The Moon and Sixpence by W. Somerset Maugham (most popular novels .txt) 📕

and had never seen receiving emotions, subtle and passionate, from the work of your hands? Everyone likes power. I can’t imagine a more wonderful exercise of it than to move the souls of men to pity or terror.”

“Melodrama.”

“Why do you mind if you paint well or badly?”

“I don’t. I only want to paint what I see.”

“I wonder if I could write on a desert island, with the certainty that no eyes but mine would ever see what I had written.”

Strickland did not speak for a long time, but his eyes shone strangely, as though he saw something that kindled his soul to ecstasy.

“Sometimes I’ve thought of an island lost in a boundless sea, where I could live in some hidden valley, among strange trees, in silence. There I think I could find what I want.”

He did not express himself quite like this. He used gestures instead of adjectives, and he halted. I have put into my own words what I think he wanted to say.

“Looking back on the last five years, do you think it was worth it?” I asked.

He looked at me, and I saw that he did not know what I meant. I explained.

“You gave up a comfortable home and a life as happy as the average. You were fairly prosperous. You seem to have had a rotten time in Paris. If you had your time over again would you do what you did?”

“Rather.”

“Do you know that you haven’t asked anything about your wife and children? Do you never think of them?”

“No.”

“I wish you weren’t so damned monosyllabic. Have you never had a moment’s regret for all the unhappiness you caused them?”

His lips broke into a smile, and he shook his head.

“I should have thought sometimes you couldn’t help thinking of the past. I 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. Don’t you remember the joy with which you first took her in your arms?”

“I don’t think of the past. The only thing that matters is the everlasting present.”

I thought for a moment over this reply. It was obscure, perhaps, but I thought that I saw dimly his meaning.

“Are you happy?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I was silent. I looked at him reflectively. He held my stare, and presently a sardonic twinkle lit up his eyes.

“I’m afraid you disapprove of me?”

“Nonsense,” I answered promptly; “I don’t disapprove of the boa-constrictor; on the contrary, I’m interested in his mental processes.”

“It’s a purely professional interest you take in me?”

“Purely.”

“It’s only right that you shouldn’t disapprove of me. You have a despicable character.”

“Perhaps that’s why you feel at home with me,” I retorted.

He smiled dryly, but said nothing. I wish I knew how to describe his smile. I 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. It was a slow smile, starting and sometimes ending in the eyes; it was very sensual, neither cruel nor kindly, but suggested rather the inhuman glee of the satyr. It was his smile that made me ask him:

“Haven’t you been in love since you came to Paris?”

“I haven’t got time for that sort of nonsense. Life isn’t long enough for love and art.”

“Your appearance doesn’t suggest the anchorite.”

“All that business fills me with disgust.”

“Human nature is a nuisance, isn’t it?” I said.

“Why are you sniggering at me?”

“Because I don’t believe you.”

“Then you’re a damned fool.”

I paused, and I looked at him searchingly.

“What’s the good of trying to humbug me?” I said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

I smiled.

“Let me tell you. I 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. You rejoice in your freedom, and you feel that at last you can call your soul your own. You seem to walk with your head among the stars. And 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. And you want to roll yourself in it. And you find some woman, coarse and low and vulgar, some beastly creature in whom all the horror of sex is blatant, and you fall upon her like a wild animal. You drink till you’re blind with rage.”

He stared at me without the slightest movement. I held his eyes with mine. I spoke very slowly.

“I’ll tell you what must seem strange, that when it’s over you feel so extraordinarily pure. You 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 intimate communion with the breeze, and with the trees breaking into leaf, and with the iridescence of the river. You feel like God. Can you explain that to me?”

He kept his eyes fixed on mine till I had finished, and then he turned away. There was on his face a strange look, and I thought that so might a man look when he had died under the torture. He was silent. I knew that our conversation was ended.

XXII

I settled down in Paris and began to write a play. I led a very regular life, working in the morning, and in the afternoon lounging about the gardens of the Luxembourg or sauntering through the streets. I spent long hours in the Louvre, the most friendly of all galleries and the most convenient for meditation; or idled on the quays, fingering secondhand books that I never meant to buy. I read a page here and there, and made acquaintance with a great many authors whom I was content to know thus desultorily. In the evenings I went to see my friends. I looked in often on the Stroeves, and sometimes shared their modest fare. Dirk Stroeve flattered