Chapter XXXIX

by William Somerset Maugham

　　When I left him, after we had buried poor Blanche, Stroevewalked into the house with a heavy heart. Something impelledhim to go to the studio, some obscure desire for self-torture,and yet he dreaded the anguish that he foresaw. He draggedhimself up the stairs; his feet seemed unwilling to carry him;and outside the door he lingered for a long time, trying tosummon up courage to go in. He felt horribly sick. He had animpulse to run down the stairs after me and beg me to go inwith him; he had a feeling that there was somebody in thestudio. He remembered how often he had waited for a minute ortwo on the landing to get his breath after the ascent, and howabsurdly his impatience to see Blanche had taken it away again.To see her was a delight that never staled, and eventhough he had not been out an hour he was as excited at theprospect as if they had been parted for a month. Suddenly hecould not believe that she was dead. What had happened couldonly be a dream, a frightful dream; and when he turned the keyand opened the door, he would see her bending slightly overthe table in the gracious attitude of the woman in Chardin'sBenedicite, which always seemed to him so exquisite.Hurriedly he took the key out of his pocket, opened, andwalked in.The apartment had no look of desertion. His wife's tidinesswas one of the traits which had so much pleased him; his ownupbringing had given him a tender sympathy for the delight inorderliness; and when he had seen her instinctive desire toput each thing in its appointed place it had given him alittle warm feeling in his heart. The bedroom looked asthough she had just left it: the brushes were neatly placedon the toilet-table, one on each side of the comb; someone hadsmoothed down the bed on which she had spent her last night inthe studio; and her nightdress in a little case lay on the pillow.It was impossible to believe that she would never come intothat room again.But he felt thirsty, and went into the kitchen to get himselfsome water. Here, too, was order. On a rack were the platesthat she had used for dinner on the night of her quarrel withStrickland, and they had been carefully washed. The knivesand forks were put away in a drawer. Under a cover were theremains of a piece of cheese, and in a tin box was a crust ofbread. She had done her marketing from day to day, buyingonly what was strictly needful, so that nothing was left overfrom one day to the next. Stroeve knew from the enquiriesmade by the police that Strickland had walked out of the houseimmediately after dinner, and the fact that Blanche had washedup the things as usual gave him a little thrill of horror.Her methodicalness made her suicide more deliberate.Her self-possession was frightening. A sudden pang seized him,and his knees felt so weak that he almost fell. He went backinto the bedroom and threw himself on the bed. He cried outher name."Blanche. Blanche."The thought of her suffering was intolerable. He had a suddenvision of her standing in the kitchen -- it was hardly largerthan a cupboard -- washing the plates and glasses, the forksand spoons, giving the knives a rapid polish on the knife-board;and then putting everything away, giving the sink a scrub,and hanging the dish-cloth up to dry -- it was there still,a gray torn rag; then looking round to see thateverything was clean and nice. He saw her roll down hersleeves and remove her apron -- the apron hung on a peg behindthe door -- and take the bottle of oxalic acid and go with itinto the bedroom.The agony of it drove him up from the bed and out of the room.He went into the studio. It was dark, for the curtains hadbeen drawn over the great window, and he pulled them quicklyback; but a sob broke from him as with a rapid glance he tookin the place where he had been so happy. Nothing was changedhere, either. Strickland was indifferent to his surroundings,and he had lived in the other's studio without thinking ofaltering a thing. It was deliberately artistic. It representedStroeve's idea of the proper environment for an artist.There were bits of old brocade on the walls, and the pianowas covered with a piece of silk, beautiful and tarnished;in one corner was a copy of the Venus of Milo, andin another of the Venus of the Medici. Here and there was anItalian cabinet surmounted with Delft, and here and there abas-relief. In a handsome gold frame was a copy of Velasquez'Innocent X., that Stroeve had made in Rome, and placed so asto make the most of their decorative effect were a number ofStroeve's pictures, all in splendid frames. Stroeve hadalways been very proud of his taste. He had never lost hisappreciation for the romantic atmosphere of a studio, andthough now the sight of it was like a stab in his heart,without thinking what he was at, he changed slightly theposition of a Louis XV. table which was one of his treasures.Suddenly he caught sight of a canvas with its face to the wall.It was a much larger one than he himself was in thehabit of using, and he wondered what it did there. He wentover to it and leaned it towards him so that he could see thepainting. It was a nude. His heart began to beat quickly,for he guessed at once that it was one of Strickland'spictures. He flung it back against the wall angrily -- whatdid he mean by leaving it there? -- but his movement caused itto fall, face downwards, on the ground. No mater whose thepicture, he could not leave it there in the dust, and heraised it; but then curiosity got the better of him.He thought he would like to have a proper look at it, so hebrought it along and set it on the easel. Then he stood backin order to