intimacy with the sick manmoved her strangely. he raised his head to give him food,

and it was heavy against her hand; when she had fed him shewiped his sensual mouth and his red beard. he washed his limbs;

they were covered with thick hair; and when she dried his hands, even in his weakness they were strong and sinewy.

3is fingers were long; they were the capable, fashioning fingers of the artist; and # know not what troubling thoughts

they excited in her. 3e slept very %uietly , without amovement, so that he might have been dead, and he was like

some wild creature of the woods, resting after a long chase;and she wondered what fancies passed through his dreams.

9id he dream of the nymph flying through the woods of Dreece withthe satyr in hot pursuit he fled, swift of foot and

desperate, but he gained on her step by step, till she felt his hot breath on her neck; and still she fled silently, and

silently he pursued, and when at last he seized her was it terror that thrilled her heart or was it ecstasy


























































































"lanche troeve was in the cruel grip of appetite. 8erhaps she hated trickland still, but she hungered for him,

and everything that had made up her life till then became of no account. he ceased to be a woman, complex, kind and

petulant, considerate and thoughtless; she was a (aenad.he was desire.

"ut perhaps this is very fanciful; and it may be that she wasmerely bored with her husband and went to trickland out of a

callous curiosity. he may have had no particular feeling for him, but succumbed to his wish from propin%uity or idleness,

to find then that she was powerless in a snare of her owncontriving. 3ow did # know what were the thoughts and

emotions behind that placid brow and those cool gray eyes

"ut if one could be certain of nothing in dealing with

creatures so incalculable as human beings, there were

explanations of "lanche troeve$s behaviour which were at all events plausible. >n the other hand, # did not understand trickland at all. # racked my brain, but could in no way

account for an action so contrary to my conception of him. #t was not strange that he should so heartlessly have betrayed

his friends$ confidence, nor that he hesitated not at all to gratify a whim at the cost of another$s misery. !hat was in

his character . 3e was a man without any conception of gratitude. 3e had no compassion. !he emotions common to most

of us simply did not exist in him, and it was as absurd toblame him for not feeling them as for blaming the tiger

because he is fierce and cruel. "ut it was the whim # could not understand .

# could not believe that trickland had fallen in love with "lanche troeve. # did not believe him capable of love.

!hat is an emotion in which tenderness is an essential part,but trickland had no tenderness either for himself or for others;

there is in love a sense of weakness, a desire to protect,

an eagerness to do good and to give pleasure && if not unselfishness, at all events a selfishness which marvellouslyconceals itself; it has in it a certain diffidence.

!hese were not traits which # could imagine in trickland. *ove is absorbing; it takes the lover out of himself ; the most

clear&sighted, though he may know , cannot realise that his lovewill cease; it gives body to what he knows is illusion, and,

knowing it is nothing else, he loves it better than reality. #t makes a man a little more than himself , and at the same

time a little less. 3e ceases to be himself . 3e is no longer

an individual, but a thing, an instrument to some purpose foreign to his ego. *ove is never %uite devoid of sentimentality, and trickland was the least inclined to that infirmity of any man # have known. # could not believe that

he would ever suffer that possession of himself which love is;






































































he could never endure a foreign yoke. # believed him capableof uprooting from his heart, though it might be with agony, so

that he was left battered and ensanguined, anything that camebetween himself and that uncomprehended craving that urged him

constantly to he knew not what. #f # have succeeded at all in giving the complicated impression that trickland made on me,

it will not seem outrageous to say that # felt he was at once

too great and too small for love.

"ut # suppose that everyone$s conception of the passion is formed on his own idiosyncrasies, and it is different with

every different person. / man like trickland would love in amanner peculiar to himself . #t was vain to seek the analysis

of his emotion.

Chapter LLL#

0ext day, though # pressed him to remain, troeve left me. # offered to fetch his things from the studio, but he insisted

on going himself ; # think he hoped they had not thought of getting them together, so that he would have an opportunity of

seeing his wife again and perhaps inducing her to come back to him. "ut he found his traps waiting for him in the porter$s

lodge, and the concierge told him that "lanche had gone out. # do not think he resisted the temptation of giving her an

account of his troubles. # found that he was telling them toeveryone he knew; he expected sympathy, but only excited

ridicule.

3e bore himself most unbecomingly. 7nowing at what time his

wife did her shopping, one day, unable any longer to bear not seeing her, he waylaid her in the street. he would not speak

to him, but he insisted on speaking to her. 3e spluttered out words of apology for any wrong he had committed towards her;

he told her he loved her devotedly and begged her to return to him.he would not answer; she walked hurriedly, with averted

face. # imagined him with his fat little legs trying to keepup with her. 8anting a little in his haste, he told her how

miserable he was; he besought her to have mercy on him;he promised, if she would forgive him, to do everything she

wanted. 3e offered to take her for a journey. 3e told her that trickland would soon tire of her. 1hen he repeated to

me the whole sordid little scene # was outraged. 3e had shownneither sense nor dignity. 3e had omitted nothing that could

make his wife despise him. !here is no cruelty greater than awoman$s to a man who loves her and whom she does not love;

she has no kindness then, no tolerance even, she has only aninsane irritation. "lanche troeve stopped suddenly, and as

hard as she could slapped her husband$s face. he took advantage of his confusion to escape, and ran up the stairs to

the studio. 0o word had passed her lips.









































1hen he told me this he put his hand to his cheek as though he still felt the smart of the blow, and in his eyes was a pain

that was heartrending and an amazement that was ludicrous. 3e looked like an overblown schoolboy, and though # felt so sorry

for him, # could hardly help laughing.

!hen he took to walking along the street which she must pass

through to get to the shops, and he would stand at the corner,on the other side, as she went along. 3e dared not speak to

her again, but sought to put into his round eyes the appeal that was in his heart. # suppose he had some idea that the

sight of his misery would touch her. he never made the smallest sign that she saw him. he never even changed the

hour of her errands or sought an alternative route. # have anidea that there was some cruelty in her indifference. 8erhaps

she got enjoyment out of the torture she inflicted. # wondered why she hated him so much.

# begged troeve to behave more wisely. 3is want of spirit was exasperating.

Gou$re doing no good at all by going on like this, # said.# think you$d have been wiser if you$d hit her over the head

with a stick. he wouldn$t have despised you as she does now.

# suggested that he should go home for a while. 3e had often

spoken to me of the silent town, somewhere up in the north of

3olland, where his parents still lived. !hey were poor people. 3is father was a carpenter, and they dwelt in alittle old red&brick house, neat and clean, by the side of a

sluggish canal. !he streets were wide and empty; for twohundred years the place had been dying, but the houses had the

homely stateliness of their time. 2ich merchants, sending their wares to the distant #ndies, had lived in them calm and

prosperous lives, and in their decent decay they kept still anaroma of their splendid past. Gou could wander along the

canal till you came to broad green fields, with windmills hereand there, in which cattle, black and white, grazed lazily.

# thought that among those surroundings, with their recollections of his boyhood, 9irk troeve would forget his

unhappiness. "ut he would not go.

# must be here when she needs me, he repeated. #t would be

dreadful if something terrible happened and # were not at hand.

1hat do you think is going to happen # asked.

# don$t know. "ut #$m afraid.

# shrugged my shoulders.

For all his pain , 9irk troeve remained a ridiculous object .






















































3e might have excited sympathy if he had grown worn and thin. 3e did nothing of the kind. 3e remained fat, and his round,

red cheeks shone like ripe apples. 3e had great neatness of person, and he continued to wear his spruce black coat and his

bowler hat, always a little too small for him, in a dapper, jaunty manner. 3e was getting something of a paunch, and

sorrow had no effect on it. 3e looked more than ever like a

prosperous bagman. #t is hard that a man$s exterior should tally so little sometimes with his soul . 9irk troeve had the

passion of 2omeo in the body of ir !oby "elch. 3e had a

sweet and generous nature, and yet was always blundering;a real feeling for what was beautiful and the capacity to create

only what was commonplace; a peculiar delicacy of sentiment and gross manners. 3e could exercise tact when dealing with

the affairs of others, but none when dealing with his own.1hat a cruel practical joke old 0ature played when she flung

so many contradictory elements together, and left the man face

to face with the perplexing callousness of the universe.

Chapter LLL##

# did not see trickland for several weeks. # was disgusted

with him, and if # had had an opportunity should have been glad to tell him so, but # saw no object in seeking him out

for the purpose. # am a little shy of any assumption of moral indignation; there is always in it an element of self&satisfaction

which makes it awkward to anyone who has a sense of humour. #t re%uires a very lively passion to steel me to

my own ridicule. !here was a sardonic sincerity in trickland which made me sensitive to anything that might suggest a pose.

"ut one evening when # was passing along the /venue de Clichyin front of the cafe which trickland fre%uented and which #

now avoided, # ran straight into him. 3e was accompanied by "lanche troeve, and they were just going to trickland$s

favourite corner.

1here the devil have you been all this time said he.

# thought you must be away.

3is cordiality was proof that he knew # had no wish to speak

to him. 3e was not a man with whom it was worth while wasting politeness.

0o, # said; # haven$t been away.

1hy haven$t you been here

!here are more cafes in 8aris than one, at which to trifle

away an idle hour.

"lanche then held out her hand and bade me good&evening.


































# do not know why # had expected her to be somehow changed; she wore the same gray dress that she wore so often, neat and

becoming, and her brow was as candid, her eyes as untroubled,as when # had been used to see her occupied with her household

duties in the studio.

Come and have a game of chess, said trickland.

# do not know why at the moment # could think of no excuse. # followed them rather sulkily to the table at which trickland

always sat, and he called for the board and the chessmen.!hey both took the situation so much as a matter of course

that # felt it absurd to do otherwise. (rs. troeve watched the game with inscrutable face. he was silent, but she had

always been silent. # looked at her mouth for an expressionthat could give me a clue to what she felt ; # watched her eyes

for some tell&tale flash, some hint of dismay or bitterness;

# scanned her brow for any passing line that might indicate a settling emotion. 3er face was a mask that told nothing. 3er hands lay on her lap motionless, one in the other loosely clasped.

# knew from what # had heard that she was a woman of violent passions; and that injurious blow that she had given

9irk, the man who had loved her so devotedly, betrayed a sudden temper and a horrid cruelty. he had abandoned the

safe shelter of her husband$s protection and the comfortableease of a well&provided establishment for what she could not

but see was an extreme hazard. #t showed an eagerness for adventure, a readiness for the hand&to&mouth, which the care

she took of her home and her love of good housewifery made not a little remarkable. he must be a woman of complicated

character , and there was something dramatic in the contrast of that with her demure appearance.

# was excited by the encounter, and my fancy worked busilywhile # sought to concentrate myself on the game # was playing.

# always tried my best to beat trickland, because

he was a player who despised the opponent he van%uished;his exultation in victory made defeat more difficult to bear.>n the other hand, if he was beaten he took it with complete

good&humour. 3e was a bad winner and a good loser. !hose whothink that a man betrays his character nowhere more clearly

than when he is playing a game might on this draw subtleinferences.

1hen he had finished # called the waiter to pay for thedrinks, and left them. !he meeting had been devoid of

incident. 0o word had been said to give me anything to think about, and any surmises # might make were unwarranted.

# was intrigued. # could not tell how they were getting on. # would have given much to be a disembodied spirit so that #

could see them in the privacy of the studio and hear what they

















































talked about. # had not the smallest indication on which tolet my imagination work.

Chapter LLL###

!wo or three days later 9irk troeve called on me.

# hear you$ve seen "lanche, he said.

3ow on earth did you find out

# was told by someone who saw you sitting with them.

1hy didn$t you tell me

# thought it would only pain you.

1hat do # care if it does Gou must know that # want to hear the smallest thing about her.

# waited for him to ask me %uestions.

1hat does she look like he said.

/bsolutely unchanged.

9oes she seem happy

# shrugged my shoulders.

3ow can # tell 1e were in a cafe; we were playing chess;

# had no opportunity to speak to her.

>h, but couldn$t you tell by her face

# shook my head. # could only repeat that by no word, by nohinted gesture, had she given an indication of her feelings.

3e must know better than # how great were her powers of

self&control . 3e clasped his hands emotionally.

>h, #$m so frightened. # know something is going to happen, something terrible, and # can do nothing to stop it.

1hat sort of thing # asked.

>h, # don$t know , he moaned, seizing his head with his

hands. # foresee some terrible catastrophe.

troeve had always been excitable, but now he was besidehimself ; there was no reasoning with him. # thought it

probable enough that "lanche troeve would not continue to find life with trickland tolerable, but one of the falsest of

proverbs is that you must lie on the bed that you have made.!he experience of life shows that people are constantly doing














































things which must lead to disaster, and yet by some chancemanage to evade the result of their folly. 1hen "lanche

%uarrelled with trickland she had only to leave him, and her husband was waiting humbly to forgive and forget. # was not

prepared to feel any great sympathy for her.

Gou see , you don$t love her, said troeve.

/fter all, there$s nothing to prove that she is unhappy. For all we know they may have settled down into a most

domestic couple.

troeve gave me a look with his woeful eyes.

>f course it doesn$t much matter to you, but to me it$s so

serious, so intensely serious.

# was sorry if # had seemed impatient or flippant.

1ill you do something for me asked troeve.

1illingly.

1ill you write to "lanche for me

1hy can$t you write yourself

#$ve written over and over again. # didn$t expect her to answer. # don$t think she reads the letters.

Gou make no account of feminine curiosity. 9o you think she

could resist

he could && mine.

# looked at him %uickly. 3e lowered his eyes. !hat answer of his seemed to me strangely humiliating. 3e was conscious that

she regarded him with an indifference so profound that the sight of his handwriting would have not the slightest effect

on her.

9o you really believe that she$ll ever come back to you # asked.

# want her to know that if the worst comes to the worst she

can count on me. !hat$s what # want you to tell her.

# took a sheet of paper.

1hat is it exactly you wish me to say

!his is what # wrote'

9)/2 (2. !2>)), any time you want him he will be grateful for the opportunity
































of being of service to you. 3e has no ill&feeling towards youon account of anything that has happened. 3is love for you is

unaltered. Gou will always find him at the following address'E

Chapter LLL#

"ut though # was no less convinced than troeve that theconnection between trickland and "lanche would end disastrously, # did not expect the issue to take the tragic

form it did. !he summer came, breathless and sultry, and evenat night there was no coolness to rest one$s jaded nerves.

!he sun&baked streets seemed to give back the heat that had beat down on them during the day, and the passers&by dragged

their feet along them wearily. # had not seen trickland for weeks.>ccupied with other things, # had ceased to think of

him and his affairs. 9irk, with his vain lamentations, had

begun to bore me, and # avoided his society. #t was a sordid business, and # was not inclined to trouble myself with it further.

>ne morning # was working. # sat in my 8yjamas. (y thoughts

wandered, and # thought of the sunny beaches of "rittany and the freshness of the sea. "y my side was the empty bowl in

which the concierge had brought me my and the fragment of croissant which # had not had appetite enough to eat.

# heard the concierge in the next room emptying my bath.!here was a tinkle at my bell, and # left her to open the door.

#n a moment # heard troeve$s voice asking if # was in.1ithout moving, # shouted to him to come. 3e entered the room

%uickly, and came up to the table at which # sat.

he$s killed herself , he said hoarsely.

1hat do you mean # cried, startled.

3e made movements with his lips as though he were speaking,but no sound issued from them. 3e gibbered like an idiot.

(y heart thumped against my ribs, and, # do not know why, # flew into a temper.

For Dod$s sake, collect yourself , man, # said. 1hat onearth are you talking about

3e made despairing gestures with his hands, but still no wordscame from his mouth. 3e might have been struck dumb. # do

not know what came over me; # took him by the shoulders and

shook him. *ooking back, # am vexed that # made such a fool of myself ; # suppose the last restless nights had shaken mynerves more than # knew.

*et me sit down, he gasped at length.












































# filled a glass with t. Dalmier, and gave it to himto drink. # held it to his mouth as though he were a child.

3e gulped down a mouthful, and some of it was spilt onhis shirt&front.

1ho$s killed herself

# do not know why # asked, for # knew whom he meant. 3e madean effort to collect himself .

!hey had a row last night. 3e went away.

#s she dead

0o; they$ve taken her to the hospital.

!hen what are you talking about # cried impatiently. 1hy

did you say she$d killed herself

9on$t be cross with me. # can$t tell you anything if you

talk to me like that.

# clenched my hands, seeking to control my irritation.

# attempted a smile.

#$m sorry. !ake your time. 9on$t hurry, there$s a good fellow.

3is round blue eyes behind the spectacles were ghastly withterror. !he magnifying&glasses he wore distorted them.

1hen the concierge went up this morning to take a letter shecould get no answer to her ring. he heard someone groaning.

!he door wasn$t locked, and she went in. "lanche was lying onthe bed. he$d been frightfully sick. !here was a bottle of

oxalic acid on the table.

troeve hid his face in his hands and swayed backwards and forwards, groaning.

1as she conscious

Ges. >h, if you knew how she$s sufferingM # can$t bear it. # can$t bear it.

3is voice rose to a shriek.

9amn it all, you haven$t got to bear it, # cried impatiently.he$s got to bear it.

3ow can you be so cruel


























1hat have you done

!hey sent for a doctor and for me, and they told the police.

#$d given the concierge twenty francs, and told her to send for me if anything happened.

3e paused a minute, and # saw that what he had to tell me was

very hard to say.

1hen # went she wouldn$t speak to me. he told them to send me away. # swore that # forgave her everything, but she

wouldn$t listen. he tried to beat her head against the wall.!he doctor told me that # mustn$t remain with her. he kept

on saying, Kend him awayM$ # went, and waited in the studio. /nd when the ambulance came and they put her on a stretcher,

they made me go in the kitchen so that she shouldn$t know # was there.

1hile # dressed && for troeve wished me to go at once withhim to the hospital && he told me that he had arranged for his

wife to have a private room, so that she might at least be spared the sordid promiscuity of a ward. >n our way he

explained to me why he desired my presence; if she still refused to see him, perhaps she would see me. 3e begged me to

repeat to her that he loved her still; he would reproach her for nothing, but desired only to help her; he made no claim on

her, and on her recovery would not seek to induce her to

return to him; she would be perfectly free.

"ut when we arrived at the hospital, a gaunt, cheerlessbuilding, the mere sight of which was enough to make one$s

heart sick, and after being directed from this official tothat, up endless stairs and through long, bare corridors,

found the doctor in charge of the case, we were told that the patient was too ill to see anyone that day. !he doctor was a

little bearded man in white, with an offhand manner. 3e evidently looked upon a case as a case, and anxious relatives

as a nuisance which must be treated with firmness. (oreover,to him the affair was commonplace; it was just an hysterical

woman who had %uarrelled with her lover and taken poison;it was constantly happening. /t first he thought that 9irk was

the cause of the disaster, and he was needlessly brus%ue with him.1hen # explained that he was the husband, anxious to

forgive , the doctor looked at him suddenly, with curious, searching eyes. # seemed to see in them a hint of mockery;

it was true that troeve had the head of the husband who is deceived .

!he doctor faintly shrugged his shoulders.

!here is no immediate danger, he said, in answer to our %uestioning. >ne doesn$t know how much she took. #t may be

that she will get off with a fright. 1omen are constantlytrying to commit suicide for love, but generally they take








































care not to succeed. #t$s generally a gesture to arouse pityor terror in their lover.

!here was in his tone a frigid contempt. #t was obvious that to him "lanche troeve was only a unit to be added to the

statistical list of attempted suicides in the city of 8arisduring the current year. 3e was busy, and could waste no more

time on us. 3e told us that if we came at a certain hour next day, should "lanche be better, it might be possible for her

husband to see her.

Chapter LLL

# scarcely know how we got through that day. troeve could not bear to be alone , and # exhausted myself in efforts to

distract him. # took him to the *ouvre, and he pretended tolook at pictures, but # saw that his thoughts were constantly

with his wife. # forced him to eat, and after luncheon # induced him to lie down, but he could not sleep. 3e accepted

willingly my invitation to remain for a few days in my apartment. # gave him books to read, but after a page or two

he would put the book down and stare miserably into space. 9uring the evening we played innumerable games of pi%uet,

and bravely, not to disappoint my efforts, he tried to appear interested. Finally # gave him a draught, and he sank into

uneasy slumber.

1hen we went again to the hospital we saw a nursing sister.he told us that "lanche seemed a little better, and she went in to ask if she would see her husband. 1e heard voices in

the room in which she lay, and presently the nurse returned to say that the patient refused to see anyone. 1e had told her

that if she refused to see 9irk the nurse was to ask if shewould see me, but this she refused also. 9irk$s lips

trembled.

# dare not insist, said the nurse. he is too ill.

8erhaps in a day or two she may change her mind .

#s there anyone else she wants to see asked 9irk,

in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.

he says she only wants to be left in peace.

9irk$s hands moved strangely, as though they had nothing to do

with his body, with a movement of their own.

1ill you tell her that if there is anyone else she wishes to

see # will bring him # only want her to be happy.

!he nurse looked at him with her calm, kind eyes, which had

seen all the horror and pain of the world, and yet, filled














































with the vision of a world without sin, remained serene.

# will tell her when she is a little calmer.

9irk, filled with compassion , begged her to take the messageat once.

#t may cure her. # beseech you to ask her now.

1ith a faint smile of pity , the nurse went back into the room.1e heard her low voice, and then, in a voice # did not

recognise the answer'

0o. 0o. 0o.

