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The Moon and Sixpence
in the world for me except the one thing I wanted： to leave me alone。〃
I was silent for a while。
〃What did you expect her to do when you left her？〃
〃She could have gone back to Stroeve；〃 he said irritably。 〃He was
ready to take her。〃
〃You're inhuman；〃 I answered。 〃It's as useless to talk to you about
these things as to describe colours to a man who was born blind。〃
He stopped in front of my chair； and stood looking down at me with an
expression in which I read a contemptuous amazement。
〃Do you really care a twopenny damn if Blanche Stroeve is alive or
dead？〃
I thought over his question； for I wanted to answer it truthfully； at all
events to my soul。
〃It may be a lack of sympathy in myself if it does not make any great
difference to me that she is dead。 Life had a great deal to offer her。 I
think it's terrible that she should have been deprived of it in that cruel way；
and I am ashamed because I do not really care。〃
〃You have not the courage of your convictions。 Life has no value。
Blanche Stroeve didn't commit suicide because I left her； but because she
was a foolish and unbalanced woman。 But we've talked about her quite
enough； she was an entirely unimportant person。 Come； and I'll show
you my pictures。〃
He spoke as though I were a child that needed to be distracted。 I was
sore； but not with him so much as with myself。 I thought of the happy life
that pair had led in the cosy studio in Montmartre； Stroeve and his wife；
their simplicity； kindness； and hospitality； it seemed to me cruel that it
should have been broken to pieces by a ruthless chance； but the cruellest
thing of all was that in fact it made no great difference。 The world went
on； and no one was a penny the worse for all that wretchedness。 I had an
idea that Dirk； a man of greater emotional reactions than depth of feeling；
would soon forget； and Blanche's life； begun with who knows what bright
hopes and what dreams； might just as well have never been lived。 It all
seemed useless and inane。
Strickland had found his hat； and stood looking at me。
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〃Are you coming？〃
〃Why do you seek my acquaintance？〃 I asked him。 〃You know that I
hate and despise you。〃
He chuckled good…humouredly。
〃Your only quarrel with me really is that I don't care a twopenny damn
what you think about me。〃
I felt my cheeks grow red with sudden anger。 It was impossible to
make him understand that one might be outraged by his callous selfishness。
I longed to pierce his armour of complete indifference。 I knew also that
in the end there was truth in what he said。 Unconsciously； perhaps； we
treasure the power we have over people by their regard for our opinion of
them； and we hate those upon whom we have no such influence。 I
suppose it is the bitterest wound to human pride。 But I would not let him
see that I was put out。
〃Is it possible for any man to disregard others entirely？〃 I said； though
more to myself than to him。 〃You're dependent on others for everything
in existence。 It's a preposterous attempt to try to live only for yourself
and by yourself。 Sooner or later you'll be ill and tired and old； and then
you'll crawl back into the herd。 Won't you be ashamed when you feel in
your heart the desire for comfort and sympathy？ You're trying an
impossible thing。 Sooner or later the human being in you will yearn for
the common bonds of humanity。〃
〃Come and look at my pictures。〃
〃Have you ever thought of death？〃
〃Why should I？ It doesn't matter。〃
I stared at him。 He stood before me； motionless； with a mocking
smile in his eyes； but for all that； for a moment I had an inkling of a fiery；
tortured spirit； aiming at something greater than could be conceived by
anything that was bound up with the flesh。 I had a fleeting glimpse of a
pursuit of the ineffable。 I looked at the man before me in his shabby
clothes； with his great nose and shining eyes； his red beard and untidy hair；
and I had a strange sensation that it was only an envelope； and I was in
the presence of a disembodied spirit。
〃Let us go and look at your pictures；〃 I said。
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Chapter XLII
I did not know why Strickland had suddenly offered to show them to
me。 I welcomed the opportunity。 A man's work reveals him。 In social
intercourse he gives you the surface that he wishes the world to accept；
and you can only gain a true knowledge of him by inferences from little
actions； of which he is unconscious； and from fleeting expressions； which
cross his face unknown to him。 Sometimes people carry to such
perfection the mask they have assumed that in due course they actually
become the person they seem。 But in his book or his picture the real man
delivers himself defenceless。 His pretentiousness will only expose his
vacuity。 The lathe painted to look like iron is seen to be but a lathe。 No
affectation of peculiarity can conceal a commonplace mind。 To the acute
observer no one can produce the most casual work without disclosing the
innermost secrets of his soul。
As I walked up the endless stairs of the house in which Strickland
lived； I confess that I was a little excited。 It seemed to me that I was on the
threshold of a surprising adventure。 I looked about the room with
curiosity。 It was even smaller and more bare than I remembered it。 I
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。
〃You'd better stand there；〃 he said； pointing to a spot from which；
presumably； he fancied I could see to best advantage what he had to show
me。
〃You don't want me to talk； I suppose；〃 I said。
〃No； blast you； I want you to hold your tongue。〃
He placed a picture on the easel； and let me look at it for a minute or
two； then took it down and put another in its place。 I think he showed me
about thirty canvases。 It was the result of the six years during which he
had been painting。 He had never sold a picture。 The canvases were of
different sizes。 The smaller were pictures of still…life and the largest were
landscapes。 There were about half a dozen portraits。
〃That is the lot；〃 he said at last。
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I wish I could say that I recognised at once their beauty and their great
originality。 Now that I have seen many of them again and the rest are
familiar to me in reproductions； I am astonished that at first sight I was
bitterly disappointed。 I felt nothing of the peculiar thrill which it is the
property of art to give。 The impression that Strickland's pictures gave me
was disconcerting； and the fact remains； always to reproach me； that I
never even thought of buying any。 I missed a wonderful chance。 Most of
them have found their way into museums； and the rest are the treasured
possessions of wealthy amateurs。 I try to find excuses for myself。 I
think that my taste is good； but I am conscious that it has no originality。 I
know very little about painting； and I wander along trails that others have
blazed for me。 At that time I had the greatest admiration for the
impressionists。 I longed to possess a Sisley and a Degas； and I
worshipped Manet。 His