Chapter XXXII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　I did not see Strickland for several weeks. I was disgustedwith him, and if I had had an opportunity should have beenglad to tell him so, but I saw no object in seeking him outfor the purpose. I am a little shy of any assumption of moralindignation; there is always in it an element of self-satisfactionwhich makes it awkward to anyone who has a sense of humour.It requires a very lively passion to steel me tomy own ridicule. There was a sardonic sincerity in Stricklandwhich made me sensitive to anything that might suggest a pose.But one evening when I was passing along the Avenue de Clichyin front of the cafe which Strickland frequented and which Inow avoided, I ran straight into him. He was accompanied byBlanche Stroeve, and they were just going to Strickland'sfavourite corner."Where the devil have you been all this time?" said he."I thought you must be away."His cordiality was proof that he knew I had no wish to speakto him. He was not a man with whom it was worth while wastingpoliteness."No," I said; "I haven't been away.""Why haven't you been here?""There are more cafes in Paris than one, at which to trifleaway an idle hour."Blanche then held out her hand and bade me good-evening.I do not know why I had expected her to be somehow changed;she wore the same gray dress that she wore so often, neat andbecoming, and her brow was as candid, her eyes as untroubled,as when I had been used to see her occupied with her householdduties in the studio."Come and have a game of chess," said Strickland.I do not know why at the moment I could think of no excuse.I followed them rather sulkily to the table at which Stricklandalways sat, and he called for the board and the chessmen.They both took the situation so much as a matter of coursethat I felt it absurd to do otherwise. Mrs. Stroeve watchedthe game with inscrutable face. She was silent, but she hadalways been silent. I looked at her mouth for an expressionthat could give me a clue to what she felt; I watched her eyesfor some tell-tale flash, some hint of dismay or bitterness;I scanned her brow for any passing line that might indicate asettling emotion. Her face was a mask that told nothing.Her hands lay on her lap motionless, one in the other loosely clasped.I knew from what I had heard that she was a woman ofviolent passions; and that injurious blow that she had givenDirk, the man who had loved her so devotedly, betrayed asudden temper and a horrid cruelty. She had abandoned thesafe shelter of her husband's protection and the comfortableease of a well-provided establishment for what she could notbut see was an extreme hazard. It showed an eagerness foradventure, a readiness for the hand-to-mouth, which the careshe took of her home and her love of good housewifery made nota little remarkable. She must be a woman of complicatedcharacter, and there was something dramatic in the contrast ofthat with her demure appearance.I was excited by the encounter, and my fancy worked busilywhile I sought to concentrate myself on the game I was playing.I always tried my best to beat Strickland, becausehe was a player who despised the opponent he vanquished;his exultation in victory made defeat more difficult to bear.On the other hand, if he was beaten he took it with completegood-humour. He was a bad winner and a good loser. Those whothink that a man betrays his character nowhere more clearlythan when he is playing a game might on this draw subtleinferences.When he had finished I called the waiter to pay for thedrinks, and left them. The meeting had been devoid ofincident. No word had been said to give me anything to thinkabout, and any surmises I might make were unwarranted.I was intrigued. I could not tell how they were getting on.I would have given much to be a disembodied spirit so that Icould see them in the privacy of the studio and hear what theytalked about. I had not the smallest indication on which tolet my imagination work.