!he nurse came out again and shook her head.

1as that she who spoke then # asked. 3er voice sounded

so strange.

#t appears that her vocal cords have been burnt by the acid.

9irk gave a low cry of distress. # asked him to go on and

wait for me at the entrance, for # wanted to say something tothe nurse. 3e did not ask what it was, but went silently. 3e

seemed to have lost all power of will; he was like an obedient child.

3as she told you why she did it # asked.

0o. he won$t speak. he lies on her back %uite %uietly.he doesn$t move for hours at a time. "ut she cries always.

3er pillow is all wet. he$s too weak to use a handkerchief,and the tears just run down her face.

#t gave me a sudden wrench of the heart&strings. # could havekilled trickland then, and # knew that my voice was trembling

when # bade the nurse goodbye.

# found 9irk waiting for me on the steps. 3e seemed to see

nothing, and did not notice that # had joined him till # touched him on the arm. 1e walked along in silence. # tried

to imagine what had happened to drive the poor creature tothat dreadful step. # presumed that trickland knew what had

happened, for someone must have been to see him from the police,and he must have made his statement. # did not know

where he was. # supposed he had gone back to the shabby atticwhich served him as a studio. #t was curious that she should

not wish to see him. 8erhaps she refused to have him sent for because she knew he would refuse to come. # wondered what an

abyss of cruelty she must have looked into that in horror sherefused to live.



























Chapter LLL#

!he next week was dreadful. troeve went twice a day to the

hospital to en%uire after his wife, who still declined to seehim; and came away at first relieved and hopeful because he

was told that she seemed to be growing better, and then indespair because, the complication which the doctor had feared

having ensued, recovery was impossible. !he nurse was pitiful to his distress, but she had little to say that could console

him. !he poor woman lay %uite still, refusing to speak, withher eyes intent, as though she watched for the coming of death.

#t could now be only the %uestion of a day or two;and when, late one evening, troeve came to see me # knew it was

to tell me she was dead. 3e was absolutely exhausted. 3is volubility had left him at last, and he sank down wearily

on my sofa. # felt that no words of condolence availed, and # let him lie there %uietly. # feared he would think it

heartless if # read, so # sat by the window, smoking a pipe,till he felt inclined to speak.

Gou$ve been very kind to me, he said at last. )veryone$sbeen very kind.

0onsense, # said, a little embarrassed.

/t the hospital they told me # might wait. !hey gave me a

chair, and # sat outside the door. 1hen she became

unconscious they said # might go in. 3er mouth and chin wereall burnt by the acid. #t was awful to see her lovely skinall wounded. he died very peacefully, so that # didn$t know

she was dead till the sister told me.

3e was too tired to weep. 3e lay on his back limply, as

though all the strength had gone out of his limbs, and presently # saw that he had fallen asleep. #t was the first

natural sleep he had had for a week. 0ature, sometimes socruel, is sometimes merciful . # covered him and turned down

the light. #n the morning when # awoke he was still asleep. 3e had not moved. 3is gold&rimmed spectacles were still on

his nose.

Chapter LLL##

!he circumstances of "lanche troeve$s death necessitated all

manner of dreadful formalities, but at last we were allowed tobury her. 9irk and # alone followed the hearse to the cemetery.

1e went at a foot&pace, but on the way back we trotted,and there was something to my mind singularly horrible in

the way the driver of the hearse whipped up his horses. #t seemed to dismiss the dead with a shrug of the shoulders. 0ow and then # caught sight of the swaying hearse in

front of us, and our own driver urged his pair so that we











































might not remain behind. # felt in myself , too, the desire to get the whole thing out of my mind . # was beginning to be

bored with a tragedy that did not really concern me, and pretending to myself that # spoke in order to distract

troeve, # turned with relief to other subjects.

9on$t you think you$d better go away for a bit # said.

!here can be no object in your staying in 8aris now.

3e did not answer, but # went on ruthlessly'

3ave you made any plans for the immediate future

0o.

Gou must try and gather together the threads again.

1hy don$t you go down to #taly and start working

/gain he made no reply, but the driver of our carriage came to

my rescue. lackening his pace for a moment, he leaned over and spoke. # could not hear what he said, so # put my head

out of the window. he wanted to know where we wished to be set down. # told him to wait a minute.

Gou$d better come and have lunch with me, # said to 9irk.#$ll tell him to drop us in the 8lace 8igalle.

#$d rather not. # want to go to the studio.

# hesitated a moment.

1ould you like me to come with you # asked then.

0o; # should prefer to be alone.

/ll right.

# gave the driver the necessary direction, and in renewed silence we drove on. 9irk had not been to the studio since

the wretched morning on which they had taken "lanche to the hospital. # was glad he did not want me to accompany him, and when

# left him at the door # walked away with relief. # took a new pleasure in the streets of 8aris, and # looked with

smiling eyes at the people who hurried to and fro. !he daywas fine and sunny, and # felt in myself a more acute delight

in life. # could not help it; # put troeve and his sorrowsout of my mind . # wanted to enjoy.

Chapter LLL###

# did not see him again for nearly a week. !hen he fetched me soon after seven one evening and took me out to dinner.

3e was dressed in the deepest mourning, and on his bowler was a









































broad black band. 3e had even a black border to his handkerchief. 3is garb of woe suggested that he had lost in one

catastrophe every relation he had in the world, even tocousins by marriage twice removed. 3is plumpness and his red,

fat cheeks made his mourning not a little incongruous. #t wascruel that his extreme unhappiness should have in it something

of buffoonery.

3e told me he had made up his mind to go away, though not to

#taly, as # had suggested, but to 3olland.

#$m starting to&morrow. !his is perhaps the last time we

shall ever meet.

# made an appropriate rejoinder, and he smiled wanly.

# haven$t been home for five years. # think #$d forgotten it all;

# seemed to have come so far away from my father$s housethat # was shy at the idea of revisiting it; but now # feel it$s my only refuge.

3e was sore and bruised, and his thoughts went back to the

tenderness of his mother$s love. !he ridicule he had endured for years seemed now to weigh him down, and the final blow of

"lanche$s treachery had robbed him of the resiliency which had made him take it so gaily. 3e could no longer laugh with

those who laughed at him. 3e was an outcast. 3e told me of

his childhood in the tidy brick house, and of his mother$s passionate orderliness. 3er kitchen was a miracle of cleanbrightness. )verything was always in its place, and no wherecould you see a speck of dust. Cleanliness, indeed, was a

mania with her. # saw a neat little old woman, with cheekslike apples, toiling away from morning to night, through the

long years, to keep her house trim and spruce. 3is father wasa spare old man, his hands gnarled after the work of a

lifetime, silent and upright; in the evening he read the paper aloud, while his wife and daughter Hnow married to the captain

of a fishing smackI, unwilling to lose a moment, bent over their sewing. 0othing ever happened in that little town, left

behind by the advance of civilisation, and one year followed the next till death came, like a friend, to give rest to those

who had laboured so diligently.

(y father wished me to become a carpenter like himself .

For five generations we$ve carried on the same trade, from father to son. 8erhaps that is the wisdom of life, to tread in your

father$s steps, and look neither to the right nor to the left.1hen # was a little boy # said # would marry the daughter of

the harness&maker who lived next door. he was a little girl with blue eyes and a flaxen pigtail. he would have kept my

house like a new pin, and # should have had a son to carry on



























the business after me.

troeve sighed a little and was silent. 3is thoughts dwelt

among pictures of what might have been, and the safety of thelife he had refused filled him with longing.

!he world is hard and cruel. 1e are here none knows why,

and we go none knows whither. 1e must be very humble. 1e must see the beauty of %uietness. 1e must go through life soinconspicuously that Fate does not notice us. /nd let us seek

the love of simple, ignorant people. !heir ignorance isbetter than all our knowledge. *et us be silent, content in

our little corner, meek and gentle like them. !hat is thewisdom of life.

!o me it was his broken spirit that expressed itself, and # rebelled against his renunciation. "ut # kept my own counsel.

1hat made you think of being a painter # asked.

3e shrugged his shoulders.

#t happened that # had a knack for drawing. # got prizes for

it at school. (y poor mother was very proud of my gift,and she gave me a box of water&colours as a present. he showed

my sketches to the pastor and the doctor and the judge. /nd they sent me to /msterdam to try for a scholarship, and # won

it. 8oor soul , she was so proud; and though it nearly brokeher heart to part from me, she smiled, and would not show me

her grief. he was pleased that her son should be an artist.!hey pinched and saved so that # should have enough to live on,

and when my first picture was exhibited they came to /msterdam to see it, my father and mother and my sister,

and my mother cried when she looked at it. 3is kind eyes glistened./nd now on every wall of the old house there is one of my

pictures in a beautiful gold frame.

3e glowed with happy pride. # thought of those cold scenes of

his, with their pictures%ue peasants and cypresses and olive&trees.!hey must look %ueer in their garish frames on the walls of

the peasant house.

!he dear soul thought she was doing a wonderful thing for me

when she made me an artist, but perhaps, after all, it would have been better for me if my father$s will had prevailed and

# were now but an honest carpenter.

0ow that you know what art can offer, would you change your

life 1ould you have missed all the delight it has given you

/rt is the greatest thing in the world, he answered, after a pause.









































3e looked at me for a minute reflectively; he seemed to hesitate;then he said'

9id you know that # had been to see trickland

Gou

# was astonished. # should have thought he could not bear to set eyes on him. troeve smiled faintly.

Gou know already that # have no proper pride.

1hat do you mean by that

3e told me a singular story.

Chapter LLL#L

1hen # left him, after we had buried poor "lanche, troevewalked into the house with a heavy heart. omething impelled him to go to the studio, some obscure desire for self&torture ,

and yet he dreaded the anguish that he foresaw. 3e dragged himself up the stairs; his feet seemed unwilling to carry him;

and outside the door he lingered for a long time, trying to summon up courage to go in. 3e felt horribly sick. 3e had an

impulse to run down the stairs after me and beg me to go inwith him; he had a feeling that there was somebody in the

studio. 3e remembered how often he had waited for a minute or two on the landing to get his breath after the ascent, and how

absurdly his impatience to see "lanche had taken it away again.!o see her was a delight that never staled, and even

though he had not been out an hour he was as excited at the prospect as if they had been parted for a month. uddenly he

could not believe that she was dead. 1hat had happened could only be a dream , a frightful dream; and when he turned the key

and opened the door, he would see her bending slightly over the table in the gracious attitude of the woman in Chardin$s

, which always seemed to him so ex%uisite. 3urriedly he took the key out of his pocket, opened, and

walked in.

!he apartment had no look of desertion. 3is wife$s tidiness

was one of the traits which had so much pleased him; his ownupbringing had given him a tender sympathy for the delight in

orderliness; and when he had seen her instinctive desire to put each thing in its appointed place it had given him a

little warm feeling in his heart. !he bedroom looked asthough she had just left it' the brushes were neatly placed

on the toilet&table, one on each side of the comb; someone had smoothed down the bed on which she had spent her last night in

the studio; and her nightdress in a little case lay on the pillow. #t was impossible to believe that she would never come into














































that room again.

"ut he felt thirsty, and went into the kitchen to get himself

some water. 3ere, too, was order. >n a rack were the platesthat she had used for dinner on the night of her %uarrel with

trickland, and they had been carefully washed. !he knivesand forks were put away in a drawer. ?nder a cover were the

remains of a piece of cheese, and in a tin box was a crust of bread. he had done her marketing from day to day, buying

only what was strictly needful, so that nothing was left over from one day to the next. troeve knew from the en%uiries

made by the police that trickland had walked out of the houseimmediately after dinner, and the fact that "lanche had washed

up the things as usual gave him a little thrill of horror. 3er methodicalness made her suicide more deliberate.

3er self&possession was frightening. / sudden pang seized him,and his knees felt so weak that he almost fell. 3e went back

into the bedroom and threw himself on the bed. 3e cried out her name.

"lanche. "lanche.

!he thought of her suffering was intolerable. 3e had a sudden

vision of her standing in the kitchen && it was hardly larger than a cupboard && washing the plates and glasses, the forks

and spoons, giving the knives a rapid polish on the knife&board;and then putting everything away, giving the sink a scrub,

and hanging the dish&cloth up to dry && it was there still,a gray torn rag; then looking round to see that

everything was clean and nice. 3e saw her roll down her sleeves and remove her apron && the apron hung on a peg behind

the door && and take the bottle of oxalic acid and go with it into the bedroom.

!he agony of it drove him up from the bed and out of the room. 3e went into the studio. #t was dark, for the curtains had

been drawn over the great window, and he pulled them %uicklyback; but a sob broke from him as with a rapid glance he took

in the place where he had been so happy. 0othing was changed here, either. trickland was indifferent to his surroundings,

and he had lived in the other$s studio without thinking of altering a thing. #t was deliberately artistic. #t represented

troeve$s idea of the proper environment for an artist.!here were bits of old brocade on the walls, and the piano

was covered with a piece of silk, beautiful and tarnished;in one corner was a copy of the enus of (ilo, and

in another of the enus of the (edici. 3ere and there was an #talian cabinet surmounted with 9elft, and here and there a

bas&relief. #n a handsome gold frame was a copy of elas%uez$ #nnocent L., that troeve had made in 2ome, and placed so as

to make the most of their decorative effect were a number of



























troeve$s pictures, all in splendid frames. troeve had always been very proud of his taste. 3e had never lost his

appreciation for the romantic atmosphere of a studio, and though now the sight of it was like a stab in his heart,

without thinking what he was at, he changed slightly the position of a *ouis L. table which was one of his treasures.

uddenly he caught sight of a canvas with its face to the wall.

#t was a much larger one than he himself was in thehabit of using, and he wondered what it did there. 3e went over to it and leaned it towards him so that he could see the

painting. #t was a nude. 3is heart began to beat %uickly, for he guessed at once that it was one of trickland$s

pictures. 3e flung it back against the wall angrily && what did he mean by leaving it there && but his movement caused it

to fall, face downwards, on the ground. 0o mater whose the picture, he could not leave it there in the dust, and he

raised it; but then curiosity got the better of him.

3e thought he would like to have a proper look at it, so hebrought it along and set it on the easel. !hen he stood back

in order to see it at his ease.

3e gave a gasp. #t was the picture of a woman lying on a sofa,with one arm beneath her head and the other along her body;

one knee was raised, and the other leg was stretched out.!he pose was classic. troeve$s head swam. #t was "lanche.

Drief and jealousy and rage seized him, and he cried out hoarsely; he was inarticulate; he clenched his fists and raised them threateningly at an invisible enemy. 3e screamed

at the top of his voice. 3e was beside himself . 3e could not bear it. !hat was too much. 3e looked round wildly for some

instrument; he wanted to hack the picture to pieces; it should not exist another minute. 3e could see nothing that would

serve his purpose; he rummaged about his painting things; somehow he could not find a thing; he was frantic. /t last he

came upon what he sought, a large scraper, and he pounced onit with a cry of triumph. 3e seized it as though it were a

dagger, and ran to the picture.

/s troeve told me this he became as excited as when the

incident occurred, and he took hold of a dinner&knife on thetable between us, and brandished it. 3e lifted his arm as

though to strike, and then, opening his hand, let it fall witha clatter to the ground. 3e looked at me with a tremulous smile.

3e did not speak.

Fire away, # said.

# don$t know what happened to me. # was just going to make a

great hole in the picture, # had my arm all ready for theblow, when suddenly # seemed to see it.


































ee what

!he picture. #t was a work of art. # couldn$t touch it.

# was afraid.

troeve was silent again, and he stared at me with his mouth

open and his round blue eyes starting out of his head.

#t was a great, a wonderful picture. # was seized with awe.

# had nearly committed a dreadful crime. # moved a little to see it better, and my foot knocked against the scraper.

# shuddered.

# really felt something of the emotion that had caught him. # was strangely impressed. #t was as though # were suddenly

transported into a world in which the values were changed. # stood by, at a loss, like a stranger in a land where the

reactions of man to familiar things are all different fromthose he has known. troeve tried to talk to me about the

picture, but he was incoherent, and # had to guess at what he meant.

trickland had burst the bonds that hitherto had held him. 3e had found, not himself , as the phrase goes, but a new

soul with unsuspected powers. #t was not only the bold simplification of the drawing which showed so rich and so

singular a personality; it was not only the painting, thoughthe flesh was painted with a passionate sensuality which had

in it something miraculous; it was not only the solidity, so

that you felt extraordinarily the weight of the body; therewas also a spirituality , troubling and new, which led theimagination along unsuspected ways, and suggested dim empty

spaces, lit only by the eternal stars, where the soul , all naked, adventured fearful to the discovery of new mysteries.

#f # am rhetorical it is because troeve was rhetorical.H9o we not know that man in moments of emotion expresses himself

naturally in the terms of a noveletteI troeve was trying toexpress a feeling which he had never known before, and he did

not know how to put it into common terms. 3e was like themystic seeking to describe the ineffable. "ut one fact he

made clear to me; people talk of beauty lightly, and having no feeling for words, they use that one carelessly, so that it

loses its force; and the thing it stands for, sharing its namewith a hundred trivial objects , is deprived of dignity.

!hey call beautiful a dress, a dog, a sermon; and when they are face to face with "eauty cannot recognise it. !he false

emphasis with which they try to deck their worthless thoughts

blunts their susceptibilities. *ike the charlatan whocounterfeits a spiritual force he has sometimes felt , theylose the power they have abused. "ut troeve, the

uncon%uerable buffoon, had a love and an understanding of beauty which were as honest and sincere as was his own sincere

and honest soul . #t meant to him what Dod means to the






























































believer, and when he saw it he was afraid.

1hat did you say to trickland when you saw him

# asked him to come with me to 3olland.

# was dumbfounded. # could only look at troeve in stupid amazement.

1e both loved "lanche. !here would have been room for him in

my mother$s house. # think the company of poor, simple peoplewould have done his soul a great good . # think he might have

learnt from them something that would be very useful to him.

1hat did he say

3e smiled a little. # suppose he thought me very silly. 3e said he had other fish to fry.

# could have wished that trickland had used some other phraseto indicate his refusal.

3e gave me the picture of "lanche.

# wondered why trickland had done that. "ut # made noremark, and for some time we kept silence.

1hat have you done with all your things # said at last.

# got a Jew in, and he gave me a round sum for the lot.

#$m taking my pictures home with me. "eside them # own nothing in the world now but a box of clothes and a few books.

#$m glad you$re going home, # said.

# felt that his chance was to put all the past behind him.

# hoped that the grief which now seemed intolerable would be softened by the lapse of time, and a merciful forgetfulness

would help him to take up once more the burden of life. 3e was young still, and in a few years he would look back on all

his misery with a sadness in which there would be something not unpleasurable. ooner or later he would marry some honest

soul in 3olland, and # felt sure he would be happy. # smiled at the thought of the vast number of bad pictures he would

paint before he died.

0ext day # saw him off for /msterdam.

Chapter L*

For the next month, occupied with my own affairs, # saw no oneconnected with this lamentable business, and my mind ceased to

be occupied with it. "ut one day, when # was walking along,bent on some errand, # passed Charles trickland. !he sight

















































of him brought back to me all the horror which # was not unwilling to forget, and # felt in me a sudden repulsion for

the cause of it. 0odding, for it would have been childish tocut him, # walked on %uickly; but in a minute # felt a hand on

my shoulder.

Gou$re in a great hurry, he said cordially.

#t was characteristic of him to display geniality with anyonewho showed a disinclination to meet him, and the coolness of

my greeting can have left him in little doubt of that.

# am , # answered briefly.

#$ll walk along with you, he said.

1hy # asked.

For the pleasure of your society.

# did not answer, and he walked by my side silently.1e continued thus for perhaps a %uarter of a mile. # began to

feel a little ridiculous. /t last we passed a stationer$s,and it occurred to me that # might as well buy some paper.

#t would be an excuse to be rid of him.

#$m going in here, # said. Dood&bye.

#$ll wait for you.

# shrugged my shoulders, and went into the shop. # reflected that French paper was bad, and that, foiled of my purpose,

# need not burden myself with a purchase that # did not need. # asked for something # knew could not be provided, and in a

minute came out into the street.

9id you get what you wanted he asked.

0o.

1e walked on in silence, and then came to a place where

several streets met. # stopped at the curb.

1hich way do you go # en%uired.

Gour way, he smiled.

#$m going home.

#$ll come along with you and smoke a pipe.

Gou might wait for an invitation, # retorted frigidly.




























# would if # thought there was any chance of getting one.

9o you see that wall in front of you # said, pointing.

Ges.

#n that case # should have thought you could see also that # don$t want your company.

# vaguely suspected it, # confess.

# could not help a chuckle. #t is one of the defects of my

character that # cannot altogether dislike anyone who makes me laugh. "ut # pulled myself together.

# think you$re detestable. Gou$re the most loathsome beast that it$s ever been my misfortune to meet. 1hy do you seek

the society of someone who hates and despises you

(y dear fellow, what the hell do you suppose # care what you

think of me

9amn it all, # said, more violently because # had an inkling

my motive was none too creditable, # don$t want to know you.

/re you afraid # shall corrupt you

3is tone made me feel not a little ridiculous. # knew that hewas looking at me sideways, with a sardonic smile.

# suppose you are hard up, # remarked insolently.

# should be a damned fool if # thought # had any chance of borrowing money from you.

Gou$ve come down in the world if you can bring yourself to flatter.

3e grinned.

