Chapter XXIV

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Shortly before Christmas Dirk Stroeve came to ask me to spendthe holiday with him. He had a characteristic sentimentalityabout the day and wanted to pass it among his friends withsuitable ceremonies. Neither of us had seen Strickland fortwo or three weeks -- I because I had been busy with friendswho were spending a little while in Paris, and Stroevebecause, having quarreled with him more violently than usual,he had made up his mind to have nothing more to do with him.Strickland was impossible, and he swore never to speak to him again.But the season touched him with gentle feeling, and he hatedthe thought of Strickland spending Christmas Day by himself;he ascribed his own emotions to him, and could notbear that on an occasion given up to good-fellowship thelonely painter should be abandoned to his own melancholy.Stroeve had set up a Christmas-tree in his studio, and Isuspected that we should both find absurd little presentshanging on its festive branches; but he was shy about seeingStrickland again; it was a little humiliating to forgive soeasily insults so outrageous, and he wished me to be presentat the reconciliation on which he was determined.We walked together down the Avenue de Clichy, but Stricklandwas not in the cafe. It was too cold to sit outside, and wetook our places on leather benches within. It was hot andstuffy, and the air was gray with smoke. Strickland did not come,but presently we saw the French painter who occasionallyplayed chess with him. I had formed a casual acquaintancewith him, and he sat down at our table. Stroeve asked him ifhe had seen Strickland."He's ill," he said. "Didn't you know?""Seriously?""Very, I understand."Stroeve's face grew white."Why didn't he write and tell me? How stupid of me to quarrelwith him. We must go to him at once. He can have no one tolook after him. Where does he live?""I have no idea," said the Frenchman.We discovered that none of us knew how to find him.Stroeve grew more and more distressed."He might die, and not a soul would know anything about it.It's dreadful. I can't bear the thought. We must find him at once."I tried to make Stroeve understand that it was absurd to huntvaguely about Paris. We must first think of some plan."Yes; but all this time he may be dying, and when we get thereit may be too late to do anything.""Sit still and let us think," I said impatiently.The only address I knew was the Hotel des Belges, butStrickland had long left that, and they would have norecollection of him. With that queer idea of his to keep hiswhereabouts secret, it was unlikely that, on leaving, he hadsaid where he was going. Besides, it was more than five years ago.I felt pretty sure that he had not moved far. If hecontinued to frequent the same cafe as when he had stayed atthe hotel, it was probably because it was the most convenient.Suddenly I remembered that he had got his commission to painta portrait through the baker from whom he bought his bread,and it struck me that there one might find his address.I called for a directory and looked out the bakers. There werefive in the immediate neighbourhood, and the only thing was togo to all of them. Stroeve accompanied me unwillingly.His own plan was to run up and down the streets that led outof the Avenue de Clichy and ask at every house if Stricklandlived there. My commonplace scheme was, after all, effective,for in the second shop we asked at the woman behind thecounter acknowledged that she knew him. She was not certainwhere he lived, but it was in one of the three housesopposite. Luck favoured us, and in the first we tried theconcierge told us that we should find him on the top floor."It appears that he's ill," said Stroeve."It may be," answered the concierge indifferently. "Eneffet, I have not seen him for several days."Stroeve ran up the stairs ahead of me, and when I reached thetop floor I found him talking to a workman in his shirt-sleeveswho had opened a door at which Stroeve had knocked. He pointedto another door. He believed that the person who lived therewas a painter. He had not seen him for a week. Stroeve madeas though he were about to knock, and then turned to me witha gesture of helplessness. I saw that he was panic-stricken."Supposing he's dead?""Not he," I said.I knocked. There was no answer. I tried the handle, andfound the door unlocked. I walked in, and Stroeve followed me.The room was in darkness. I could only see that it wasan attic, with a sloping roof; and a faint glimmer, no morethan a less profound obscurity, came from a skylight."Strickland," I called.There was no answer. It was really rather mysterious, and itseemed to me that Stroeve, standing just behind, was tremblingin his shoes. For a moment I hesitated to strike a light.I dimly perceived a bed in the corner, and I wondered whetherthe light would disclose lying on it a dead body."Haven't you got a match, you fool?"Strickland's voice, coming out of the darkness, harshly,made me start.Stroeve cried out."Oh, my God, I thought you were dead."I struck a match, and looked about for a candle. I had arapid glimpse of a tiny apartment, half room, half studio, inwhich was nothing but a bed, canvases with their faces to thewall, an easel, a table, and a chair. There was no carpet onthe floor. There was no fire-place. On the table, crowdedwith paints, palette-knives, and litter of all kinds, was theend of a candle. I lit it. Strickland was lying in the bed,uncomfortably because it was too small for him, and he had putall his clothes over him for warmth. It was obvious at aglance that he was in a high fever. Stroeve, his voicecracking with emotion, went up to him."Oh, my poor friend, what is the matter with you? I had noidea you were ill. Why didn't you let me know? You must knowI'd have done anything in the world for you. Were youthinking of what I said? I didn't mean it. I was wrong.It was stupid of me to take offence.""Go to hell," said Strickland."Now, be reasonable. Let me make you comfortable.Haven't you anyone to look after you?"He looked round the squalid attic in dismay. He tried toarrange the bed-clothes. Strickland, breathing laboriously,kept an angry silence. He gave me a resentful glance.I stood quite quietly, looking at him."If you want to do something for me, you can get me somemilk," he said at last. "I haven't been able to get out fortwo days." There was an empty bottle by the side of the bed,which had contained milk, and in a piece of newspaper a few crumbs."What have you been having?" I asked."Nothing.""For how long?" cried Stroeve. "Do you mean to say you've hadnothing to eat or drink for two days? It's horrible.""I've had water."His eyes dwelt for a moment on a large can within reach of anoutstretched arm."I'll go immediately," said Stroeve. "Is there anything you fancy?"I suggested that he should get a thermometer, and a fewgrapes, and some bread. Stroeve, glad to make himself useful,clattered down the stairs."Damned fool," muttered Strickland.I felt his pulse. It was beating quickly and feebly. I askedhim one or two questions, but he would not answer, and when Ipressed him he turned his face irritably to the wall.The only thing was to wait in silence. In ten minutes Stroeve,panting, came back. Besides what I had suggested, he broughtcandles, and meat-juice, and a spirit-lamp. He was apractical little fellow, and without delay set about makingbread-and-milk. I took Strickland's temperature. It was ahundred and four. He was obviously very ill.