Chapter XVII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　It was about five years after this that I decided to live inParis for a while. I was growing stale in London. I wastired of doing much the same thing every day. My friendspursued their course with uneventfulness; they had no longerany surprises for me, and when I met them I knew pretty wellwhat they would say; even their love-affairs had a tedious banality.We were like tram-cars running on their lines from terminusto terminus, and it was possible to calculate within smalllimits the number of passengers they would carry. Life wasordered too pleasantly. I was seized with panic. I gaveup my small apartment, sold my few belongings, and resolved tostart afresh.I called on Mrs. Strickland before I left. I had not seen herfor some time, and I noticed changes in her; it was not onlythat she was older, thinner, and more lined; I think hercharacter had altered. She had made a success of herbusiness, and now had an office in Chancery Lane; she didlittle typing herself, but spent her time correcting the workof the four girls she employed. She had had the idea ofgiving it a certain daintiness, and she made much use of blueand red inks; she bound the copy in coarse paper, that lookedvaguely like watered silk, in various pale colours; and shehad acquired a reputation for neatness and accuracy. She wasmaking money. But she could not get over the idea that toearn her living was somewhat undignified, and she was inclinedto remind you that she was a lady by birth. She could nothelp bringing into her conversation the names of people sheknew which would satisfy you that she had not sunk in thesocial scale. She was a little ashamed of her courage andbusiness capacity, but delighted that she was going to dinethe next night with a K.C. who lived in South Kensington.She 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.I suppose I said a very stupid thing."Is she going into your business?" I asked."Oh no; I wouldn't let her do that," Mrs. Strickland answered."She's so pretty. I'm sure she'll marry well.""I should have thought it would be a help to you.""Several people have suggested that she should go on thestage, but of course I couldn't consent to that, I know allthe chief dramatists, and I could get her a part to-morrow,but I shouldn't like her to mix with all sorts of people."I was a little chilled by Mrs. Strickland's exclusiveness."Do you ever hear of your husband?""No; I haven't heard a word. He may be dead for all I know.""I may run across him in Paris. Would you like me to let youknow about him?"She hesitated a minute."If he's in any real want I'm prepared to help him a little.I'd send you a certain sum of money, and you could give it himgradually, as he needed it.""That's very good of you," I said.But I knew it was not kindness that prompted the offer. It isnot true that suffering ennobles the character; happiness doesthat sometimes, but suffering, for the most part, makes menpetty and vindictive.