Gou$ll never really dislike me so long as # give you the

opportunity to get off a good thing now and then.

# had to bite my lip to prevent myself from laughing. 1hat he

said had a hateful truth in it, and another defect of mycharacter is that # enjoy the company of those, however

depraved, who can give me a 2oland for my >liver. # began to feel that my abhorrence for trickland could only be sustained

by an effort on my part. # recognised my moral weakness, but saw that my disapprobation had in it already something of a pose;

and # knew that if # felt it, his own keen instinct had discovered it, too. 3e was certainly laughing at me up his sleeve.

# left him the last word, and sought refuge in a shrug of the






























































shoulders and taciturnity.

Chapter L*#

1e arrived at the house in which # lived. # would not ask himto come in with me, but walked up the stairs without a word.

3e followed me, and entered the apartment on my heels. 3e had

not been in it before, but he never gave a glance at the room # had been at pains to make pleasing to the eye. !here was atin of tobacco on the table, and, taking out his pipe, he

filled it. 3e sat down on the only chair that had no arms and tilted himself on the back legs.

#f you$re going to make yourself at home, why don$t you sit in an arm&chair # asked irritably.

1hy are you concerned about my comfort

#$m not, # retorted, but only about my own. #t makes meuncomfortable to see someone sit on an uncomfortable chair.

3e chuckled, but did not move. 3e smoked on in silence,taking no further notice of me, and apparently was absorbed in

thought . # wondered why he had come.

?ntil long habit has blunted the sensibility, there is

something disconcerting to the writer in the instinct which

causes him to take an interest in the singularities of humannature so absorbing that his moral sense is powerless against it.

3e recognises in himself an artistic satisfaction in the

contemplation of evil which a little startles him;but sincerity forces him to confess that the disapproval he feels

for certain actions is not nearly so strong as his curiosityin their reasons. !he character of a scoundrel, logical and

complete, has a fascination for his creator which is anoutrage to law and order. # expect that hakespeare devised

#ago with a gusto which he never knew when, weaving moonbeamswith his fancy, he imagined 9esdemona. #t may be that in his

rogues the writer gratifies instincts deep&rooted in him, whichthe manners and customs of a civilised world have forced back

to the mysterious recesses of the subconscious. #n giving tothe character of his invention flesh and bones he is giving

life to that part of himself which finds no other means of expression. 3is satisfaction is a sense of liberation.

!he writer is more concerned to know than to judge.

!here was in my soul a perfectly genuine horror of trickland,

and side by side with it a cold curiosity to discover his motives. # was puzzled by him, and # was eager to see how he

regarded the tragedy he had caused in the lives of people whohad used him with so much kindness. # applied the scalpel









































boldly.

troeve told me that picture you painted of his wife was the

best thing you$ve ever done.

trickland took his pipe out of his mouth, and a smile lit up

his eyes.

#t was great fun to do.

1hy did you give it him

#$d finished it. #t wasn$t any good to me.

9o you know that troeve nearly destroyed it

#t wasn$t altogether satisfactory.

3e was %uiet for a moment or two, then he took his pipe out of his mouth again, and chuckled.

9o you know that the little man came to see me

1eren$t you rather touched by what he had to say

0o; # thought it damned silly and sentimental.

# suppose it escaped your memory that you$d ruined his life

# remarked.

3e rubbed his bearded chin reflectively.

3e$s a very bad painter.

"ut a very good man.

/nd an excellent cook, trickland added derisively.

3is callousness was inhuman, and in my indignation # was not inclined to mince my words.

/s a mere matter of curiosity # wish you$d tell me, have you

felt the smallest twinge of remorse for "lanche troeve$s death

# watched his face for some change of expression, but it

remained impassive.

1hy should # he asked.

*et me put the facts before you. Gou were dying, and 9irk troeve took you into his own house. 3e nursed you like a mother.

3e sacrificed his time and his comfort and his money for you.





























3e snatched you from the jaws of death.

trickland shrugged his shoulders.

!he absurd little man enjoys doing things for other people.!hat$s his life.

Dranting that you owed him no gratitude, were you obliged to go out of your way to take his wife from him ?ntil you came

on the scene they were happy. 1hy couldn$t you leave them alone

1hat makes you think they were happy

#t was evident.

Gou are a discerning fellow. 9o you think she could ever have forgiven him for what he did for her


9on$t you know why he married her

# shook my head.

he was a governess in the family of some 2oman prince, and the son of the house seduced her. he thought he was going to

marry her. !hey turned her out into the street neck and crop.

he was going to have a baby, and she tried to commit suicide.troeve found her and married her.

#t was just like him. # never knew anyone with so

compassionate a heart.

# had often wondered why that ill&assorted pair had married,

but just that explanation had never occurred to me. !hat was perhaps the cause of the peculiar %uality of 9irk$s love for

his wife. # had noticed in it something more than passion.

# remembered also how # had always fancied that her reserveconcealed # knew not what; but now # saw in it more than thedesire to hide a shameful secret. 3er tran%uillity was like

the sullen calm that broods over an island which has been swept by a hurricane. 3er cheerfulness was the cheerfulness

of despair . trickland interrupted my reflections with anobservation the profound cynicism of which startled me.

/ woman can forgive a man for the harm he does her, he said,but she can never forgive him for the sacrifices he makes on

her account.

#t must be reassuring to you to know that you certainly run

no risk of incurring the resentment of the women you come incontact with, # retorted.













































/ slight smile broke on his lips.

Gou are always prepared to sacrifice your principles for a

repartee, he answered.

1hat happened to the child

>h, it was still&born, three or four months after they were married.

!hen # came to the %uestion which had seemed to me most puzzling.

1ill you tell me why you bothered about "lanche troeve at all

3e did not answer for so long that # nearly repeated it.

3ow do # know he said at last. he couldn$t bear the

sight of me. #t amused me.

# see.

3e gave a sudden flash of anger .

9amn it all, # wanted her.

"ut he recovered his temper immediately, and looked at me with

a smile.

/t first she was horrified.

9id you tell her

!here wasn$t any need. he knew. # never said a word.he was frightened. /t last # took her.

# do not know what there was in the way he told me this that extraordinarily suggested the violence of his desire. #t was

disconcerting and rather horrible. 3is life was strangely

divorced from material things, and it was as though his bodyat times wreaked a fearful revenge on his spirit . !he satyr in him suddenly took possession, and he was powerless in the

grip of an instinct which had all the strength of the primitive forces of nature. #t was an obsession so complete

that there was no room in his soul for prudence or gratitude.

"ut why did you want to take her away with you # asked.

# didn$t, he answered, frowning. 1hen she said she was

coming # was nearly as surprised as troeve. # told her that when #$d had enough of her she$d have to go, and she said

she$d risk that. 3e paused a little. he had a wonderful

body, and # wanted to paint a nude. 1hen #$d finished my picture # took no more interest in her.



























/nd she loved you with all her heart.

3e sprang to his feet and walked up and down the small room.

# don$t want love. # haven$t time for it. #t$s weakness. # am a man, and sometimes # want a woman. 1hen #$ve satisfied

my passion #$m ready for other things. # can$t overcome my

desire , but # hate it; it imprisons my spirit ; # look forward to the time when # shall be free from all desire and can givemyself without hindrance to my work. "ecause women can do

nothing except love, they$ve given it a ridiculous importance.!hey want to persuade us that it$s the whole of life. #t$s an

insignificant part. # know lust. !hat$s normal and healthy. *ove is a disease. 1omen are the instruments of my pleasure;

# have no patience with their claim to be helpmates, partners,companions.

# had never heard trickland speak so much at one time. 3e spoke with a passion of indignation. "ut neither here nor

elsewhere do # pretend to give his exact words; his vocabularywas small, and he had no gift for framing sentences, so that

one had to piece his meaning together out of interjections,the expression of his face, gestures and hackneyed phrases.

Gou should have lived at a time when women were chattels and men the masters of slaves, # said.

#t just happens that # am a completely normal man.

# could not help laughing at this remark, made in all seriousness;but he went on, walking up and down the room like

a caged beast, intent on expressing what he felt , but found such difficulty in putting coherently.

1hen a woman loves you she$s not satisfied until she possesses your soul . "ecause she$s weak, she has a rage for

domination, and nothing less will satisfy her. he has a small mind , and she resents the abstract which she is unable

to grasp. he is occupied with material things, and she is jealous of the ideal. !he soul of man wanders through the

uttermost regions of the universe, and she seeks to imprisonit in the circle of her account&book. 9o you remember my wife

# saw "lanche little by little trying all her tricks.1ith infinite patience she prepared to snare me and bind me.

he wanted to bring me down to her level; she cared nothing for me, she only wanted me to be hers. he was willing to do

everything in the world for me except the one thing # wanted'to leave me alone.

# was silent for a while.





























































1hat did you expect her to do when you left her

he could have gone back to troeve, he said irritably.

3e was ready to take her.

Gou$re inhuman, # answered. #t$s as useless to talk to you

about these things as to describe colours to a man who was

born blind.

3e stopped in front of my chair, and stood looking down at mewith an expression in which # read a contemptuous amazement.

9o you really care a twopenny damn if "lanche troeve is

alive or dead

# thought over his %uestion, for # wanted to answer it

truthfully , at all events to my soul .

#t may be a lack of sympathy in myself if it does not make

any great difference to me that she is dead. *ife had a great deal to offer her. # think it$s terrible that she should have

been deprived of it in that cruel way, and # am ashamed because # do not really care.

Gou have not the courage of your convictions. *ife has novalue. "lanche troeve didn$t commit suicide because # left

her, but because she was a foolish and unbalanced woman.

"ut we$ve talked about her %uite enough; she was an entirelyunimportant person. Come, and #$ll show you my pictures.

3e spoke as though # were a child that needed to be

distracted. # was sore, but not with him so much as with myself . # thought of the happy life that pair had led in the

cosy studio in (ontmartre, troeve and his wife, their simplicity, kindness, and hospitality; it seemed to me cruel

that it should have been broken to pieces by a ruthlesschance; but the cruellest thing of all was that in fact it

made no great difference. !he world went on, and no one was a penny the worse for all that wretchedness. # had an idea that

9irk, a man of greater emotional reactions than depth of feeling , would soon forget; and "lanche$s life, begun with who

knows what bright hopes and what dreams , might just as well have never been lived. #t all seemed useless and inane.

trickland had found his hat, and stood looking at me.

/re you coming

1hy do you seek my ac%uaintance # asked him. Gou know

that # hate and despise you.










































3e chuckled good&humouredly.

Gour only %uarrel with me really is that # don$t care a

twopenny damn what you think about me.

# felt my cheeks grow red with sudden anger . #t was

impossible to make him understand that one might be outraged

by his callous selfishness. # longed to pierce his armour of complete indifference. # knew also that in the end there wastruth in what he said. ?nconsciously, perhaps, we treasure

the power we have over people by their regard for our opinionof them, and we hate those upon whom we have no such

influence. # suppose it is the bitterest wound to human pride. "ut # would not let him see that # was put out.

#s it possible for any man to disregard others entirely # said, though more to myself than to him. Gou$re dependent on

others for everything in existence. #t$s a preposterousattempt to try to live only for yourself and by yourself .

ooner or later you$ll be ill and tired and old, and then you$ll crawl back into the herd. 1on$t you be ashamed when

you feel in your heart the desire for comfort and sympathyGou$re trying an impossible thing. ooner or later the human

being in you will yearn for the common bonds of humanity.

Come and look at my pictures.

3ave you ever thought of death

1hy should # #t doesn$t matter.

# stared at him. 3e stood before me, motionless, with a

mocking smile in his eyes; but for all that, for a moment # had an inkling of a fiery, tortured spirit , aiming at

something greater than could be conceived by anything that wasbound up with the flesh. # had a fleeting glimpse of a

pursuit of the ineffable. # looked at the man before me inhis shabby clothes, with his great nose and shining eyes, his

red beard and untidy hair; and # had a strange sensation that it was only an envelope, and # was in the presence of a

disembodied spirit .

*et us go and look at your pictures, # said.

Chapter L*##

# did not know why trickland had suddenly offered to show

them to me. # welcomed the opportunity. / man$s work reveals him. #n social intercourse he gives you the surface that he

wishes the world to accept , and you can only gain a trueknowledge of him by inferences from little actions, of which

he is unconscious, and from fleeting expressions, which cross




























































his face unknown to him. ometimes people carry to such perfection the mask they have assumed that in due course they

actually become the person they seem. "ut in his book or his picture the real man delivers himself defenceless.

3is pretentiousness will only expose his vacuity. !he lathe painted to look like iron is seen to be but a lathe.

0o affectation of peculiarity can conceal a commonplace mind .

!o the acute observer no one can produce the most casual work without disclosing the innermost secrets of his soul .

/s # walked up the endless stairs of the house in which

trickland lived, # confess that # was a little excited. #t seemed to me that # was on the threshold of a surprising

adventure. # looked about the room with curiosity. #t waseven smaller and more bare than # remembered it. # wondered

what those friends of mine would say who demanded vast studios, and vowed they could not work unless all the

conditions were to their liking.

Gou$d better stand there, he said, pointing to a spot from

which, presumably, he fancied # could see to best advantagewhat he had to show me.

Gou don$t want me to talk, # suppose, # said.

0o, blast you; # want you to hold your tongue.

3e placed a picture on the easel, and let me look at it for aminute or two; then took it down and put another in its place.

# think he showed me about thirty canvases. #t was the result of the six years during which he had been painting. 3e had

never sold a picture. !he canvases were of different sizes.!he smaller were pictures of still&life and the largest were

landscapes. !here were about half a dozen portraits.

!hat is the lot, he said at last.

# wish # could say that # recognised at once their beauty and

their great originality. 0ow that # have seen many of themagain and the rest are familiar to me in reproductions, # am

astonished that at first sight # was bitterly disappointed. # felt nothing of the peculiar thrill which it is the property

of art to give. !he impression that trickland$s pictures gave me was disconcerting; and the fact remains, always to

reproach me, that # never even thought of buying any. # missed a wonderful chance. (ost of them have found their way

into museums, and the rest are the treasured possessions of wealthy amateurs. # try to find excuses for myself . # think

that my taste is good , but # am conscious that it has no originality. # know very little about painting, and # wander along trails that others have blazed for me. /t that time #

had the greatest admiration for the impressionists. # longed

























































to possess a isley and a 9egas, and # worshipped (anet. 3is seemed to me the greatest picture of modern times,

and moved me profoundly.!hese works seemed to me the last word in painting.

# will not describe the pictures that trickland showed me. 9escriptions of pictures are always dull, and these, besides,

are familiar to all who take an interest in such things. 0owthat his influence has so enormously affected modern painting,

now that others have charted the country which he was among the first to explore, trickland$s pictures, seen for the

first time, would find the mind more prepared for them; but it must be remembered that # had never seen anything of the sort.

First of all # was taken aback by what seemed to me theclumsiness of his techni%ue. /ccustomed to the drawing of the

old masters, and convinced that #ngres was the greatest draughtsman of recent times, # thought that trickland drew

very badly. # knew nothing of the simplification at which he aimed. # remember a still&life of oranges on a plate, and #

was bothered because the plate was not round and the orangeswere lop&sided. !he portraits were a little larger than

life&size, and this gave them an ungainly look. !o my eyes the faces looked like caricatures. !hey were painted in a way

that was entirely new to me. !he landscapes puzzled me even more.!here were two or three pictures of the forest at

Fontainebleau and several of streets in 8aris' my first feeling was that they might have been painted by a drunken cabdriver.

# was perfectly bewildered. !he colour seemed to

me extraordinarily crude. #t passed through my mind that thewhole thing was a stupendous, incomprehensible farce.

0ow that # look back # am more than ever impressed bytroeve$s acuteness. 3e saw from the first that here was a

revolution in art, and he recognised in its beginnings the genius which now all the world allows.

"ut if # was puzzled and disconcerted, # was not unimpressed.

)ven #, in my colossal ignorance, could not but feel that here, trying to express itself, was real power. # was excited and interested. # felt that these pictures had something to

say to me that was very important for me to know , but # could not tell what it was. !hey seemed to me ugly, but they

suggested without disclosing a secret of momentous significance. !hey were strangely tantalising. !hey gave me

an emotion that # could not analyse. !hey said something that words were powerless to utter. # fancy that trickland saw

vaguely some spiritual meaning in material things that was so

strange that he could only suggest it with halting symbols. #t was as though he found in the chaos of the universe a new pattern, and were attempting clumsily, with anguish of soul ,

to set it down. # saw a tormented spirit striving for the

















































release of expression.

# turned to him.

# wonder if you haven$t mistaken your medium, # said.

1hat the hell do you mean

# think you$re trying to say something, # don$t %uite know

what it is, but #$m not sure that the best way of saying it isby means of painting.

1hen # imagined that on seeing his pictures # should get aclue to the understanding of his strange character # was

mistaken. !hey merely increased the astonishment with whichhe filled me. # was more at sea than ever. !he only thing

that seemed clear to me && and perhaps even this was fanciful

&& was that he was passionately striving for liberation from some power that held him. "ut what the power was and what line the liberation would take remained obscure. )ach one of

us is alone in the world. 3e is shut in a tower of brass, and can communicate with his fellows only by signs, and the signs

have no common value, so that their sense is vague and uncertain.1e seek pitifully to convey to others the treasures

of our heart, but they have not the power to accept them,and so we go lonely , side by side but not together,

unable to know our fellows and unknown by them. 1e are like

people living in a country whose language they know so little that,with all manner of beautiful and profound things to say,they are condemned to the banalities of the conversation manual.!heir brain is seething with ideas, and they can only

tell you that the umbrella of the gardener$s aunt is in the house.

!he final impression # received was of a prodigious effort toexpress some state of the soul , and in this effort, # fancied,

must be sought the explanation of what so utterly perplexed me. #t was evident that colours and forms had a significance

for trickland that was peculiar to himself . 3e was under anintolerable necessity to convey something that he felt , and hecreated them with that intention alone. 3e did not hesitate

to simplify or to distort if he could get nearer to that unknown thing he sought. Facts were nothing to him, for

beneath the mass of irrelevant incidents he looked for something significant to himself . #t was as though he had

become aware of the soul of the universe and were compelled toexpress it.

!hough these pictures confused and puzzled me, # could not be

unmoved by the emotion that was patent in them; and, # knewnot why, # felt in myself a feeling that with regard totrickland was the last # had ever expected to experience.


























































# felt an overwhelming compassion.

# think # know now why you surrendered to your feeling for

"lanche troeve, # said to him.

1hy

# think your courage failed. !he weakness of your bodycommunicated itself to your soul . # do not know what infinite

yearning possesses you, so that you are driven to a perilous,lonely search for some goal where you expect to find a final

release from the spirit that torments you. # see you as theeternal pilgrim to some shrine that perhaps does not exist .

# do not know to what inscrutable 0irvana you aim. 9o you know yourself 8erhaps it is !ruth and Freedom that you seek, and

for a moment you thought that you might find release in *ove. # think your tired soul sought rest in a woman$s arms, and

when you found no rest there you hated her. Gou had no pity for her, because you have no pity for yourself . /nd you

killed her out of fear , because you trembled still at thedanger you had barely escaped.

3e smiled dryly and pulled his beard.

Gou are a dreadful sentimentalist, my poor friend.

/ week later # heard by chance that trickland had gone to

(arseilles. # never saw him again.

Chapter L*###

*ooking back, # realise that what # have written about Charlestrickland must seem very unsatisfactory. # have given

incidents that came to my knowledge , but they remain obscurebecause # do not know the reasons that led to them.

!he strangest, trickland$s determination to become a painter, seems to be arbitrary; and though it must have had causes in

the circumstances of his life, # am ignorant of them. From his own conversation # was able to glean nothing. #f # were

writing a novel, rather than narrating such facts as # know of a curious personality, # should have invented much to account

for this change of heart. # think # should have shown a strong vocation in boyhood, crushed by the will of his father

or sacrificed to the necessity of earning a living; # should have pictured him impatient of the restraints of life; and in

the struggle between his passion for art and the duties of his

station # could have aroused sympathy for him. # should sohave made him a more imposing figure. 8erhaps it would havebeen possible to see in him a new 8rometheus. !here was here,

maybe, the opportunity for a modern version of the hero who for the good of mankind exposes himself to the agonies of the damned.






















































































#t is always a moving subject.

>n the other hand, # might have found his motives in the

influence of the married relation. !here are a dozen ways inwhich this might be managed. / latent gift might reveal

itself on ac%uaintance with the painters and writers whose society his wife sought; or domestic incompatability might turn

him upon himself ; a love affair might fan into bright flamea fire which # could have shown smouldering dimly in his heart.

# think then # should have drawn (rs. trickland %uitedifferently. # should have abandoned the facts and made her a

nagging, tiresome woman, or else a bigoted one with no sympathy for the claims of the spirit . # should have made

trickland$s marriage a long torment from which escape was theonly possible issue. # think # should have emphasised his

patience with the unsuitable mate, and the compassion whichmade him unwilling to throw off the yoke that oppressed him.

# should certainly have eliminated the children.

/n effective story might also have been made by bringing him

into contact with some old painter whom the pressure of want or the desire for commercial success had made false to the

genius of his youth, and who, seeing in trickland the possibilities which himself had wasted, influenced him to

forsake all and follow the divine tyranny of art. # think there would have been something ironic in the picture of the

successful old man, rich and honoured, living in another thelife which he, though knowing it was the better part, had not

had the strength to pursue.

