Chapter XXIX

by William Somerset Maugham

　　I kept silence for a little while, thinking of what Stroevehad told me. I could not stomach his weakness, and he sawmy disapproval. "You know as well as I do how Strickland lived,"he said tremulously. "I couldn't let her live in thosecircumstances -- I simply couldn't.""That's your business," I answered."What would you have done?" he asked."She went with her eyes open. If she had to put up withcertain inconveniences it was her own lookout.""Yes; but, you see, you don't love her.""Do you love her still?""Oh, more than ever. Strickland isn't the man to make a woman happy.It can't last. I want her to know that I shall never fail her.""Does that mean that you're prepared to take her back?""I shouldn't hesitate. Why, she'll want me more than ever then.When she's alone and humiliated and broken it would bedreadful if she had nowhere to go."He seemed to bear no resentment. I suppose it was commonplacein me that I felt slightly outraged at his lack of spirit.Perhaps he guessed what was in my mind, for he said:"I couldn't expect her to love me as I loved her.I'm a buffoon. I'm not the sort of man that women love.I've always known that. I can't blame her if she's fallenin love with Strickland.""You certainly have less vanity than any man I've ever known,"I said."I love her so much better than myself. It seems to me thatwhen vanity comes into love it can only be because really youlove yourself best. After all, it constantly happens that aman 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. Why should it bedifferent with women?""I dare say that's logical," I smiled, "but most men are madedifferently, and they can't."But while I talked to Stroeve I was puzzling over thesuddenness of the whole affair. I could not imagine that hehad had no warning. I remembered the curious look I had seenin Blanche Stroeve's eyes; perhaps its explanation was thatshe was growing dimly conscious of a feeling in her heart thatsurprised and alarmed her."Did you have no suspicion before to-day that there wasanything between them?" I asked.He did not answer for a while. There was a pencil on the table,and unconsciously he drew a head on the blotting-paper."Please say so, if you hate my asking you questions," I said."It eases me to talk. Oh, if you knew the frightful anguishin my heart." He threw the pencil down. "Yes, I've known itfor a fortnight. I knew it before she did.""Why on earth didn't you send Strickland packing?""I couldn't believe it. It seemed so improbable.She couldn't bear the sight of him. It was more than improbable;it was incredible. I thought it was merely jealousy.You see, I've always been jealous, but I trained myself neverto show it; I was jealous of every man she knew; I wasjealous of you. I knew she didn't love me as I loved her.That was only natural, wasn't it? But she allowed me tolove her, and that was enough to make me happy. I forcedmyself to go out for hours together in order to leave themby themselves; I wanted to punish myself for suspicionswhich were unworthy of me; and when I came back I found theydidn't want me -- not Strickland, he didn't care if I wasthere or not, but Blanche. She shuddered when I went to kiss her.When at last I was certain I didn't know what to do;I knew they'd only laugh at me if I made a scene.I thought if I held my tongue and pretended not to see,everything would come right. I made up my mind to gethim away quietly, without quarrelling. Oh, if you onlyknew what I've suffered!"Then he told me again of his asking Strickland to go.He chose his moment carefully, and tried to make his requestsound casual; but he could not master the trembling of his voice;and he felt himself that into words that he wished toseem jovial and friendly there crept the bitterness of hisjealousy. He had not expected Strickland to take him up onthe spot and make his preparations to go there and then;above all, he had not expected his wife's decision to go with him.I saw that now he wished with all his heart that he had heldhis tongue. He preferred the anguish of jealousy to theanguish of separation."I wanted to kill him, and I only made a fool of myself."He was silent for a long time, and then he said what I knewwas in his mind."If I'd only waited, perhaps it would have gone all right.I shouldn't have been so impatient. Oh, poor child,what have I driven her to?"I shrugged my shoulders, but did not speak. I had no sympathyfor Blanche Stroeve, but knew that it would only pain poorDirk if I told him exactly what I thought of her.He had reached that stage of exhaustion when he could not stoptalking. He went over again every word of the scene.Now something occurred to him that he had not told me before;now he discussed what he ought to have said instead of what hedid say; then he lamented his blindness. He regretted that he haddone this, and blamed himself that he had omitted the other.It grew later and later, and at last I was as tired as he."What are you going to do now?" I said finally."What can I do? I shall wait till she sends for me.""Why don't you go away for a bit?""No, no; I must be at hand when she wants me."For the present he seemed quite lost. He had made no plans.When I suggested that he should go to bed he said he could notsleep; he wanted to go out and walk about the streets till day.He was evidently in no state to be left alone.I persuaded him to stay the night with me, and I put him into myown bed. I had a divan in my sitting-room, and could verywell sleep on that. He was by now so worn out that he couldnot resist my firmness. I gave him a sufficient dose ofveronal to insure his unconsciousness for several hours.I thought that was the best service I could render him.