see it at his ease.He gave a gasp. It was the picture of a woman lying on a sofa,with one arm beneath her head and the other along her body;one knee was raised, and the other leg was stretched out.The pose was classic. Stroeve's head swam. It was Blanche.Grief and jealousy and rage seized him, and he criedout hoarsely; he was inarticulate; he clenched his fists andraised them threateningly at an invisible enemy. He screamedat the top of his voice. He was beside himself. He could notbear it. That was too much. He looked round wildly for someinstrument; he wanted to hack the picture to pieces; it shouldnot exist another minute. He could see nothing that wouldserve his purpose; he rummaged about his painting things;somehow he could not find a thing; he was frantic. At last hecame upon what he sought, a large scraper, and he pounced onit with a cry of triumph. He seized it as though it were adagger, and ran to the picture.As Stroeve told me this he became as excited as when theincident occurred, and he took hold of a dinner-knife on thetable between us, and brandished it. He lifted his arm asthough to strike, and then, opening his hand, let it fall witha clatter to the ground. He looked at me with a tremulous smile.He did not speak."Fire away," I said."I don't know what happened to me. I was just going to make agreat hole in the picture, I had my arm all ready for theblow, when suddenly I seemed to see it.""See what?""The picture. It was a work of art. I couldn't touch it.I was afraid."Stroeve was silent again, and he stared at me with his mouthopen and his round blue eyes starting out of his head."It was a great, a wonderful picture. I was seized with awe.I had nearly committed a dreadful crime. I moved a little tosee it better, and my foot knocked against the scraper.I shuddered."I really felt something of the emotion that had caught him.I was strangely impressed. It was as though I were suddenlytransported into a world in which the values were changed.I stood by, at a loss, like a stranger in a land where thereactions of man to familiar things are all different fromthose he has known. Stroeve tried to talk to me about thepicture, but he was incoherent, and I had to guess at what he meant.Strickland had burst the bonds that hitherto had held him.He had found, not himself, as the phrase goes, but a newsoul with unsuspected powers. It was not only the boldsimplification of the drawing which showed so rich and sosingular a personality; it was not only the painting, thoughthe flesh was painted with a passionate sensuality which hadin it something miraculous; it was not only the solidity, sothat you felt extraordinarily the weight of the body; therewas also a spirituality, troubling and new, which led theimagination along unsuspected ways, and suggested dim emptyspaces, lit only by the eternal stars, where the soul, allnaked, adventured fearful to the discovery of new mysteries.If I am rhetorical it is because Stroeve was rhetorical.(Do we not know that man in moments of emotion expresses himselfnaturally in the terms of a novelette?) Stroeve was trying toexpress a feeling which he had never known before, and he didnot know how to put it into common terms. He was like themystic seeking to describe the ineffable. But one fact hemade clear to me; people talk of beauty lightly, and having nofeeling for words, they use that one carelessly, so that itloses its force; and the thing it stands for, sharing its namewith a hundred trivial objects, is deprived of dignity.They call beautiful a dress, a dog, a sermon; and when they areface to face with Beauty cannot recognise it. The falseemphasis with which they try to deck their worthless thoughtsblunts their susceptibilities. Like the charlatan whocounterfeits a spiritual force he has sometimes felt, theylose the power they have abused. But Stroeve, theunconquerable buffoon, had a love and an understanding ofbeauty which were as honest and sincere as was his own sincereand honest soul. It meant to him what God means to thebeliever, and when he saw it he was afraid."What did you say to Strickland when you saw him?""I asked him to come with me to Holland."I was dumbfounded. I could only look at Stroeve in stupid amazement."We both loved Blanche. There would have been room for him inmy mother's house. I think the company of poor, simple peoplewould have done his soul a great good. I think he might havelearnt from them something that would be very useful to him.""What did he say?""He smiled a little. I suppose he thought me very silly.He said he had other fish to fry."I could have wished that Strickland had used some other phraseto indicate his refusal."He gave me the picture of Blanche."I wondered why Strickland had done that. But I made noremark, and for some time we kept silence."What have you done with all your things?" I said at last."I got a Jew in, and he gave me a round sum for the lot.I'm taking my pictures home with me. Beside them I own nothingin the world now but a box of clothes and a few books.""I'm glad you're going home," I said.I felt that his chance was to put all the past behind him.I hoped that the grief which now seemed intolerable would besoftened by the lapse of time, and a merciful forgetfulnesswould help him to take up once more the burden of life.He was young still, and in a few years he would look back on allhis misery with a sadness in which there would be somethingnot unpleasurable. Sooner or later he would marry some honestsoul in Holland, and I felt sure he would be happy. I smiledat the thought of the vast number of bad pictures he wouldpaint before he died.Next day I saw him off for Amsterdam.