!he facts are much duller. trickland, a boy fresh from school,

went into a broker$s office without any feeling of distaste.?ntil he married he led the ordinary life of his fellows,

gambling mildly on the )xchange, interested to the extent of a sovereign or two on the result of the 9erby or the

>xford and Cambridge 2ace. # think he boxed a little in his

spare time. >n his chimney&piece he had photographs of (rs. *angtry and (ary /nderson. 3e read and the Niporting !imesE. 3e went to dances in 3ampstead.NOi

#t matters less that for so long # should have lost sight of him.!he years during which he was struggling to ac%uire

proficiency in a difficult art were monotonous, and # do not know that there was anything significant in the shifts to

which he was put to earn enough money to keep him. /n account of them would be an account of the things he had seen happen

to other people. # do not think they had any effect on hisown character . 3e must have ac%uired experiences which would

form abundant material for a picares%ue novel of modern 8aris,but he remained aloof, and judging from his conversation there

was nothing in those years that had made a particular



























































impression on him. 8erhaps when he went to 8aris he was tooold to fall a victim to the glamour of his environment.

trange as it may seem, he always appeared to me not only practical, but immensely matter&of&fact. # suppose his life

during this period was romantic, but he certainly saw noromance in it. #t may be that in order to realise the romance

of life you must have something of the actor in you; and,

capable of standing outside yourself , you must be able towatch your actions with an interest at once detached and absorbed. "ut no one was more single&minded than trickland.

# never knew anyone who was less self&conscious. "ut it isunfortunate that # can give no description of the arduous

steps by which he reached such mastery over his art as he ever ac%uired; for if # could show him undaunted by failure, by an

unceasing effort of courage holding despair at bay, doggedly persistent in the face of self&doubt, which is the artist$s

bitterest enemy, # might excite some sympathy for a

personality which, # am all too conscious , must appear singularly devoid of charm. "ut # have nothing to go on.

# never once saw trickland at work, nor do # know that anyoneelse did. 3e kept the secret of his struggles to himself .

#f in the loneliness of his studio he wrestled desperately withthe /ngel of the *ord he never allowed a soul to divine his

anguish.

1hen # come to his connection with "lanche troeve # amexasperated by the fragmentariness of the facts at my disposal .!o give my story coherence # should describe the

progress of their tragic union, but # know nothing of thethree months during which they lived together. # do not know

how they got on or what they talked about. /fter all, thereare twenty&four hours in the day, and the summits of emotion

can only be reached at rare intervals. # can only imagine howthey passed the rest of the time. 1hile the light lasted and

so long as "lanche$s strength endured, # suppose that trickland painted, and it must have irritated her when she

saw him absorbed in his work. /s a mistress she did not thenexist for him, but only as a model; and then there were long

hours in which they lived side by side in silence. #t must have frightened her. 1hen trickland suggested that in her

surrender to him there was a sense of triumph over 9irk troeve,because he had come to her help in her extremity, he opened

the door to many a dark conjecture. # hope it was not true. #t seems to me rather horrible. "ut who can fathom the

subtleties of the human heart Certainly not those who expect from it only decorous sentiments and normal emotions.

1hen "lanche saw that, notwithstanding his moments of passion,trickland remained aloof, she must have been filled with

dismay, and even in those moments # surmise that she realised that to him she was not an individual, but an instrument of

pleasure; he was a stranger still, and she tried to bind him
































































to herself with pathetic arts. he strove to ensnare him withcomfort and would not see that comfort meant nothing to him.

he was at pains to get him the things to eat that he liked,and would not see that he was indifferent to food. he was

afraid to leave him alone. he pursued him with attentions,and when his passion was dormant sought to excite it, for then

at least she had the illusion of holding him. 8erhaps she

knew with her intelligence that the chains she forged onlyaroused his instinct of destruction, as the plate&glass windowmakes your fingers itch for half a brick; but her heart,

incapable of reason, made her continue on a course she knewwas fatal. he must have been very unhappy. "ut the

blindness of love led her to believe what she wanted to betrue , and her love was so great that it seemed impossible to

her that it should not in return awake an e%ual love.

"ut my study of trickland$s character suffers from a greater

defect than my ignorance of many facts. "ecause they wereobvious and striking, # have written of his relations to

women; and yet they were but an insignificant part of his life. #t is an irony that they should so tragically have

affected others. 3is real life consisted of dreams and of tremendously hard work.

3ere lies the unreality of fiction. For in men, as a rule,love is but an episode which takes its place among the other

affairs of the day, and the emphasis laid on it in novels gives it an importance which is untrue to life. !here are few

men to whom it is the most important thing in the world, and they are not very interesting ones; even women, with whom the

subject is of paramount interest, have a contempt for them.!hey are flattered and excited by them, but have an uneasy

feeling that they are poor creatures. "ut even during thebrief intervals in which they are in love, men do other things

which distract their mind ; the trades by which they earn their living engage their attention; they are absorbed in sport;

they can interest themselves in art. For the most part, theykeep their various activities in various compartments, and they can pursue one to the temporary exclusion of the other.

!hey have a faculty of concentration on that which occupiesthem at the moment, and it irks them if one encroaches on the

other. /s lovers, the difference between men and women isthat women can love all day long, but men only at times.

1ith trickland the sexual appetite took a very small place.

#t was unimportant. #t was irksome. 3is soul aimed elsewhither.

3e had violent passions, and on occasion desire seized his body so that he was driven to an orgy of lust, but he hated the instincts that robbed him of his self&possession.

# think , even, he hated the inevitable partner in his debauchery.

1hen he had regained command over himself , he






























































shuddered at the sight of the woman he had enjoyed . 3is thoughts floated then serenely in the empyrean, and he felt

towards her the horror that perhaps the painted butterfly,hovering about the flowers, feels to the filthy chrysalis from

which it has triumphantly emerged. # suppose that art is amanifestation of the sexual instinct. #t is the same emotion

which is excited in the human heart by the sight of a lovely

woman, the "ay of 0aples under the yellow moon, and theof !itian. #t is possible that trickland hated the normal release of sex because it seemed to him brutal by

comparison with the satisfaction of artistic creation. #t seems strange even to myself , when # have described a man who

was cruel, selfish , brutal and sensual, to say that he was a great idealist. !he fact remains.

3e lived more poorly than an artisan. 3e worked harder. 3e cared nothing for those things which with most people make

life gracious and beautiful. 3e was indifferent to money. 3e cared nothing about fame. Gou cannot praise him because he

resisted the temptation to make any of those compromises withthe world which most of us yield to. 3e had no such temptation.

#t never entered his head that compromise was possible. 3e lived in 8aris more lonely than an anchorite in the

deserts of !hebes. 3e asked nothing his fellows except that they should leave him alone. 3e was single&hearted in

his aim, and to pursue it he was willing to sacrifice not onlyhimself && many can do that && but others. 3e had a vision.

trickland was an odious man, but # still think be was a great one.

Chapter L*#

/ certain importance attaches to the views on art of painters,and this is the natural place for me to set down what # know

of trickland$s opinions of the great artists of the past. # am afraid # have very little worth noting. trickland was not

a conversationalist, and he had no gift for putting what hehad to say in the striking phrase that the listener remembers.

3e had no wit . 3is humour, as will be seen if # have in anyway succeeded in reproducing the manner of his conversation,

was sardonic. 3is repartee was rude. 3e made one laugh sometimes by speaking the truth , but this is a form of humour

which gains its force only by its unusualness; it would ceaseto amuse if it were commonly practised.

trickland was not, # should say, a man of great intelligence,

and his views on painting were by no means out of the ordinary. # never heard him speak of those whose work had a certainanalogy with his own && of Cezanne, for instance, or of an Dogh;

and # doubt very much if he had ever seen their pictures. 3e was not greatly interested in the #mpressionists.

!heir techni%ue impressed him, but # fancy that



























































he thought their attitude commonplace. 1hen troeve washolding forth at length on the excellence of (onet, he said'

# prefer 1interhalter. "ut # dare say he said it to annoy,and if he did he certainly succeeded.

# am disappointed that # cannot report any extravagances inhis opinions on the old masters. !here is so much in his

character which is strange that # feel it would complete the picture if his views were outrageous. # feel the need to

ascribe to him fantastic theories about his predecessors, and it is with a certain sense of disillusion that # confess he

thought about them pretty much as does everybody else. # do not believe he knew )l Dreco. 3e had a great but somewhat

impatient admiration for elas%uez. Chardin delighted him,and 2embrandt moved him to ecstasy. 3e described the

impression that 2embrandt made on him with a coarseness # cannot repeat. !he only painter that interested him who was

at all unexpected was "rueghel the )lder. # knew very littleabout him at that time, and trickland had no power to explain

himself . # remember what he said about him because it was sounsatisfactory.

3e$s all right, said trickland. # bet he found it hell to paint.

1hen later, in ienna, # saw several of 8eter "rueghel$s

pictures, # thought # understood why he had attracted trickland$s attention. 3ere, too, was a man with a vision of

the world peculiar to himself . # made somewhat copious notesat the time, intending to write something about him, but #

have lost them, and have now only the recollection of an emotion. 3e seemed to see his fellow&creatures grotes%uely,

and he was angry with them because they were grotes%ue;life was a confusion of ridiculous, sordid happenings, a fit

subject for laughter, and yet it made him sorrowful to laugh. "rueghel gave me the impression of a man striving to express

in one medium feelings more appropriate to expression in another,

and it may be that it was the obscure consciousness of thisthat excited trickland$s sympathy. 8erhaps both were trying to put down in paint ideas which were more suitable to literature.

trickland at this time must have been nearly forty&seven.

Chapter L*

# have said already that but for the hazard of a journey to!ahiti # should doubtless never have written this book. #t is

thither that after many wanderings Charles trickland came,and it is there that he painted the pictures on which his fame

most securely rests. # suppose no artist achieves completelythe realisation of the dream that obsesses him, and trickland,

harassed incessantly by his struggle with techni%ue,managed, perhaps, less than others to express the vision



























































that he saw with his mind$s eye; but in !ahiti thecircumstances were favourable to him; he found in his

surroundings the accidents necessary for his inspiration tobecome effective , and his later pictures give at least a

suggestion of what he sought. !hey offer the imagination something new and strange. #t is as though in this far

country his spirit , that had wandered disembodied, seeking a

tenement, at last was able to clothe itself in flesh. !o usethe hackneyed phrase, here he found himself .

#t would seem that my visit to this remote island should

immediately revive my interest in trickland, but the work # was engaged in occupied my attention to the exclusion of

something that was irrelevant, and it was not till # had beenthere some days that # even remembered his connection with it.

/fter all, # had not seen him for fifteen years, and it wasnine since he died. "ut # think my arrival at !ahiti would

have driven out of my head matters of much more immediateimportance to me, and even after a week # found it not easy to

order myself soberly. # remember that on my first morning # awoke early, and when # came on to the terrace of the hotel no

one was stirring. # wandered round to the kitchen, but it waslocked, and on a bench outside it a native boy was sleeping.

!here seemed no chance of breakfast for some time, so # sauntered down to the water&front. !he Chinamen were already

busy in their shops. !he sky had still the pallor of dawn,and there was a ghostly silence on the lagoon. !en miles awaythe island of (urea, like some high fastness of the 3oly

Drail, guarded its mystery.

# did not altogether believe my eyes. !he days that had passed since # left 1ellington seemed extraordinary and

unusual. 1ellington is trim and neat and )nglish; it reminds you of a seaport town on the outh Coast. /nd for three days

afterwards the sea was stormy. Dray clouds chased one another across the sky. !hen the wind dropped, and the sea was calm

and blue. !he 8acific is more desolate than other seas; its spaces seem more vast, and the most ordinary journey upon it has somehow the feeling of an adventure. !he air you breathe

is an elixir which prepares you for the unexpected. 0or is it vouchsafed to man in the flesh to know aught that more nearly

suggests the approach to the golden realms of fancy than theapproach to !ahiti. (urea, the sister isle, comes into view

in rocky splendour, rising from the desert sea mysteriously,like the unsubstantial fabric of a magic wand. 1ith its

jagged outline it is like a (onseratt of the 8acific, and you

may imagine that there 8olynesian knights guard with strangerites mysteries unholy for men to know. !he beauty of theisland is unveiled as diminishing distance shows you in

distincter shape its lovely peaks, but it keeps its secret as you sail by, and, darkly inviolable, seems to fold itself
































together in a stony, inaccessible grimness. #t would not surprise you if, as you came near seeking for an opening in

the reef, it vanished suddenly from your view, and nothing met your gaze but the blue loneliness of the 8acific.

!ahiti is a lofty green island, with deep folds of a darker green, in which you divine silent valleys; there is mystery in

their sombre depths, down which murmur and plash cool streams,and you feel that in those umbrageous places life from

immemorial times has been led according to immemorial ways. )ven here is something sad and terrible. "ut the impression

is fleeting, and serves only to give a greater acuteness tothe enjoyment of the moment. #t is like the sadness which you

may see in the jester$s eyes when a merry company is laughing at his sallies; his lips smile and his jokes are gayer because in

the communion of laughter he finds himself more intolerably alone. For !ahiti is smiling and friendly; it is like a

lovely woman graciously prodigal of her charm and beauty;and nothing can be more conciliatory than the entrance into the

harbour at 8apeete. !he schooners moored to the %uay are trimand neat, the little town along the bay is white and urbane,

and the flamboyants, scarlet against the blue sky, flaunt their colour like a cry of passion. !hey are sensual with an

unashamed violence that leaves you breathless. /nd the crowd that throngs the wharf as the steamer draws alongside is gay

and debonair; it is a noisy, cheerful, gesticulating crowd. #t is a sea of brown faces. Gou have an impression of coloured movement against the flaming blue of the sky.

)verything is done with a great deal of bustle, the unloading of the baggage, the examination of the customs; and everyone

seems to smile at you. #t is very hot. !he colour dazzles you.

Chapter L*#

3/9 not been in !ahiti long before # met Captain 0ichols.

3e came in one morning when # was having breakfast on the terrace

of the hotel and introduced himself . 3e had heard that # wasinterested in Charles trickland, and announced that he wascome to have a talk about him. !hey are as fond of gossip in

!ahiti as in an )nglish village, and one or two en%uiries # had made for pictures by trickland had been %uickly spread.

# asked the stranger if he had breakfasted.

Ges; # have my coffee early, he answered, but # don$t mind

having a drop of whisky.

# called the Chinese boy.

Gou don$t think it$s too early said the Captain.

Gou and your liver must decide that between you, # replied.























#$m practically a teetotaller, he said, as he poured himself out a good half&tumbler of Canadian Club.

1hen he smiled he showed broken and discoloured teeth. 3e wasa very lean man, of no more than average height, with gray

hair cut short and a stubbly gray moustache. 3e had not shaved for a couple of days. 3is face was deeply lined,

burned brown by long exposure to the sun, and he had a pair of small blue eyes which were astonishingly shifty. !hey moved

%uickly, following my smallest gesture, and they gave him thelook of a very thorough rogue. "ut at the moment he was all

heartiness and good&fellowship. 3e was dressed in abedraggled suit of khaki, and his hands would have been all

the better for a wash.

# knew trickland well, he said, as he leaned back in his

chair and lit the cigar # had offered him. #t$s through me

he came out to the islands.

1here did you meet him # asked.

#n (arseilles.

1hat were you doing there

3e gave me an ingratiating smile.

1ell, # guess # was on the beach.

(y friend$s appearance suggested that he was now in the same predicament, and # prepared myself to cultivate an

agreeable ac%uaintance. !he society of beach&combers alwaysrepays the small pains you need be at to enjoy it. !hey are

easy of approach and affable in conversation. !hey seldom put on airs, and the offer of a drink is a sure way to their hearts.

Gou need no laborious steps to enter upon familiarity withthem, and you can earn not only their confidence, but their

gratitude, by turning an attentive ear to their discourse.!hey look upon conversation as the great pleasure of life,

thereby proving the excellence of their civilisation, and for the most part they are entertaining talkers. !he extent of

their experience is pleasantly balanced by the fertility of their imagination. #t cannot be said that they are without guile,

but they have a tolerant respect for the law, when thelaw is supported by strength. #t is hazardous to play poker

with them, but their ingenuity adds a peculiar excitement to

the best game in the world. # came to know Captain 0icholsvery well before # left !ahiti, and # am the richer for hisac%uaintance. # do not consider that the cigars and whisky he

consumed at my expense Hhe always refused cocktails, since hewas practically a teetotallerI, and the few dollars, borrowed

with a civil air of conferring a favour upon me, that passed
































from my pocket to his, were in any way e%uivalent to theentertainment he afforded me. # remained his debtor.

# should be sorry if my conscience , insisting on a rigid attention to the matter in hand, forced me to dismiss him in a

couple of lines.

# do not know why Captain 0ichols first left )ngland. #t was

a matter upon which he was reticent, and with persons of hiskidney a direct %uestion is never very discreet. 3e hinted at

undeserved misfortune, and there is no doubt that he looked upon himself as the victim of injustice. (y fancy played with

the various forms of fraud and violence, and # agreed with him sympathetically when he remarked that the authorities in the

old country were so damned technical. "ut it was nice to seethat any unpleasantness he had endured in his native land had

not impaired his ardent patriotism. 3e fre%uently declared that )ngland was the finest country in the world, sir, and he

felt a lively superiority over /mericans, Colonials, 9agos, 9utchmen, and 7anakas.

"ut # do not think he was a happy man. 3e suffered fromdyspepsia, and he might often be seen sucking a tablet of

pepsin; in the morning his appetite was poor; but thisaffliction alone would hardly have impaired his spirits.

3e had a greater cause of discontent with life than this. )ight years before he had rashly married a wife. !here are men

whom a merciful 8rovidence has undoubtedly ordained to a singlelife, but who from wilfulness or through circumstances they

could not cope with have flown in the face of its decrees.!here is no object more deserving of pity than the married bachelor.

>f such was Captain 0ichols. # met his wife. he wasa woman of twenty&eight, # should think , though of a type

whose age is always doubtful ; for she cannot have looked different when she was twenty, and at forty would look no

older. he gave me an impression of extraordinary tightness. 3er plain face with its narrow lips was tight, her skin was

stretched tightly over her bones, her smile was tight, her hair was tight, her clothes were tight, and the white drill

she wore had all the effect of black bombazine. # could not

imagine why Captain 0ichols had married her, and having married her why he had not deserted her. 8erhaps he had,

often, and his melancholy arose from the fact that he could never succeed. 3owever far he went and in howsoever secret a

place he hid himself , # felt sure that (rs. 0ichols,inexorable as fate and remorseless as conscience , would

presently rejoin him. 3e could as little escape her as the

cause can escape the effect .

!he rogue, like the artist and perhaps the gentleman, belongsto no class. 3e is not embarrassed by the of

the hobo, nor put out of countenance by the eti%uette of the




















































prince. "ut (rs. 0ichols belonged to the well&defined class,of late become vocal, which is known as the lower&middle.

3er father, in fact, was a policeman. # am certain that he wasan efficient one. # do not know what her hold was on the

Captain, but # do not think it was love. # never heard her speak,but it may be that in private she had a copious conversation.

/t any rate, Captain 0ichols was frightened to death of her.

ometimes, sitting with me on the terrace of the hotel,he would become conscious that she was walking in the road outside.he did not call him; she gave no sign that she was aware

of his existence; she merely walked up and down composedly.!hen a strange uneasiness would seize the Captain;

he would look at his watch and sigh.

1ell, # must be off, he said.

0either wit nor whisky could detain him then. Get he was a

man who had faced undaunted hurricane and typhoon, and would not have hesitated to fight a dozen unarmed niggers withnothing but a revolver to help him. ometimes (rs. 0ichols

would send her daughter, a pale&faced, sullen child of seven,to the hotel.

(other wants you, she said, in a whining tone.

ery well, my dear, said Captain 0ichols.

3e rose to his feet at once, and accompanied his daughter along the road. # suppose it was a very pretty example of thetriumph of spirit over matter, and so my digression has at least the advantage of a moral.

Chapter L*##

# have tried to put some connection into the various thingsCaptain 0ichols told me about trickland, and # here set them

down in the best order # can. !hey made one another$sac%uaintance during the latter part of the winter following my

last meeting with trickland in 8aris. 3ow he had passed theintervening months # do not know , but life must have been very

hard, for Captain 0ichols saw him first in the /sile de 0uit.!here was a strike at (arseilles at the time, and trickland,

having come to the end of his resources, had apparently found it impossible to earn the small sum he needed to keep body and

soul together.

!he /sile de 0uit is a large stone building where pauper and vagabond may get a bed for a week, provided their papers arein order and they can persuade the friars in charge that they

are workingmen. Captain 0ichols noticed trickland for his size and his singular appearance among the crowd that waited

for the doors to open; they waited listlessly, some walking to

































and fro, some leaning against the wall, and others seated onthe curb with their feet in the gutter; and when they filed

into the office he heard the monk who read his papers addresshim in )nglish. "ut he did not have a chance to speak to him,

since, as he entered the common&room, a monk came in with ahuge "ible in his arms, mounted a pulpit which was at the end

of the room, and began the service which the wretched outcasts

had to endure as the price of their lodging. 3e and trickland were assigned to different rooms, and when, thrownout of bed at five in the morning by a stalwart monk, he had made

his bed and washed his face, trickland had already disappeared.Captain 0ichols wandered about the streets for an hour of

bitter cold, and then made his way to the 8lace ictor Delu,where the sailor&men are wont to congregate. 9ozing against

the pedestal of a statue, he saw trickland again. 3e gave him a kick to awaken him.

Come and have breakfast, mate, he said.

Do to hell, answered trickland.

# recognised my friend$s limited vocabulary, and # prepared toregard Captain 0ichols as a trustworthy witness.

"usted asked the Captain.

"last you, answered trickland.

Come along with me. #$ll get you some breakfast.

/fter a moment$s hesitation, trickland scrambled to his feet,and together they went to the "ouchee de 8ain , where the

hungry are given a wedge of bread, which they must eat thereand then, for it is forbidden to take it away; and then to the

Cuillere de oupe, where for a week, at eleven and four, you may get a bowl of thin, salt soup. !he two buildings are

placed far apart, so that only the starving should be tempted to make use of them. o they had breakfast, and so began the

%ueer companionship of Charles trickland and Captain 0ichols.

!hey must have spent something like four months at (arseilles

in one another$s society. !heir career was devoid of adventure,if by adventure you mean unexpected or thrilling incident,

for their days were occupied in the pursuit of enoughmoney to get a night$s lodging and such food as would stay

the pangs of hunger. "ut # wish # could give here the pictures,

coloured and racy, which Captain 0ichols$ vivid narrativeoffered to the imagination. 3is account of their discoveriesin the low life of a seaport town would have made a

charming book, and in the various characters that came their way the student might easily have found matter for a very

complete dictionary of rogues. "ut # must content myself with



















a few paragraphs. # received the impression of a life intenseand brutal, savage, multicoloured, and vivacious. #t made the

(arseilles that # knew , gesticulating and sunny, with itscomfortable hotels and its restaurants crowded with the well&to&do,

tame and commonplace. # envied men who had seen with their own eyes the sights that Captain 0ichols described.

1hen the doors of the /sile de 0uit were closed to them,trickland and Captain 0ichols sought the hospitality of !ough "ill.

!his was the master of a sailors$ boarding&house, a hugemulatto with a heavy fist, who gave the stranded mariner

food and shelter till he found him a berth. !hey lived withhim a month, sleeping with a dozen others, wedes, negroes,

"razilians, on the floor of the two bare rooms in his housewhich he assigned to his charges; and every day they went with

him to the 8lace ictor Delu, whither came ships$ captains in search of a man. 3e was married to an /merican woman, obese

and slatternly, fallen to this pass by 3eaven knows what process of degradation, and every day the boarders took it in

turns to help her with the housework. Captain 0ichols looked upon it as a smart piece of work on trickland$s part that he

had got out of this by painting a portrait of !ough "ill.!ough "ill not only paid for the canvas, colours, and brushes,

but gave trickland a pound of smuggled tobacco into thebargain. For all # know , this picture may still adorn the

parlour of the tumbledown little house somewhere near the<uai de la Joliette, and # suppose it could now be sold for

fifteen hundred pounds. trickland$s idea was to ship on some

vessel bound for /ustralia or 0ew Pealand, and from there make hisway to amoa or !ahiti. # do not know how he had come upon

the notion of going to the outh eas, though # remember that his imagination had long been haunted by an island, all green

and sunny, encircled by a sea more blue than is found in 0orthern latitudes. # suppose that he clung to Captain

0ichols because he was ac%uainted with those parts, and it wasCaptain 0ichols who persuaded him that he would be more

comfortable in !ahiti.

Gou see , !ahiti$s French, he explained to me. /nd the

French aren$t so damned technical.

# thought # saw his point.

trickland had no papers, but that was not a matter to

disconcert !ough "ill when he saw a profit Hhe took the first month$s wages of the sailor for whom he found a berthI, and he

provided trickland with those of an )nglish stoker who had providentially died on his hands. "ut both Captain 0ichols

and trickland were bound )ast, and it chanced that the onlyopportunities for signing on were with ships sailing 1est.

!wice trickland refused a berth on tramps sailing for the































?nited tates, and once on a collier going to 0ewcastle.!ough "ill had no patience with an obstinacy which could only

result in loss to himself , and on the last occasion he flung both trickland and Captain 0ichols out of his house without

more ado. !hey found themselves once more adrift.

!ough "ill$s fare was seldom extravagant, and you rose from

his table almost as hungry as you sat down, but for some daysthey had good reason to regret it. !hey learned what hunger was.

!he Cuillere de oupe and the /sile de 0uit were bothclosed to them, and their only sustenance was the wedge of

bread which the "ouchee de 8ain provided. !hey slept wherethey could, sometimes in an empty truck on a siding near the

station, sometimes in a cart behind a warehouse; but it wasbitterly cold, and after an hour or two of uneasy dozing they

would tramp the streets again. 1hat they felt the lack of most bitterly was tobacco, and Captain 0ichols, for his part,

could not do without it; he took to hunting the Can o$ "eer, for cigarette&ends and the butt&end of cigars which the

promenaders of the night before had thrown away.

#$ve tasted worse smoking mixtures in a pipe, he added,

with a philosophic shrug of his shoulders, as he took a coupleof cigars from the case # offered him, putting one in his mouth

and the other in his pocket.

0ow and then they made a bit of money. ometimes a mail

steamer would come in, and Captain 0ichols, having scraped ac%uaintance with the timekeeper, would succeed in getting the

pair of them a job as stevedores. 1hen it was an )nglish boat,they would dodge into the forecastle and get a hearty

breakfast from the crew. !hey took the risk of running against one of the ship$s officers and being hustled down the

gangway with the toe of a boot to speed their going.

!here$s no harm in a kick in the hind%uarters when your

belly$s full, said Captain 0ichols, and personally # never take it in bad part. /n officer$s got to think about discipline.

# had a lively picture of Captain 0ichols flying headlong downa narrow gangway before the uplifted foot of an angry mate,

and, like a true )nglishman, rejoicing in the spirit of the (ercantile (arine.

!here were often odd jobs to be got about the fish&market.>nce they each of them earned a franc by loading trucks with

innumerable boxes of oranges that had been dumped down on the %uay.>ne day they had a stroke of luck' one of the boarding&masters

got a contract to paint a tramp that had come in from (adagascar round the Cape of Dood 3ope, and they spent

several days on a plank hanging over the side, covering therusty hull with paint. #t was a situation that must have


































appealed to trickland$s sardonic humour. # asked Captain 0ichols how he bore himself during these hardships.

0ever knew him say a cross word, answered the Captain.3e$d be a bit surly sometimes, but when we hadn$t had a bite

since morning, and we hadn$t even got the price of a lie downat the Chink$s, he$d be as lively as a cricket.

# was not surprised at this. trickland was just the man torise superior to circumstances, when they were such as to

occasion despondency in most; but whether this was due toe%uanimity of soul or to contradictoriness it would be

difficult to say.

!he Chink$s 3ead was a name the beach&combers gave to a

wretched inn off the 2ue "outerie, kept by a one&eyed Chinaman,where for six sous you could sleep in a cot and for

three on the floor. 3ere they made friends with others in asdesperate condition as themselves , and when they were

penniless and the night was bitter cold, they were glad toborrow from anyone who had earned a stray franc during the day

the price of a roof over their heads. !hey were not niggardly,these tramps, and he who had money did not hesitate

to share it among the rest . !hey belonged to all thecountries in the world, but this was no bar to good&fellowship;

for they felt themselves freemen of a country whose frontiers include them all, the great country of Cockaine.

"ut # guess trickland was an ugly customer when he was roused, said Captain 0ichols, reflectively. >ne day we ran

into !ough "ill in the 8lace, and he asked Charlie for the papers he$d given him.

KGou$d better come and take them if you want them,$ says Charlie.

3e was a powerful fellow, !ough "ill, but he didn$t %uitelike the look of Charlie, so he began cursing him. 3e called

him pretty near every name he could lay hands on, and when!ough "ill began cursing it was worth listening to him.1ell, Charlie stuck it for a bit, then he stepped forward and he

just said' KDet out, you bloody swine.$ #t wasn$t so muchwhat he said, but the way he said it. !ough "ill never spoke

another word; you could see him go yellow, and he walked awayas if he$d remembered he had a date.

trickland, according to Captain 0ichols, did not use exactly

the words # have given, but since this book is meant for family reading # have thought it better, at the expense of

truth , to put into his mouth expressions familiar to thedomestic circle.

0ow, !ough "ill was not the man to put up with humiliation at

































the hands of a common sailor. 3is power depended on his prestige,and first one, then another, of the sailors who lived in

his house told them that he had sworn to do trickland in.

>ne night Captain 0ichols and trickland were sitting in one

of the bars of the 2ue "outerie. !he 2ue "outerie is a narrow street of one&storeyed houses, each house consisting of but

one room; they are like the booths in a crowded fair or thecages of animals in a circus. /t every door you see a woman.

ome lean lazily against the side&posts, humming to themselvesor calling to the passer&by in a raucous voice, and some

listlessly read. !hey are French. #talian, panish, Japanese, coloured; some are fat and some are thin; and under

the thick paint on their faces, the heavy smears on their eyebrows, and the scarlet of their lips, you see the lines of

age and the scars of dissipation. ome wear black shifts and flesh&coloured stockings; some with curly hair, dyed yellow,

are dressed like little girls in short muslin frocks.!hrough the open door you see a red&tiled floor, a large wooden bed,

and on a deal table a ewer and a basin. / motley crowd saunters along the streets && *ascars off a 8. and >., blond

0orthmen from a wedish bar%ue, Japanese from a man&of&war, )nglish sailors, paniards, pleasant&looking fellows from a

French cruiser, negroes off an /merican tramp. "y day it ismerely sordid, but at night, lit only by the lamps in the

little huts, the street has a sinister beauty. !he hideouslust that pervades the air is oppressive and horrible, and yet there is something mysterious in the sight which haunts and

troubles you. Gou feel # know not what primitive force whichrepels and yet fascinates you. 3ere all the decencies of

civilisation are swept away, and you feel that men are face to face with a sombre reality. !here is an atmosphere that is at

once intense and tragic.

#n the bar in which trickland and 0ichols sat a mechanical piano was loudly grinding out dance music. 2ound the room

people were sitting at table, here half a dozen sailorsuproariously drunk, there a group of soldiers; and in themiddle, crowded together, couples were dancing. "earded

sailors with brown faces and large horny hands clasped their partners in a tight embrace. !he women wore nothing but a shift.

0ow and then two sailors would get up and dance together.!he noise was deafening. 8eople were singing, shouting,

laughing; and when a man gave a long kiss to the girl sitting on his knees, cat&calls from the )nglish sailors

increased the din. !he air was heavy with the dust beaten up

by the heavy boots of the men, and gray with smoke. #t wasvery hot. "ehind the bar was seated a woman nursing her baby.!he waiter, an undersized youth with a flat, spotty face,

hurried to and fro carrying a tray laden with glasses of beer.





















#n a little while !ough "ill, accompanied by two huge negroes,came in, and it was easy to see that he was already three

parts drunk. 3e was looking for trouble. 3e lurched against a table at which three soldiers were sitting and knocked over

a glass of beer. !here was an angry altercation, and theowner of the bar stepped forward and ordered !ough "ill to go.

3e was a hefty fellow, in the habit of standing no nonsense

from his customers, and !ough "ill hesitated. !he landlord was not a man he cared to tackle, for the police were on his side,and with an oath he turned on his heel. uddenly he

caught sight of trickland. 3e rolled up to him. 3e did not speak. 3e gathered the spittle in his mouth and spat full in

trickland$s face. trickland seized his glass and flung it at him. !he dancers stopped suddenly still. !here was an

instant of complete silence, but when !ough "ill threw himself on trickland the lust of battle seized them all, and in a

moment there was a confused scrimmage. !ables were

overturned, glasses crashed to the ground. !here was ahellish row. !he women scattered to the door and behind the bar.

8assers&by surged in from the street. Gou heard cursesin every tongue the sound of blows, cries; and in the middle

of the room a dozen men were fighting with all their might.>n a sudden the police rushed in, and everyone who could made

for the door. 1hen the bar was more or less cleared, !ough "ill was lying insensible on the floor with a great gash in

his head. Captain 0ichols dragged trickland, bleeding from a

wound in his arm, his clothes in rags, into the street. 3is own face was covered with blood from a blow on the nose.

# guess you$d better get out of (arseilles before !ough "ill

comes out of hospital, he said to trickland, when they had got back to the Chink$s 3ead and were cleaning themselves.

!his beats cock&fighting, said trickland.

# could see his sardonic smile.

Captain 0ichols was anxious. 3e knew !ough "ill$s vindictiveness.

trickland had downed the mulatto twice, and the mulatto, sober, was a man to be reckoned with. 3e would bide

his time stealthily. 3e would be in no hurry, but onenight trickland would get a knife&thrust in his back, and in

a day or two the corpse of a nameless beach&comber would be fished out of the dirty water of the harbour. 0ichols went

next evening to !ough "ill$s house and made en%uiries. 3e wasin hospital still, but his wife, who had been to see him, said

he was swearing hard to kill trickland when they let him out.

/ week passed.

!hat$s what # always say, reflected Captain 0ichols,when you hurt a man, hurt him bad. #t gives you a bit of

























time to look about and think what you$ll do next.

!hen trickland had a bit of luck. / ship bound for /ustralia

had sent to the ailors$ 3ome for a stoker in place of one whohad thrown himself overboard off Dibraltar in an attack of

delirium tremens.

Gou double down to the harbour, my lad, said the Captain totrickland, and sign on. Gou$ve got your papers.

trickland set off at once, and that was the last Captain

0ichols saw of him. !he ship was only in port for six hours,and in the evening Captain 0ichols watched the vanishing smoke

from her funnels as she ploughed )ast through the wintry sea.

# have narrated all this as best # could, because # like thecontrast of these episodes with the life that # had seen

trickland live in /shley Dardens when he was occupied with stocks and shares; but # am aware that Captain 0ichols was anoutrageous liar, and # dare say there is not a word of truth

in anything he told me. # should not be surprised to learnthat he had never seen trickland in his life, and owed his

knowledge of (arseilles to the pages of a magazine.

Chapter L*###

#t is here that # purposed to end my book. (y first idea was

to begin it with the account of trickland$s last years in!ahiti and with his horrible death, and then to go back and

relate what # knew of his beginnings. !his # meant to do,not from wilfulness, but because # wished to leave trickland

setting out with # know not what fancies in his lonely soul for the unknown islands which fired his imagination. # liked

the picture of him starting at the age of forty&seven,when most men have already settled comfortably in a groove,

for a new world. # saw him, the sea gray under the mistral and foam&flecked, watching the vanishing coast of France, which he

was destined never to see again; and # thought there was something gallant in his bearing and dauntless in his soul . # wished so to end on a note of hope. #t seemed to emphasise

the uncon%uerable spirit of man. "ut # could not manage it.omehow # could not get into my story, and after trying once

or twice # had to give it up; # started from the beginning inthe usual way, and made up my mind # could only tell what #

knew of trickland$s life in the order in which # learnt the facts.

!hose that # have now are fragmentary. # am in the positionof a biologist who from a single bone must reconstruct not

only the appearance of an extinct animal, but its habits.trickland made no particular impression on the people whocame in contact with him in !ahiti. !o them he was no more

than a beach&comber in constant need of money, remarkable only






















































for the peculiarity that he painted pictures which seemed tothem absurd; and it was not till he had been dead for some

years and agents came from the dealers in 8aris and "erlin tolook for any pictures which might still remain on the island,

that they had any idea that among them had dwelt a man of conse%uence.!hey remembered then that they could have bought for

a song canvases which now were worth large sums, and they

could not forgive themselves for the opportunity which had escaped them. !here was a Jewish trader called Cohen, who had come by one of trickland$s pictures in a singular way.

3e was a little old Frenchman, with soft kind eyes and a pleasant smile, half trader and half seaman, who owned a cutter in

which he wandered boldly among the 8aumotus and the (ar%uesas,taking out trade goods and bringing back copra, shell, and pearls.

# went to see him because # was told he had a large black pearl which he was willing to sell cheaply, and when #

discovered that it was beyond my means # began to talk to him

about trickland. 3e had known him well.

Gou see , # was interested in him because he was a painter, he told me. 1e don$t get many painters in the islands, and #

was sorry for him because he was such a bad one. # gave himhis first job. # had a plantation on the peninsula, and #

wanted a white overseer. Gou never get any work out of thenatives unless you have a white man over them. # said to him'

KGou$ll have plenty of time for painting, and you can earn abit of money.$ # knew he was starving, but # offered him good wages.

# can$t imagine that he was a very satisfactory overseer, # said, smiling.

# made allowances. # have always had a sympathy for artists. #t is in our blood, you know. "ut he only remained a few

months. 1hen he had enough money to buy paints and canvaseshe left me. !he place had got hold of him by then, and he

wanted to get away into the bush. "ut # continued to see him

now and then. 3e would turn up in 8apeete every few monthsand stay a little while; he$d get money out of someone or other and then disappear again. #t was on one of these visits

that he came to me and asked for the loan of two hundred francs. 3e looked as if he hadn$t had a meal for a week, and

# hadn$t the heart to refuse him. >f course, # never expected to see my money again. 1ell, a year later he came to see me

once more, and he brought a picture with him. 3e did not mention the money he owed me, but he said' K3ere is a picture

of your plantation that #$ve painted for you.$ # looked at it.

# did not know what to say, but of course # thanked him, and when he had gone away # showed it to my wife.

1hat was it like # asked.

9o not ask me. # could not make head or tail of it. # never




































saw such a thing in my life. K1hat shall we do with it$ # said to my wife. K1e can never hang it up,$ she said.

K8eople would laugh at us.$ o she took it into an attic and put it away with all sorts of rubbish, for my wife can never

throw anything away. #t is her mania. !hen, imagine to yourself , just before the war my brother wrote to me from

8aris, and said' K9o you know anything about an )nglish

painter who lived in !ahiti #t appears that he was a genius,and his pictures fetch large prices. ee if you can lay your hands on anything and send it to me. !here$s money to be

made.$ o # said to my wife. K1hat about that picture that trickland gave me$ #s it possible that it is still in the

attic$ K1ithout doubt ,$ she answered, K for you know that # never throw anything away. #t is my mania.$ 1e went up to the

attic, and there, among # know not what rubbish that had been gathered during the thirty years we have inhabited that house,

was the picture. # looked at it again, and # said'

K1ho would have thought that the overseer of my plantation onthe peninsula, to whom # lent two hundred francs, had genius

9o you see anything in the picture$ K0o,$ she said, Kit does not resemble the plantation and # have never seen cocoa&nuts with

blue leaves; but they are mad in 8aris, and it may be that your brother will be able to sell it for the two hundred

francs you lent trickland.$ 1ell, we packed it up and we sent it to my brother. /nd at last # received a letter from him.

1hat do you think he said K# received your picture,$ he said,

Kand # confess # thought it was a joke that you had played on me. # would not have given the cost of postage for the picture. # was half afraid to show it to the gentleman who

had spoken to me about it. #magine my surprise when he said it was a masterpiece, and offered me thirty thousand francs.

# dare say he would have paid more, but frankly # was so takenaback that # lost my head; # accepted the offer before # was

able to collect myself .$

!hen (onsieur Cohen said an admirable thing.

# wish that poor trickland had been still alive. # wonder what he would have said when # gave him twenty&nine thousand

eight hundred francs for his picture.

Chapter L*#L

# lived at the 3otel de la Fleur, and (rs. Johnson, the

proprietress, had a sad story to tell of lost opportunity. /fter trickland$s death certain of his effects were sold by

auction in the market&place at 8apeete, and she went to it herself because there was among the truck an /merican stove

she wanted. he paid twenty&seven francs for it.

!here were a dozen pictures, she told me, but they were

unframed, and nobody wanted them. ome of them sold for as




































much as ten francs, but mostly they went for five or six. Just think , if # had bought them # should be a rich woman now.

"ut !iare Johnson would never under any circumstances havebeen rich. he could not keep money. !he daughter of a

native and an )nglish sea&captain settled in !ahiti, when # knew her she was a woman of fifty, who looked older, and of

enormous proportions. !all and extremely stout, she would have been of imposing presence if the great good&nature of her

face had not made it impossible for her to express anything but kindliness. 3er arms were like legs of mutton, her

breasts like giant cabbages; her face, broad and fleshy, gave you an impression of almost indecent nakedness, and vast chin

succeeded to vast chin. # do not know how many of them there were.!hey fell away voluminously into the capaciousness of her bosom.

he was dressed usually in a pink (other 3ubbard,and she wore all day long a large straw hat. "ut when she let

down her hair, which she did now and then, for she was vain of it, you saw that it was long and dark and curly; and her eyes

had remained young and vivacious. 3er laughter was the most catching # ever heard ; it would begin, a low peal in her throat,

and would grow louder and louder till her whole vast body shook. he loved three things && a joke, a glass of

wine, and a handsome man. !o have known her is a privilege.

he was the best cook on the island, and she adored good food.

From morning till night you saw her sitting on a low chair inthe kitchen, surrounded by a Chinese cook and two or three

native girls, giving her orders, chatting sociably with all and sundry, and tasting the savoury messes she devised. 1hen

she wished to do honour to a friend she cooked the dinner withher own hands. 3ospitality was a passion with her, and there

was no one on the island who need go without a dinner whenthere was anything to eat at the 3otel de la Fleur. he never

turned her customers out of her house because they did not paytheir bills. he always hoped they would pay when they could.

!here was one man there who had fallen on adversity, and tohim she had given board and lodging for several months.1hen the Chinese laundryman refused to wash for him without

payment she had sent his things to be washed with hers. he could not allow the poor fellow to go about in a dirty shirt, she said,

and since he was a man, and men must smoke, she gave him a franc a day for cigarettes. he used him with the same

affability as those of her clients who paid their bills once a week.

/ge and obesity had made her inapt for love, but she took a

keen interest in the amatory affairs of the young. he looked upon venery as the natural occupation for men and women, and was ever ready with precept and example from her own wide experience.

# was not fifteen when my father found that # had a lover,


























she said. 3e was third mate on the . / good&looking boy.

he sighed a little. !hey say a woman always remembers her first lover with affection; but perhaps she does not always

remember him.

(y father was a sensible man.

1hat did he do # asked.

3e thrashed me within an inch of my life, and then he made memarry Captain Johnson. # did not mind . 3e was older,

of course, but he was good&looking too.

!iare && her father had called her by the name of the white,

scented flower which, they tell you, if you have once smelt ,

will always draw you back to !ahiti in the end, however far you may have roamed && !iare remembered trickland very well.

3e used to come here sometimes, and # used to see him walking

about 8apeete. # was sorry for him, he was so thin, and henever had any money. 1hen # heard he was in town, # used to

send a boy to find him and make him come to dinner with me. # got him a job once or twice, but he couldn$t stick to

anything. /fter a little while he wanted to get back to thebush, and one morning he would be gone.

trickland reached !ahiti about six months after he left (arseilles. 3e worked his passage on a sailing vessel that

was making the trip from /uckland to an Francisco, and hearrived with a box of paints, an easel, and a dozen canvases.

3e had a few pounds in his pocket, for he had found work inydney, and he took a small room in a native house outside the town.

# think the moment he reached !ahiti he felt himself at home.!iare told me that he said to her once'

#$d been scrubbing the deck, and all at once a chap said to me'K1hy, there it is.$ /nd # looked up and # saw the outline

of the island. # knew right away that there was the place #$d been looking for all my life. !hen we came near, and # seemed

to recognise it. ometimes when # walk about it all seems familiar. # could swear #$ve lived here before.

ometimes it takes them like that, said !iare. #$ve knownmen come on shore for a few hours while their ship was taking

in cargo, and never go back. /nd #$ve known men who came hereto be in an office for a year, and they cursed the place, and

when they went away they took their dying oath they$d hang themselves before they came back again, and in six months

you$d see them land once more, and they$d tell you they






































couldn$t live anywhere else.

Chapter *

# have an idea that some men are born out of their due place. /ccident has cast them amid certain surroundings, but they

have always a nostalgia for a home they know not. !hey are

strangers in their birthplace, and the leafy lanes they haveknown from childhood or the populous streets in which theyhave played, remain but a place of passage. !hey may spend

their whole lives aliens among their kindred and remain aloof among the only scenes they have ever known. 8erhaps it is

this sense of strangeness that sends men far and wide in the search for something permanent, to which they may attach

themselves. 8erhaps some deeprooted atavism urges thewanderer back to lands which his ancestors left in the dim

beginnings of history. ometimes a man hits upon a place to

which he mysteriously feels that he belongs. 3ere is the homehe sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never

seen before, among men he has never known , as though they were

familiar to him from his birth. 3ere at last he finds rest .

# told !iare the story of a man # had known at t. !homas$s

3ospital. 3e was a Jew named /braham, a blond, rather stout young man, shy and very unassuming; but he had remarkable gifts.

3e entered the hospital with a scholarship, and during the five years of the curriculum gained every prize that was

open to him. 3e was made house&physician and house&surgeon. 3is brilliance was allowed by all. Finally he was elected to

a position on the staff, and his career was assured. o far as human things can be predicted, it was certain that he would

rise to the greatest heights of his profession. 3onours and wealth awaited him. "efore he entered upon his new duties he

wished to take a holiday, and, having no private means,he went as surgeon on a tramp steamer to the *evant.

#t did not generally carry a doctor, but one of the senior

surgeons at the hospital knew a director of the line,and /braham was taken as a favour.

#n a few weeks the authorities received his resignation of the

coveted position on the staff. #t created profound astonishment, and wild rumours were current. 1henever a man

does anything unexpected, his fellows ascribe it to the most discreditable motives. "ut there was a man ready to step into

/braham$s shoes, and /braham was forgotten. 0othing more washeard of him. 3e vanished.

#t was perhaps ten years later that one morning on board ship,about to land at /lexandria, # was bidden to line up with the

other passengers for the doctor$s examination. !he doctor wasa stout man in shabby clothes, and when he took off his hat #

noticed that he was very bald. # had an idea that # had seen



























him before. uddenly # remembered .

/braham, # said.

3e turned to me with a puzzled look, and then, recognizing me, seized my hand. /fter expressions of surprise on either side,

hearing that # meant to spend the night in /lexandria, he

asked me to dine with him at the )nglish Club. 1hen we met again # declared my astonishment at finding him there. #t wasa very modest position that he occupied, and there was about

him an air of straitened circumstance. !hen he told me his story.1hen he set out on his holiday in the (editerranean he

had every intention of returning to *ondon and his appointment at t. !homas$s. >ne morning the tramp docked at /lexandria,

and from the deck he looked at the city, white in the sunlight, and the crowd on the wharf; he saw the natives in

their shabby gabardines, the blacks from the oudan, the noisy

throng of Dreeks and #talians, the grave !urks in tarbooshes,the sunshine and the blue sky; and something happened to him.

3e could not describe it. #t was like a thunder&clap, he

said, and then, dissatisfied with this, he said it was like arevelation. omething seemed to twist his heart, and suddenly

he felt an exultation, a sense of wonderful freedom. 3e felt himself at home, and he made up his mind there and then, in a

minute, that he would live the rest of his life in /lexandria. 3e had no great difficulty in leaving the ship, and in twenty&four

hours, with all his belongings, he was on shore.

!he Captain must have thought you as mad as a hatter, # smiled.

# didn$t care what anybody thought . #t wasn$t # that acted,but something stronger within me. # thought # would go to a

little Dreek hotel, while # looked about, and # felt # knewwhere to find one. /nd do you know , # walked straight there,

and when # saw it, # recognised it at once.

3ad you been to /lexandria before

0o; #$d never been out of )ngland in my life.

8resently he entered the Dovernment service, and there he had been ever since.

3ave you never regretted it

0ever, not for a minute. # earn just enough to live upon,

and #$m satisfied . # ask nothing more than to remain as # amtill # die. #$ve had a wonderful life.

# left /lexandria next day, and # forgot about /braham till alittle while ago, when # was dining with another old friend in

the profession, /lec Carmichael, who was in )ngland on short leave.











































# ran across him in the street and congratulated him onthe knighthood with which his eminent services during the

war had been rewarded. 1e arranged to spend an evening together for old time$s sake, and when # agreed to dine with

him, he proposed that he should ask nobody else, so that wecould chat without interruption. 3e had a beautiful old house

in <ueen /nne treet, and being a man of taste he had

furnished it admirably. >n the walls of the diningroom # sawa charming "ellotto, and there was a pair of Poffanys that # envied.1hen his wife, a tall, lovely creature in cloth of gold,

had left us, # remarked laughingly on the change in his present circumstances from those when we had both been medical

students. 1e had looked upon it then as an extravagance todine in a shabby #talian restaurant in the 1estminster "ridge 2oad.

0ow /lec Carmichael was on the staff of half a dozen hospitals. # should think he earned ten thousand a year, and his

knighthood was but the first of the honours which must

inevitably fall to his lot.

#$ve done pretty well, he said, but the strange thing isthat # owe it all to one piece of luck.


1ell, do you remember /braham 3e was the man who had the future.

1hen we were students he beat me all along the line. 3e got the prizes and the scholarships that # went in for.

# always played second fiddle to him. #f he$d kept on he$d bein the position #$m in now. !hat man had a genius for surgery.

0o one had a look in with him. 1hen he wasappointed 2egistrar at !homas$s # hadn$t a chance of getting

on the staff. # should have had to become a D.8., and youknow what likelihood there is for a D.8. ever to get out of

the common rut. "ut /braham fell out, and # got the job.!hat gave me my opportunity.

# dare say that$s true.

#t was just luck. # suppose there was some kink in /braham.

8oor devil, he$s gone to the dogs altogether. 3e$s got sometwopenny&halfpenny job in the medical at /lexandria &&

sanitary officer or something like that. #$m told he liveswith an ugly old Dreek woman and has half a dozen scrofulous kids.

!he fact is, # suppose, that it$s not enough to have brains.!he thing that counts is character . /braham hadn$t got character .

Character # should have thought it needed a good deal of character to throw up a career after half an hour$s

meditation , because you saw in another way of living a moreintense significance. /nd it re%uired still more character

never to regret the sudden step. "ut # said nothing, and /lec









































Carmichael proceeded reflectively'

>f course it would be hypocritical for me to pretend that #

regret what /braham did. /fter all, #$ve scored by it. 3e puffed luxuriously at the long Corona he was smoking.

"ut if # weren$t personally concerned # should be sorry at the waste. #t seems a rotten thing that a man should make such a hash of life.

# wondered if /braham really had made a hash of life. #s to do what you most want, to live under the conditions that

please you, in peace with yourself , to make a hash of life;and is it success to be an eminent surgeon with ten thousand a

year and a beautiful wife # suppose it depends on what meaning you attach to life, the claim which you acknowledge to

society, and the claim of the individual. "ut again # held mytongue, for who am # to argue with a knight

Chapter *##

!iare, when # told her this story, praised my prudence , and

for a few minutes we worked in silence, for we were shelling peas. !hen her eyes, always alert for the affairs of her

kitchen, fell on some action of the Chinese cook which aroused her violent disapproval. he turned on him with a torrent of abuse.

!he Chink was not backward to defend himself , and avery lively %uarrel ensued. !hey spoke in the native language,

of which # had learnt but half a dozen words, and it sounded

as though the world would shortly come to an end;but presently peace was restored and !iare gave the cook acigarette. !hey both smoked comfortably.

9o you know , it was # who found him his wife said !iare suddenly, with a smile that spread all over her immense face.

!he cook

0o, trickland.

"ut he had one already.

!hat is what he said, but # told him she was in )ngland,and )ngland is at the other end of the world.

!rue , # replied.

3e would come to 8apeete every two or three months, when hewanted paints or tobacco or money, and then he would wander

about like a lost dog. # was sorry for him. # had a girl here then called /ta to do the rooms; she was some sort of a

relation of mine, and her father and mother were dead, so # had her to live with me. trickland used to come here now and then to have a s%uare meal or to play chess with one of the boys.

























# noticed that she looked at him when he came, and # asked her if she liked him. he said she liked him well enough.

Gou know what these girls are; they$re always pleased to go with a white man.

1as she a native # asked.

Ges; she hadn$t a drop of white blood in her. 1ell, after #$d talked to her # sent for trickland, and # said to him'Ktrickland, it$s time for you to settle down. / man of your

age shouldn$t go playing about with the girls down at the front.!hey$re bad lots, and you$ll come to no good with them.

Gou$ve got no money, and you can never keep a job for more than a month or two. 0o one will employ you now.

Gou say you can always live in the bush with one or other of the natives, and they$re glad to have you because you$re a

white man, but it$s not decent for a white man. 0ow, listen

to me, trickland.$

!iare mingled French with )nglish in her conversation, for sheused both languages with e%ual facility. he spoke them with

a singing accent which was not unpleasing. Gou felt that abird would speak in these tones if it could speak )nglish.

$0ow, what do you say to marrying /ta he$s a good girl and she$s only seventeen. he$s never been promiscuous like some

of these girls && a captain or a first mate, yes, but she$s

never been touched by a native. .!he purser of the told me last journey that he hadn$t met a nicer girl in the islands. #t$s time she settled

down too, and besides, the captains and the first mates like achange now and then. # don$t keep my girls too long. he has

a bit of property down by !aravao, just before you come to the peninsula, and with copra at the price it is now you could

live %uite comfortably. !here$s a house, and you$d have all the time you wanted for your painting. 1hat do you say to it

!iare paused to take breath.

#t was then he told me of his wife in )ngland. $(y poor

trickland,$ # said to him, $they$ve all got a wife somewhere;that is generally why they come to the islands. /ta is a

sensible girl, and she doesn$t expect any ceremony before the (ayor. he$s a 8rotestant, and you know they don$t look upon

these things like the Catholics.$

!hen he said' K"ut what does /ta say to it$ K#t appearsthat she has a for you,$ # said. Khe$s willing if

you are. hall # call her$ 3e chuckled in a funny, dry wayhe had, and # called her. he knew what # was talking about,the hussy, and # saw her out of the corner of my eyes

listening with all her ears, while she pretended to iron a























blouse that she had been washing for me. he came. he waslaughing, but # could see that she was a little shy,

and trickland looked at her without speaking.

1as she pretty # asked.

0ot bad. "ut you must have seen pictures of her. 3e painted

her over and over again, sometimes with a on and sometimes with nothing at all. Ges, she was pretty enough. /nd she knew how to cook. # taught her myself . # saw

trickland was thinking of it, so # said to him' $#$ve givenher good wages and she$s saved them, and the captains and the

first mates she$s known have given her a little something nowand then. he$s saved several hundred francs.$

3e pulled his great red beard and smiled.

K1ell, /ta,$ he said, $do you fancy me for a husband.$

he did not say anything, but just giggled.

K"ut # tell you, my poor trickland, the girl has a for you,$ # said.

# shall beat you,$ he said, looking at her.

K3ow else should # know you loved me,$ she answered.

!iare broke off her narrative and addressed herself to me

reflectively.

(y first husband, Captain Johnson, used to thrash me

regularly. 3e was a man. 3e was handsome, six foot three,and when he was drunk there was no holding him. # would be

black and blue all over for days at a time. >h, # cried whenhe died. # thought # should never get over it. "ut it wasn$t

till # married Deorge 2ainey that # knew what #$d lost.

Gou can never tell what a man is like till you live with him. #$ve never been so deceived in a man as # was in Deorge 2ainey. 3e was a fine, upstanding fellow too. 3e was nearly

as tall as Captain Johnson, and he looked strong enough. "ut it was all on the surface. 3e never drank. 3e never raised his hand to me. 3e might have been a missionary. # made love

with the officers of every ship that touched the island, and Deorge 2ainey never saw anything. /t last # was disgusted

with him, and # got a divorce. 1hat was the good of a husband like that #t$s a terrible thing the way some men treat women.

# condoled with !iare, and remarked feelingly that men were

deceivers ever, then asked her to go on with her story of trickland.

K1ell,$ # said to him, Kthere$s no hurry about it. !ake your








































time and think it over. /ta has a very nice room in theannexe. *ive with her for a month, and see how you like her.

Gou can have your meals here. /nd at the end of a month, if you decide you want to marry her, you can just go and settle

down on her property.$

1ell, he agreed to that. /ta continued to do the housework,

and # gave him his meals as # said # would. # taught /ta tomake one or two dishes # knew he was fond of. 3e did not

paint much. 3e wandered about the hills and bathed in the stream. /nd he sat about the front looking at the lagoon, and

at sunset he would go down and look at (urea. 3e used to go fishing on the reef. 3e loved to moon about the harbour

talking to the natives. 3e was a nice, %uiet fellow. /nd every evening after dinner he would go down to the annexe

with /ta. # saw he was longing to get away to the bush,and at the end of the month # asked him what he intended to do.

3e said if /ta was willing to go, he was willing to go with her.o # gave them a wedding dinner. # cooked it with my own hands.

# gave them a pea soup and lobster and acurry, and a cocoa&nut salad && you$ve never had one of my

cocoa&nut salads, have you # must make you one before you go&& and then # made them an ice. 1e had all the champagne we

could drink and li%ueurs to follow. >h, #$d made up my mind to do things well. /nd afterwards we danced in the drawing&room.

# was not so fat, then, and # always loved dancing.

!he drawing&room at the 3otel de la Fleur was a small room,

with a cottage piano, and a suite of mahogany furniture,covered in stamped velvet, neatly arranged around the walls.

>n round tables were photograph albums, and on the wallsenlarged photographs of !iare and her first husband, Captain

Johnson. till, though !iare was old and fat, on occasion werolled back the "russels carpet, brought in the maids and one

or two friends of !iare$s, and danced, though now to thewheezy music of a gramaphone. >n the verandah the air was

scented with the heavy perfume of the tiare, and overhead theouthern Cross shone in a cloudless sky.

!iare smiled indulgently as she remembered the gaiety of atime long passed.

1e kept it up till three, and when we went to bed # don$t think anyone was very sober. # had told them they could have

my trap to take them as far as the road went, because after that they had a long walk. /ta$s property was right away in a

fold of the mountain. !hey started at dawn, and the boy # sent with them didn$t come back till next day.

Ges, that$s how trickland was married.




















Chapter *##

# suppose the next three years were the happiest of

trickland$s life. /ta$s house stood about eight kilometres from the road that runs round the island, and you went to it

along a winding pathway shaded by the luxuriant trees of thetropics. #t was a bungalow of unpainted wood, consisting of

two small rooms, and outside was a small shed that served as akitchen. !here was no furniture except the mats they used as

beds, and a rocking&chair, which stood on the verandah. "ananas with their great ragged leaves, like the tattered

habiliments of an empress in adversity, grew close up to the house.!here was a tree just behind which bore alligator pears,

and all about were the cocoa&nuts which gave the land its revenue. /ta$s father had planted crotons round his property,

and they grew in coloured profusion, gay and brilliant;they fenced the land with flame. / mango grew in front

of the house, and at the edge of the clearing were two flamboyants, twin trees, that challenged the gold of the

cocoa&nuts with their scarlet flowers.

3ere trickland lived, coming seldom to 8apeete, on the

produce of the land. !here was a little stream that ran not far away, in which he bathed, and down this on occasion would

come a shoal of fish. !hen the natives would assemble with spears,and with much shouting would transfix the great startled

things as they hurried down to the sea. ometimes trickland would go down to the reef, and come back with a basket

of small, coloured fish that /ta would fry in cocoa&nut oil,or with a lobster; and sometimes she would make a savoury

dish of the great land&crabs that scuttled away under your feet.?p the mountain were wild&orange trees, and now and

then /ta would go with two or three women from the village and return laden with the green, sweet, luscious fruit. !hen the

cocoa&nuts would be ripe for picking, and her cousins Hlikeall the natives, /ta had a host of relativesI would swarm up

the trees and throw down the big ripe nuts. !hey split themopen and put them in the sun to dry. !hen they cut out thecopra and put it into sacks, and the women would carry it down

to the trader at the village by the lagoon, and he would givein exchange for it rice and soap and tinned meat and a little money.

ometimes there would be a feast in the neighbourhood,and a pig would be killed. !hen they would go and eat

themselves sick, and dance, and sing hymns.

"ut the house was a long way from the village, and the

!ahitians are lazy. !hey love to travel and they love to gossip, but they do not care to walk, and for weeks at a timetrickland and /ta lived alone. 3e painted and he read, and in the evening, when it was dark, they sat together on the

verandah, smoking and looking at the night. !hen /ta had a















baby, and the old woman who came up to help her through her trouble stayed on. 8resently the granddaughter of the old

woman came to stay with her, and then a youth appeared && noone %uite knew where from or to whom he belonged && but he

settled down with them in a happy&go&lucky way, and they all lived together,

Chapter *###

, said !iare, one day

when # was fitting together what she could tell me of trickland.3e knew trickland well; he visited him at his house.

# saw a middle&aged Frenchman with a big black beard, streaked with gray, a sunburned face, and large, shining eyes. 3e was

dressed in a neat suit of ducks. # had noticed him at luncheon, and /h *in, the Chinese boy, told me he had come

from the 8aumotus on the boat that had that day arrived.!iare introduced me to him, and he handed me his card, a large

card on which was printed , and underneath, 1e were sitting on a little

verandah outside the kitchen, and !iare was cutting out adress that she was making for one of the girls about the

house. 3e sat down with us.

Ges; # knew trickland well, he said. # am very fond of

chess, and he was always glad of a game. # come to !ahiti

three or four times a year for my business, and when he was at 8apeete he would come here and we would play. 1hen hemarried && Captain "runot smiled and shrugged his shoulders &&

, when he went to live with the girl that !iare gave him, he asked me to go and see him. # was one of the

guests at the wedding feast. 3e looked at !iare, and theyboth laughed. 3e did not come much to 8apeete after that,

and about a year later it chanced that # had to go to that part of the island for # forgot what business, and when # had

finished it # said to myself ' K, why should # not go and see that poor trickland$ # asked one or two natives

if they knew anything about him, and # discovered that helived not more than five kilometres from where # was. o # went.

# shall never forget the impression my visit made on me. # live on an atoll, a low island, it is a strip of land

surrounding a lagoon, and its beauty is the beauty of the seaand sky and the varied colour of the lagoon and the grace of

the cocoa&nut trees; but the place where trickland lived had the beauty of the Darden of )den. /h, # wish # could make you

see the enchantment of that spot, a corner hidden away fromall the world, with the blue sky overhead and the rich,

luxuriant trees. #t was a feast of colour. /nd it was fragrant and cool. 1ords cannot describe that paradise.

/nd here he lived, unmindful of the world and by the




























world forgotten. # suppose to )uropean eyes it would have seemed astonishingly sordid. !he house was dilapidated and none

too clean. !hree or four natives were lying on the verandah.Gou know how natives love to herd together. !here was a young

man lying full length, smoking a cigarette, and he wore nothing but a

!he is a long strip of trade cotton, red or blue, stamped with a white pattern. #t is worn round the waist and

hangs to the knees.

/ girl of fifteen, perhaps, was plaiting pandanus&leaf to

make a hat, and an old woman was sitting on her haunches smoking a pipe. !hen # saw /ta. he was suckling a new&born

child, and another child, stark naked, was playing at her feet.1hen she saw me she called out to trickland, and he

came to the door. 3e, too, wore nothing but a .

3e was an extraordinary figure, with his red beard and matted hair, and his great hairy chest. 3is feet were horny and

scarred, so that # knew he went always bare foot. 3e had gone

native with a vengeance. 3e seemed pleased to see me, and told /ta to kill a chicken for our dinner. 3e took me into

the house to show me the picture he was at work on when # came in. #n one corner of the room was the bed, and in the middle

was an easel with the canvas upon it. "ecause # was sorry for him, # had bought a couple of his pictures for small sums, and

# had sent others to friends of mine in France. /nd though # had bought them out of compassion , after living with them #

began to like them. #ndeed, # found a strange beauty in them. )veryone thought # was mad, but it turns out that # was right.

# was his first admirer in the islands.

3e smiled maliciously at !iare, and with lamentations she told

us again the story of how at the sale of trickland$s effects she had neglected the pictures, but bought an /merican stove

for twenty&seven francs.

3ave you the pictures still # asked.

Ges; # am keeping them till my daughter is of marriageableage, and then # shall sell them. !hey will be her .

!hen he went on with the account of his visit to trickland.

# shall never forget the evening # spent with him. # had not

intended to stay more than an hour, but he insisted that # should spend the night. # hesitated, for # confess # did not

much like the look of the mats on which he proposed that # should sleep; but # shrugged my shoulders. 1hen # was

building my house in the 8aumotus # had slept out for weeks ona harder bed than that, with nothing to shelter me but wild

shrubs; and as for vermin, my tough skin should be proof






























against their malice.

1e went down to the stream to bathe while /ta was preparing

the dinner, and after we had eaten it we sat on the verandah.1e smoked and chatted. !he young man had a concertina, and he

played the tunes popular on the music&halls a dozen yearsbefore. !hey sounded strangely in the tropical night

thousands of miles from civilisation. # asked trickland if it did not irk him to live in that promiscuity. 0o, he said;

he liked to have his models under his hand. 8resently, after loud yawning, the natives went away to sleep, and trickland

and # were left alone. # cannot describe to you the intense silence of the night. >n my island in the 8aumotus there is

never at night the complete stillness that there was here.!here is the rustle of the myriad animals on the beach, all

the little shelled things that crawl about ceaselessly, and there is the noisy scurrying of the land&crabs. 0ow and then

in the lagoon you hear the leaping of a fish, and sometimes ahurried noisy splashing as a brown shark sends all the other

fish scampering for their lives. /nd above all, ceaselesslike time, is the dull roar of the breakers on the reef.

"ut here there was not a sound, and the air was scented with thewhite flowers of the night. #t was a night so beautiful that

your soul seemed hardly able to bear the prison of the body.Gou felt that it was ready to be wafted away on the immaterial air,

and death bore all the aspect of a beloved friend.

!iare sighed.

/h, # wish # were fifteen again.

!hen she caught sight of a cat trying to get at a dish of

prawns on the kitchen table, and with a dexterous gesture and a lively volley of abuse flung a book at its scampering tail.

# asked him if he was happy with /ta.

Khe leaves me alone ,$ he said. $he cooks my food and looksafter her babies. he does what # tell her. he gives mewhat # want from a woman.$

K/nd do you never regret )urope 9o you not yearn sometimes

for the light of the streets in 8aris or *ondon, thecompanionship of your friends, and e%uals,

for theatres and newspapers, and the rumble of omnibuses onthe cobbled pavements$

For a long time he was silent. !hen he said'

K# shall stay here till # die.$

















K"ut are you never bored or lonely$ # asked.

3e chuckled.

K,$ he said. K#t is evident that you donot know what it is to be an artist.$

Capitaine "runot turned to me with a gentle smile, and therewas a wonderful look in his dark, kind eyes.

3e did me an injustice, for # too know what it is to have

dreams. # have my visions too. #n my way # also am an artist.

1e were all silent for a while, and !iare fished out of her

capacious pocket a handful of cigarettes. he handed one toeach of us, and we all three smoked. /t last she said'

ince is interested in trickland, why do younot take him to see 9r. Coutras 3e can tell him something

about his illness and death.

, said the Captain, looking at me.

# thanked him, and he looked at his watch.

#t is past six o$clock. 1e should find him at home if youcare to come now.

# got up without further ado, and we walked along the road that led to the doctor$s house. 3e lived out of the town,

but the 3otel de la Fleur was on the edge of it, and we were%uickly in the country. !he broad road was shaded by pepper&trees,

and on each side were the plantations, cocoa&nut and vanilla.!he pirate birds were screeching among the leaves of the palms.

1e came to a stone bridge over a shallow river,and we stopped for a few minutes to see the native boys bathing.

!hey chased one another with shrill cries and laughter,

and their bodies, brown and wet, gleamed in the sunlight.

Chapter *#

/s we walked along # reflected on a circumstance which all

that # had lately heard about trickland forced on my attention. 3ere, on this remote island, he seemed to have aroused

none of the detestation with which he was regarded at home,but compassion rather; and his vagaries were accepted

with tolerance. !o these people, native and )uropean, he was

a %ueer fish, but they were used to %ueer fish, and they took him for granted; the world was full of odd persons, who did odd things; and perhaps they knew that a man is not what he

wants to be, but what he must be. #n )ngland and France hewas the s%uare peg in the round hole, but here the holes were























any sort of shape, and no sort of peg was %uite amiss. # do not think he was any gentler here, less selfish or less

brutal, but the circumstances were more favourable. #f he had spent his life amid these surroundings he might have passed

for no worse a man than another. 3e received here what heneither expected nor wanted among his own people && sympathy.

# tried to tell Captain "runot something of the astonishment with which this filled me, and for a little while he did not

answer.

#t is not strange that #, at all events, should have had

sympathy for him, he said at last, for, though perhapsneither of us knew it, we were both aiming at the same thing.

1hat on earth can it be that two people so dissimilar as youand trickland could aim at # asked, smiling.

"eauty.

/ large order, # murmured.

9o you know how men can be so obsessed by love that they are

deaf and blind to everything else in the world !hey are aslittle their own masters as the slaves chained to the benches

of a galley. !he passion that held trickland in bondage wasno less tyrannical than love.

3ow strange that you should say thatM # answered. For long ago # had the idea that he was possessed of a devil.

/nd the passion that held trickland was a passion tocreate beauty. #t gave him no peace. #t urged him hither

and thither. 3e was eternally a pilgrim, haunted by a divinenostalgia, and the demon within him was ruthless. !here are

men whose desire for truth is so great that to attain it theywill shatter the very foundation of their world. >f such was

trickland, only beauty with him took the place of truth. # could only feel for him a profound compassion.

!hat is strange also. / man whom he had deeply wronged told me that he felt a great pity for him. # was silent for a moment.

# wonder if there you have found the explanation of a character which has always seemed to me inexplicable.

3ow did you hit on it

3e turned to me with a smile.

9id # not tell you that #, too, in my way was an artist

# realised in myself the same desire as animated him. "ut whereas his medium was paint, mine has been life.



































!hen Captain "runot told me a story which # must repeat, since, if only by way of contrast, it adds something to my

impression of trickland. #t has also to my mind a beauty of its own.

Captain "runot was a "reton, and had been in the French 0avy. 3e left it on his marriage, and settled down on a small

property he had near <uimper to live for the rest of his daysin peace; but the failure of an attorney left him suddenly

penniless, and neither he nor his wife was willing to live in penury where they had enjoyed consideration. 9uring his sea

faring days he had cruised the outh eas, and he determined now to seek his fortune there. 3e spent some months in 8apeete

to make his plans and gain experience; then, on money borrowed from a friend in France, he bought an island in the 8aumotus.

#t was a ring of land round a deep lagoon, uninhabited,and covered only with scrub and wild guava. 1ith the

intrepid woman who was his wife, and a few natives,he landed there, and set about building a house, and clearing

the scrub so that he could plant cocoa&nuts. !hat was twenty years before, and now what had been a barren island was a garden.

#t was hard and anxious work at first, and we worked strenuously, both of us. )very day # was up at dawn,

clearing, planting, working on my house, and at night when # threw myself on my bed it was to sleep like a log till

morning. (y wife worked as hard as # did. !hen children wereborn to us, first a son and then a daughter. (y wife and #

have taught them all they know. 1e had a piano sent out from France, and she has taught them to play and to speak )nglish,

and # have taught them *atin and mathematics, and we read history together. !hey can sail a boat. !hey can swim as

well as the natives. !here is nothing about the land of whichthey are ignorant. >ur trees have prospered, and there is

shell on my reef. # have come to !ahiti now to buy a schooner. # can get enough shell to make it worth while to

fish for it, and, who knows # may find pearls. # have made something where there was nothing. # too have made beauty. /h, you do not know what it is to look at those tall, healthy

trees and think that every one # planted myself .

*et me ask you the %uestion that you asked trickland. 9o you never regret France and your old home in "rittany

ome day, when my daughter is married and my son has a wifeand is able to take my place on the island, we shall go back

and finish our days in the old house in which # was born.

Gou will look back on a happy life, # said.

, it is not exciting on my island, and we arevery far from the world && imagine, it takes me four days to

























come to !ahiti && but we are happy there. #t is given to fewmen to attempt a work and to achieve it. >ur life is simple

and innocent. 1e are untouched by ambition, and what pride wehave is due only to our contemplation of the work of our

hands. (alice cannot touch us, nor envy attack. /h, cher monsieurE, they talk of theblessedness of labour, and it

is a meaningless phrase, but to me it has the most intense

significance. # am a happy man.

# am sure you deserve to be, # smiled.

# wish # could think so. # do not know how # have deserved

to have a wife who was the perfect friend and helpmate,the perfect mistress and the perfect mother.

# reflected for a while on the life that the Captain suggested to my imagination.

#t is obvious that to lead such an existence and make so great a success of it, you must both have needed a strong will

and a determined character .

8erhaps; but without one other factor we could have achieved nothing.

/nd what was that

3e stopped, somewhat dramatically, and stretched out his arm.

"elief in Dod. 1ithout that we should have been lost.

!hen we arrived at the house of 9r. Coutras.

Chapter *

(r. Coutras was an old Frenchman of great stature and

exceeding bulk. 3is body was shaped like a huge duck$s egg;and his eyes, sharp, blue, and good&natured , rested now and

then with self&satisfaction on his enormous paunch. 3iscomplexion was florid and his hair white. 3e was a man to

attract immediate sympathy. 3e received us in a room that might have been in a house in a provincial town in France, and

the one or two 8olynesian curios had an odd look. 3e took myhand in both of his && they were huge && and gave me a hearty

look, in which, however, was great shrewdness. 1hen he shook hands with Capitaine "runot he en%uired politely after

. For some minutes there was anexchange of courtesies and some local gossip about the island,

the prospects of copra and the vanilla crop; then we came tothe object of my visit.

# shall not tell what 9r. Coutras related to me in his words,but in my own, for # cannot hope to give at second hand any




































impression of his vivacious delivery. 3e had a deep, resonant voice, fitted to his massive frame, and a keen sense of the

dramatic. !o listen to him was, as the phrase goes, as good as a play; and much better than most.

#t appears that 9r. Coutras had gone one day to !aravao inorder to see an old chiefess who was ill, and he gave a vivid

picture of the obese old lady, lying in a huge bed, smoking cigarettes, and surrounded by a crowd of dark&skinned retainers.

1hen he had seen her he was taken into another roomand given dinner && raw fish, fried bananas, and chicken &&

, the typical dinner of the &&and while he was eating it he saw a young girl being driven

away from the door in tears. 3e thought nothing of it, but when he went out to get into his trap and drive home, he saw

her again, standing a little way off; she looked at him with awoebegone air, and tears streamed down her cheeks. 3e asked

someone what was wrong with her, and was told that she had come down from the hills to ask him to visit a white man who

was sick. !hey had told her that the doctor could not bedisturbed. 3e called her, and himself asked what she wanted.

he told him that /ta had sent her, she who used to be at the 3otel de la Fleur, and that the 2ed >ne was ill. he thrust

into his hand a crumpled piece of newspaper, and when heopened it he found in it a hundred&franc note.

1ho is the 2ed >ne he asked of one of the bystanders.

3e was told that that was what they called the )nglishman, a

painter, who lived with /ta up in the valley seven kilometres from where they were. 3e recognised trickland by the

description. "ut it was necessary to walk. #t was impossible for him to go; that was why they had sent the girl away.

# confess, said the doctor, turning to me, that # hesitated. # did not relish fourteen kilometres over a bad

pathway, and there was no chance that # could get back to 8apeete that night. "esides, trickland was not sympathetic

to me. 3e was an idle, useless scoundrel, who preferred tolive with a native woman rather than work for his living like

the rest of us. , how was # to know that one daythe world would come to the conclusion that he had genius

# asked the girl if he was not well enough to have come down to see me. # asked her what she thought was the matter with him.

he would not answer. # pressed her, angrily perhaps, but shelooked down on the ground and began to cry. !hen # shrugged

my shoulders; after all, perhaps it was my duty to go, and ina very bad temper # bade her lead the way.

3is temper was certainly no better when he arrived, perspiring freely and thirsty. /ta was on the look&out for him, and came





























a little way along the path to meet him.

"efore # see anyone give me something to drink or # shall die

of thirst, he cried out. , get me acocoa&nut.

he called out, and a boy came running along. 3e swarmed up a

tree, and presently threw down a ripe nut. /ta pierced a holein it, and the doctor took a long, refreshing draught.!hen he rolled himself a cigarette and felt in a better humour.

0ow, where is the 2ed >ne he asked.

3e is in the house, painting. # have not told him you werecoming. Do in and see him.

"ut what does he complain of #f he is well enough to paint,

he is well enough to have come down to !aravao and save methis confounded walk. # presume my time is no less valuablethan his.

/ta did not speak, but with the boy followed him to the house.!he girl who had brought him was by this time sitting on the

verandah, and here was lying an old woman, with her back tothe wall, making native cigarettes. /ta pointed to the door.

!he doctor, wondering irritably why they behaved so strangely,entered, and there found trickland cleaning his palette.

!here was a picture on the easel. trickland, clad only in a , was standing with his back to the door, but he

turned round when he heard the sound of boots. 3e gave thedoctor a look of vexation. 3e was surprised to see him, and

resented the intrusion. "ut the doctor gave a gasp, he wasrooted to the floor, and he stared with all his eyes.

!his was not what he expected. 3e was seized with horror.

Gou enter without ceremony, said trickland. 1hat can # do

for you

!he doctor recovered himself , but it re%uired %uite an effort

for him to find his voice. /ll his irritation was gone, and he felt && && he felt an

overwhelming pity.

# am 9r. Coutras. # was down at !aravao to see the chiefess,

and /ta sent for me to see you.

he$s a damned fool. # have had a few aches and pains lately

and a little fever, but that$s nothing; it will pass off. 0ext time anyone went to 8apeete # was going to send for

some %uinine.



































*ook at yourself in the glass.

trickland gave him a glance, smiled, and went over to a cheap

mirror in a little wooden frame, that hung on the wall.

1ell

9o you not see a strange change in your face 9o you not seethe thickening of your features and a look && how shall #

describe it && the books call it lion&faced. ,must # tell you that you have a terrible disease

#

1hen you look at yourself in the glass you see the typical appearance of the leper.

Gou are jesting, said trickland.

# wish to Dod # were.

9o you intend to tell me that # have leprosy

?nfortunately, there can be no doubt of it.

9r. Coutras had delivered sentence of death on many men, and

he could never overcome the horror with which it filled him.

3e felt always the furious hatred that must seize a mancondemned when he compared himself with the doctor, sane and healthy, who had the inestimable privilege of life.

trickland looked at him in silence. 0othing of emotion could be seen on his face, disfigured already by the loathsome

disease.

9o they know he asked at last, pointing to the persons on

the verandah, now sitting in unusual, unaccountable silence.

!hese natives know the signs so well, said the doctor.!hey were afraid to tell you.

trickland stepped to the door and looked out. !here must

have been something terrible in his face, for suddenly theyall burst out into loud cries and lamentation. !hey lifted up

their voices and they wept. trickland did not speak. /fter looking at them for a moment, he came back into the room.

3ow long do you think # can last

1ho knows ometimes the disease continues for twenty years. #t is a mercy when it runs its course %uickly.

trickland went to his easel and looked reflectively at the






































picture that stood on it.

Gou have had a long journey. #t is fitting that the bearer

of important tidings should be rewarded. !ake this picture. #t means nothing to you now, but it may be that one day you

will be glad to have it.

9r. Coutras protested that he needed no payment for his journey; he had already given back to /ta the hundred&francnote, but trickland insisted that he should take the picture.

!hen together they went out on the verandah. !he natives were sobbing violently. "e %uiet , woman. 9ry thy tears, said

trickland, addressing /ta. !here is no great harm. # shall leave thee very soon.

!hey are not going to take thee away she cried.

/t that time there was no rigid se%uestration on the islands,and lepers, if they chose, were allowed to go free.

# shall go up into the mountain, said trickland.

!hen /ta stood up and faced him.

*et the others go if they choose, but # will not leave thee.!hou art my man and # am thy woman. #f thou leavest me #

shall hang myself on the tree that is behind the house.

# swear it by Dod.

!here was something immensely forcible in the way she spoke.he was no longer the meek, soft native girl, but a determined

woman. he was extraordinarily transformed .

1hy shouldst thou stay with me !hou canst go back to

8apeete, and thou wilt soon find another white man. !he old woman can take care of thy children, and !iare will be glad to

have thee back.

!hou art my man and # am thy woman. 1hither thou goest # will go, too.

For a moment trickland$s fortitude was shaken, and a tear filled each of his eyes and trickled slowly down his cheeks.

!hen he gave the sardonic smile which was usual with him.

1omen are strange little beasts, he said to 9r. Coutras.

Gou can treat them like dogs, you can beat them till your arm

aches, and still they love you. 3e shrugged his shoulders.>f course, it is one of the most absurd illusions of Christianity that they have souls.

1hat is it that thou art saying to the doctor asked /ta






















suspiciously. !hou wilt not go

#f it please thee # will stay, poor child.

/ta flung herself on her knees before him, and clasped hislegs with her arms and kissed them. trickland looked at 9r.

Coutras with a faint smile.

#n the end they get you, and you are helpless in their hands.

1hite or brown, they are all the same.

9r. Coutras felt that it was absurd to offer expressions of regret in so terrible a disaster, and he took his leave.

trickland told !ane, the boy, to lead him to the village. 9r. Coutras paused for a moment, and then he addressed himself

to me.

# did not like him, # have told you he was not sympathetic tome, but as # walked slowly down to !aravao # could not prevent an unwilling admiration for the stoical courage which enabled

him to bear perhaps the most dreadful of human afflictions.1hen !ane left me # told him # would send some medicine that

might be of service; but my hope was small that trickland would consent to take it, and even smaller that, if he did,

it would do him good . # gave the boy a message for /ta that # would come whenever she sent for me. *ife is hard, and 0ature

takes sometimes a terrible delight in torturing her children.

#t was with a heavy heart that # drove back to my comfortablehome in 8apeete.

For a long time none of us spoke.

"ut /ta did not send for me, the doctor went on, at last,and it chanced that # did not go to that part of the island

for a long time. # had no news of trickland. >nce or twice # heard that /ta had been to 8apeete to buy painting

materials, but # did not happen to see her. (ore than two years passed before # went to !aravao again, and then it was

once more to see the old chiefess. # asked them whether theyhad heard anything of trickland. "y now it was known

everywhere that he had leprosy. First !ane, the boy, had left the house, and then, a little time afterwards, the old woman

and her grandchild. trickland and /ta were left alone withtheir babies. 0o one went near the plantation, for, as you

know , the natives have a very lively horror of the disease,and in the old days when it was discovered the sufferer was killed;

but sometimes, when the village boys were scrambling about the hills, they would catch sight of the white man, with

his great red beard, wandering about. !hey fled in terror.ometimes /ta would come down to the village at night and arouse the trader, so that he might sell her various things of

which she stood in need. he knew that the natives looked
































upon her with the same horrified aversion as they looked upontrickland, and she kept out of their way. >nce some women,

venturing nearer than usual to the plantation, saw her washing clothes in the brook, and they threw stones at her.

/fter that the trader was told to give her the message that if she used the brook again men would come and burn down her house.

"rutes, # said.

, men are always the same.

Fear makes them cruel.... # decided to see trickland, and when # had finished with the chiefess asked for a boy to show

me the way. "ut none would accompany me, and # was forced to find it alone.

1hen 9r. Coutras arrived at the plantation he was seized witha feeling of uneasiness. !hough he was hot from walking, he

shivered. !here was something hostile in the air which madehim hesitate, and he felt that invisible forces barred his way.

?nseen hands seemed to draw him back. 0o one would gonear now to gather the cocoa&nuts, and they lay rotting on the

ground. )verywhere was desolation. !he bush was encroaching,and it looked as though very soon the primeval forest would

regain possession of that strip of land which had been snatched from it at the cost of so much labour. 3e had the

sensation that here was the abode of pain. /s he approached the house he was struck by the unearthly silence, and at first

he thought it was deserted. !hen he saw /ta. he was sitting on her haunches in the lean&to that served her as kitchen,

watching some mess cooking in a pot. 0ear her a small boy was playing silently in the dirt. he did not smile when she saw him.

# have come to see trickland, he said.

# will go and tell him.

he went to the house, ascended the few steps that led to the

verandah, and entered. 9r. Coutras followed her, but waited outside in obedience to her gesture. /s she opened the door he smelt the sickly sweet smell which makes the neighbourhood

of the leper nauseous. 3e heard her speak, and then he heard trickland$s answer, but he did not recognise the voice.

#t had become hoarse and indistinct. 9r. Coutras raised hiseyebrows. 3e judged that the disease had already attacked the

vocal chords. !hen /ta came out again.

3e will not see you. Gou must go away.

9r. Coutras insisted, but she would not let him pass. 9r. Coutras

shrugged his shoulders, and after a moment$s rejection turned away.he walked with him. 3e felt that she too wanted to be rid of him.





































#s there nothing # can do at all he asked.

Gou can send him some paints, she said. !here is nothing

else he wants.

Can he paint still

3e is painting the walls of the house.

!his is a terrible life for you, my poor child.

!hen at last she smiled, and there was in her eyes a look of

superhuman love. 9r. Coutras was startled by it, and amazed. /nd he was awed. 3e found nothing to say.

3e is my man, she said.

1here is your other child he asked. 1hen # was here last

you had two.

Ges; it died. 1e buried it under the mango.

1hen /ta had gone with him a little way she said she must turn

back. 9r. Coutras surmised she was afraid to go farther incase she met any of the people from the village. 3e told her

again that if she wanted him she had only to send and he would come at once.

Chapter *#

!hen two years more went by, or perhaps three, for time passes

imperceptibly in !ahiti, and it is hard to keep count of it;but at last a message was brought to 9r. Coutras that

trickland was dying. /ta had waylaid the cart that took themail into 8apeete, and besought the man who drove it to go at

once to the doctor. "ut the doctor was out when the summonscame, and it was evening when he received it. #t was

impossible to start at so late an hour, and so it was not till next day soon after dawn that he set out. 3e arrived at

!aravao, and for the last time tramped the seven kilometresthat led to /ta$s house. !he path was overgrown, and it was

clear that for years now it had remained all but untrodden. #t was not easy to find the way. ometimes he had to stumble

along the bed of the stream, and sometimes he had to pushthrough shrubs, dense and thorny; often he was obliged to

climb over rocks in order to avoid the hornet&nests that hung on the trees over his head. !he silence was intense.

#t was with a sigh of relief that at last he came upon thelittle unpainted house, extraordinarily bedraggled now,

and unkempt; but here too was the same intolerable silence. 3e walked up, and a little boy, playing unconcernedly in the



sunshine, started at his approach and fled %uickly away'to him the stranger was the enemy. 9r. Coutras had a sense that

the child was stealthily watching him from behind a tree.!he door was wide open. 3e called out, but no one answered.

3e stepped in. 3e knocked at a door, but again there was noanswer. 3e turned the handle and entered. !he stench that

assailed him turned him horribly sick. 3e put his

handkerchief to his nose and forced himself to go in. !helight was dim, and after the brilliant sunshine for a while hecould see nothing. !hen he gave a start. 3e could not make

out where he was. 3e seemed on a sudden to have entered amagic world. 3e had a vague impression of a great primeval

forest and of naked people walking beneath the trees. !hen he saw that there were paintings on the walls.

, # hope the sun hasn$t affected me, he muttered.

/ slight movement attracted his attention, and he saw that /tawas lying on the floor, sobbing %uietly.

/ta, he called. /ta.

he took no notice. /gain the beastly stench almost made him faint, and he lit a cheroot. 3is eyes grew accustomed to the

darkness, and now he was seized by an overwhelming sensationas he stared at the painted walls. 3e knew nothing of

pictures, but there was something about these that

extraordinarily affected him. From floor to ceiling the wallswere covered with a strange and elaborate composition. #t wasindescribably wonderful and mysterious. #t took his breath away.

#t filled him with an emotion which he could not understand or analyse. 3e felt the awe and the delight which

a man might feel who watched the beginning of a world. #t wastremendous, sensual, passionate; and yet there was something

horrible there, too, something which made him afraid. #t wasthe work of a man who had delved into the hidden depths of

nature and had discovered secrets which were beautiful and fearful too. #t was the work of a man who knew things which

it is unholy for men to know. !here was something primeval there and terrible. #t was not human. #t brought to his mind

vague recollections of black magic. #t was beautiful and obscene.

, this is genius.

!he words were wrung from him, and he did not know he had spoken.

!hen his eyes fell on the bed of mats in the corner, and hewent up, and he saw the dreadful, mutilated, ghastly object

which had been trickland. 3e was dead. 9r. Coutras made aneffort of will and bent over that battered horror. !hen he

started violently, and terror blazed in his heart, for he felt

that someone was behind him. #t was /ta. 3e had not heard











































her get up. he was standing at his elbow, looking at what he looked at.

Dood 3eavens, my nerves are all distraught, he said.Gou nearly frightened me out of my wits.

3e looked again at the poor dead thing that had been man, and

then he started back in dismay.

"ut he was blind.

Ges; he had been blind for nearly a year.

Chapter *##

/! that moment we were interrupted by the appearance of (adame Coutras, who had been paying visits. he came in,

like a ship in full sail, an imposing creature, tall and stout,with an ample bust and an obesity girthed in alarmingly by

straight&fronted corsets. he had a bold hooked nose and three chins.he held herself upright. he had not yielded for an instant

to the enervating charm of the tropics, but contrariwise wasmore active, more worldly, more decided than anyone in a

temperate clime would have thought it possible to be. he wasevidently a copious talker, and now poured forth a breathless

stream of anecdote and comment. he made the conversation wehad just had seem far away and unreal .

8resently 9r. Coutras turned to me.

# still have in my the picture that trickland

gave me, he said. 1ould you like to see it

1illingly.

1e got up, and he led me on to the verandah which surrounded

his house. 1e paused to look at the gay flowers that rioted

in his garden.

For a long time # could not get out of my head therecollection of the extraordinary decoration with which

trickland had covered the walls of his house, he said reflectively.

# had been thinking of it, too. #t seemed to me that heretrickland had finally put the whole expression of himself .

1orking silently, knowing that it was his last chance, #

fancied that here he must have said all that he knew of lifeand all that he divined. /nd # fancied that perhaps here hehad at last found peace. !he demon which possessed him was

exorcised at last, and with the completion of the work, for which all his life had been a painful preparation, rest



























descended on his remote and tortured soul . 3e was willing todie, for he had fulfilled his purpose.

1hat was the subject # asked.

# scarcely know. #t was strange and fantastic. #t was a

vision of the beginnings of the world, the Darden of )den,

with /dam and )ve && && it was a hymn to thebeauty of the human form , male and female, and the praise of 0ature, sublime, indifferent, lovely, and cruel. #t gave you

an awful sense of the infinity of space and of the endlessnessof time. "ecause he painted the trees # see about me every

day, the cocoa&nuts, the banyans, the flamboyants, thealligator&pears, # have seen them ever since differently, as

though there were in them a spirit and a mystery which # amever on the point of seizing and which forever escapes me.

!he colours were the colours familiar to me, and yet they

were different. !hey had a significance which was all their own. /nd those nude men and women. !hey were of the earth, and yet apart from it. !hey seemed to possess something of the clay

of which they were created, and at the same time something divine.Gou saw man in the nakedness of his primeval instincts,

and you were afraid, for you saw yourself .

9r. Coutras shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

Gou will laugh at me. # am a materialist, and # am a gross,

fat man && Falstaff, eh && the lyrical mode does not become me. # make myself ridiculous. "ut # have never seen painting which made so deep an impression upon me. , # had just

the same feeling as when # went to the istine Chapel in 2ome.!here too # was awed by the greatness of the man who

had painted that ceiling. #t was genius, and it was stupendous and overwhelming. # felt small and insignificant.

"ut you are prepared for the greatness of (ichael /ngelo. 0othing had prepared me for the immense surprise of these

pictures in a native hut, far away from civilisation, in a fold of the mountain above !aravao. /nd (ichael /ngelo is

sane and healthy. !hose great works of his have the calm of the sublime; but here, notwithstanding beauty, was something

troubling. # do not know what it was. #t made me uneasy. #t gave me the impression you get when you are sitting next door

to a room that you know is empty, but in which, you know not why, you have a dreadful consciousness that notwithstanding

there is someone. Gou scold yourself ; you know it is only your nerves && and yet, and yet... #n a little while it is

impossible to resist the terror that seizes you, and you arehelpless in the clutch of an unseen horror. Ges; # confess #

was not altogether sorry when # heard that those strangemasterpieces had been destroyed.


























































9estroyed # cried.

; did you not know

3ow should # know #t is true # had never heard of this work;but # thought perhaps it had fallen into the hands of a

private owner. )ven now there is no certain list of

trickland$s paintings.

1hen he grew blind he would sit hour after hour in those tworooms that he had painted, looking at his works with sightless

eyes, and seeing , perhaps, more than he had ever seen in hislife before. /ta told me that he never complained of his

fate, he never lost courage. !o the end his mind remained serene and undisturbed. "ut he made her promise that when she

had buried him && did # tell you that # dug his grave with myown hands, for none of the natives would approach the infected

house, and we buried him, she and #, sewn up in three joined together, under the mango&tree && he made her

promise that she would set fire to the house and not leave it till it was burned to the ground and not a stick remained.

# did not speak for a while, for # was thinking . !hen # said'

3e remained the same to the end, then.

9o you understand # must tell you that # thought it my duty

to dissuade her.

)ven after what you have just said

Ges; for # knew that here was a work of genius, and # did not think we had the right to deprive the world of it. "ut /ta

would not listen to me. he had promised. # would not stayto witness the barbarous deed, and it was only afterwards that

# heard what she had done. he poured paraffin on the dry floors and on the pandanus&mats, and then she set fire. #n a

little while nothing remained but smouldering embers, and a great masterpiece existed no longer.

# think trickland knew it was a masterpiece. 3e had achieved what he wanted. 3is life was complete. 3e had made

a world and saw that it was good . !hen, in pride and contempt, he destroyed, it.

"ut # must show you my picture, said 9r. Coutras, moving on.

1hat happened to /ta and the child

!hey went to the (ar%uesas. he had relations there. # have

heard that the boy works on one of Cameron$s schooners.




















































!hey say he is very like his father in appearance.

/t the door that led from the verandah to the doctor$s

consulting&room, he paused and smiled.

#t is a fruit&piece. Gou would think it not a very suitable

picture for a doctor$s consulting&room, but my wife will not

have it in the drawing&room. he says it is frankly obscene.

/ fruit&pieceM # exclaimed in surprise.

1e entered the room, and my eyes fell at once on the picture. # looked at it for a long time.

#t was a pile of mangoes, bananas, oranges, and # know not what. and at first sight it was an innocent picture enough.

#t would have been passed in an exhibition of the 8ost&

#mpressionists by a careless person as an excellent but not very remarkable example of the school; but perhaps afterwardsit would come back to his recollection, and he would wonder

why. # do not think then he could ever entirely forget it.

!he colours were so strange that words can hardly tell what a

troubling emotion they gave. !hey were sombre blues, opa%uelike a delicately carved bowl in lapis lazuli, and yet with a

%uivering lustre that suggested the palpitation of mysteriouslife; there were purples, horrible like raw and putrid flesh,

and yet with a glowing, sensual passion that called up vaguememories of the 2oman )mpire of 3eliogabalus; there were reds,

shrill like the berries of holly && one thought of Christmasin )ngland, and the snow, the good cheer, and the pleasure of

children && and yet by some magic softened till they had the swooning tenderness of a dove$s breast; there were deep

yellows that died with an unnatural passion into a green as fragrant as the spring and as pure as the sparkling water of a

mountain brook. 1ho can tell what anguished fancy made these fruits !hey belonged to a 8olynesian garden of the 3esperides.

!here was something strangely alive in them, as thoughthey were created in a stage of the earth$s dark historywhen things were not irrevocably fixed to their forms.

!hey were extravagantly luxurious. !hey were heavy withtropical odours. !hey seemed to possess a sombre passion of

their own. #t was enchanted fruit, to taste which might openthe gateway to Dod knows what secrets of the soul and to

mysterious palaces of the imagination. !hey were sullen withunawaited dangers, and to eat them might turn a man to beast

or god. /ll that was healthy and natural, all that clung tohappy relationships and the simple joys of simple men, shrunk

from them in dismay; and yet a fearful attraction was in them,and, like the fruit on the !ree of the 7nowledge of Dood and

)vil they were terrible with the possibilities of the ?nknown.








































/t last # turned away. # felt that trickland had kept his secret to the grave.

, came the loud, cheerful voice of (adame Coutras, what are you doing all this time 3ere are

the . /sk if he will not drink alittle glass of <uin%uina 9ubonnet.

, (adame, # said, going out on to the verandah.

!he spell was broken.

Chapter *###

!he time came for my departure from !ahiti. /ccording to the gracious custom of the island, presents were given me by the

persons with whom # had been thrown in contact && baskets made

of the leaves of the cocoa&nut tree, mats of pandanus, fans;and !iare gave me three little pearls and three jars of guava&jelly made with her own plump hands. 1hen the mail&boat,

stopping for twenty&four hours on its way from 1ellington toan Francisco, blew the whistle that warned the passengers to

get on board, !iare clasped me to her vast bosom, so that # seemed to sink into a billowy sea, and pressed her red lips

to mine. !ears glistened in her eyes. /nd when we steamed slowly out of the lagoon, making our way gingerly through the

opening in the reef, and then steered for the open sea,

a certain melancholy fell upon me. !he breeze was laden still with the pleasant odours of the land. !ahiti is very far away, and # knew that # should never see it again. / chapter of my life was closed, and # felt a little nearer to

inevitable death.

0ot much more than a month later # was in *ondon; and after # had arranged certain matters which claimed my immediate

attention, thinking (rs. trickland might like to hear what # knew of her husband$s last years, # wrote to her. # had not

seen her since long before the war, and # had to look out her address in the telephone&book. he made an appointment, and # went to the trim little house on Campden 3ill which she now inhabited.

he was by this time a woman of hard on sixty, but shebore her years well, and no one would have taken her for

more than fifty. 3er face, thin and not much lined, was of the sort that ages gracefully, so that you thought in youth

she must have been a much handsomer woman than in fact she was. 3er hair, not yet very gray, was becomingly arranged,

and her black gown was modish. # remembered having heard that her sister, (rs. (ac/ndrew, outliving her husband but a couple

of years, had left money to (rs. trickland; and by the look of the house and the trim maid who opened the door # judged

that it was a sum ade%uate to keep the widow in modest comfort .





























1hen # was ushered into the drawing&room # found that (rs.trickland had a visitor, and when # discovered who he was,

# guessed that # had been asked to come at just that time not without intention. !he caller was (r. an "usche !aylor,

an /merican, and (rs. trickland gave me particulars with acharming smile of apology to him.

Gou know , we )nglish are so dreadfully ignorant. Gou must forgive me if it$s necessary to explain. !hen she turned to

me. (r. an "usche !aylor is the distinguished /mericancritic. #f you haven$t read his book your education has been

shamefully neglected, and you must repair the omission at once. 3e$s writing something about dear Charlie, and he$s

come to ask me if # can help him.

(r. an "usche !aylor was a very thin man with a large, bald

head, bony and shining; and under the great dome of his skull

his face, yellow, with deep lines in it, looked very small. 3e was %uiet and exceedingly polite. 3e spoke with the accent of 0ew )ngland, and there was about his demeanour a bloodless

frigidity which made me ask myself why on earth he was busying himself with Charles trickland. # had been slightly tickled

at the gentleness which (rs. trickland put into her mentionof her husband$s name, and while the pair conversed # took

stock of the room in which we sat. (rs. trickland had moved with the times. Done were the (orris papers and gone the

severe cretonnes, gone were the /rundel prints that had adorned the walls of her drawingroom in /shley Dardens; the

room blazed with fantastic colour, and # wondered if she knewthat those varied hues, which fashion had imposed upon her,

were due to the dreams of a poor painter in a outh eaisland. he gave me the answer herself .

1hat wonderful cushions you have, said (r. an "usche !aylor.

9o you like them she said, smiling. "akst, you know.

/nd yet on the walls were coloured reproductions of several of trickland$s best pictures, due to the enterprise of a

publisher in "erlin.

Gou$re looking at my pictures, she said, following my eyes.

>f course, the originals are out of my reach, but it$s acomfort to have these. !he publisher sent them to me himself .

!hey$re a great consolation to me.

!hey must be very pleasant to live with, said (r. an "usche !aylor.

Ges; they$re so essentially decorative.

!hat is one of my profoundest convictions, said (r. an






























"usche !aylor. Dreat art is always decorative.

!heir eyes rested on a nude woman suckling a baby, while a

girl was kneeling by their side holding out a flower to theindifferent child. *ooking over them was a wrinkled, scraggy hag.

#t was trickland$s version of the 3oly Family. # suspected that for the figures had sat his household above !aravao,

and the woman and the baby were /ta and his first son. # asked myself if (rs. trickland had any inkling of the facts.

!he conversation proceeded, and # marvelled at the tact with which (r. an "usche !aylor avoided all subjects that might have been

in the least embarrassing, and at the ingenuity with which (rs. trickland, without saying a word that was untrue, insinuated

that her relations with her husband had always been perfect. /t last (r. an "usche !aylor rose to go. 3olding his

hostess$ hand, he made her a graceful, though perhaps too elaborate,

speech of thanks, and left us.

# hope he didn$t bore you, she said, when the door closed behind him. >f course it$s a nuisance sometimes, but # feel

it$s only right to give people any information # can about Charlie.!here$s a certain responsibility about having been the

wife of a genius.

he looked at me with those pleasant eyes of hers, which had

remained as candid and as sympathetic as they had been more

than twenty years before. # wondered if she was making a fool of me.

>f course you$ve given up your business, # said.

>h, yes, she answered airily. # ran it more by way of ahobby than for any other reason, and my children persuaded me

to sell it. !hey thought # was overtaxing my strength.

# saw that (rs. trickland had forgotten that she had ever

done anything so disgraceful as to work for her living.he had the true instinct of the nice woman that it is only

really decent for her to live on other people$s money.

!hey$re here now, she said. # thought they$d, like to hear

what you had to say about their father. Gou remember 2obert,don$t you #$m glad to say he$s been recommended for the

(ilitary Cross.

he went to the door and called them. !here entered a tall

man in khaki, with the parson$s collar, handsome in a somewhat heavy fashion, but with the frank eyes that # remembered in

him as a boy. 3e was followed by his sister. he must havebeen the same age as was her mother when first # knew her, and

she was very like her. he too gave one the impression that




































as a girl she must have been prettier than indeed she was.

# suppose you don$t remember them in the least, said

(rs. trickland, proud and smiling. (y daughter is now (rs. 2onaldson. 3er husband$s a (ajor in the Dunners.

3e$s by way of being a pukka soldier, you know , said

(rs. 2onaldson gaily. !hat$s why he$s only a (ajor.

# remembered my anticipation long ago that she would marry a soldier. #t was inevitable. he had all the graces of the soldier$s wife.

he was civil and affable, but she could hardly conceal her intimateconviction that she was not %uite as others were. 2obert was breezy.

#t$s a bit of luck that # should be in *ondon when you turned

up, he said. #$ve only got three days$ leave.

3e$s dying to get back, said his mother.

1ell, # don$t mind confessing it, # have a rattling good timeat the front. #$ve made a lot of good pals. #t$s a first&rate life.

>f course war$s terrible, and all that sort of thing;but it does bring out the best %ualities in a man,

there$s no denying that.

!hen # told them what # had learned about Charles trickland

in !ahiti. # thought it unnecessary to say anything of /ta

and her boy, but for the rest # was as accurate as # could be.1hen # had narrated his lamentable death # ceased . For aminute or two we were all silent. !hen 2obert trickland

struck a match and lit a cigarette.

!he mills of Dod grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small,

he said, somewhat impressively.

(rs. trickland and (rs. 2onaldson looked down with a slightly

pious expression which indicated, # felt sure, that they

thought the %uotation was from 3oly 1rit. #ndeed, # wasunconvinced that 2obert trickland did not share their illusion.

# do not know why # suddenly thought of trickland$s

son by /ta. !hey had told me he was a merry,light&hearted youth. # saw him, with my mind$s eye, on the

schooner on which he worked, wearing nothing but a pair of dungarees; and at night, when the boat sailed along easily

before a light breeze, and the sailors were gathered on theupper deck, while the captain and the supercargo lolled in

deck&chairs, smoking their pipes, # saw him dance with another lad,dance wildly, to the wheezy music of the concertina.

/bove was the blue sky, and the stars, and all about thedesert of the 8acific >cean.

/ %uotation from the "ible came to my lips, but # held my tongue,




































for # know that clergymen think it a littleblasphemous when the laity poach upon their preserves.

(y ?ncle 3enry, for twenty&seven years icar of 1hitstable,was on these occasions in the habit of saying that the devil

could always %uote scripture to his purpose. 3e remembered thedays when you could get thirteen 2oyal 0atives for a shilling.

!he )nd








moon and sixpence

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