The Moon and Sixpence by W. Somerset Maugham (most popular novels .txt) 📕

“I’m not.”

I tried another tack.

“Everyone will think you a perfect swine.”

“Let them.”

“Won’t it mean anything to you to know that people loathe and despise you?”

“No.”

His brief answer was so scornful that it made my question, natural though it was, seem absurd. I reflected for a minute or two.

“I wonder if one can live quite comfortably when one’s conscious of the disapproval of one’s fellows? Are you sure it won’t begin to worry you? Everyone has some sort of a conscience, and sooner or later it will find you out. Supposing your wife died, wouldn’t you be tortured by remorse?”

He did not answer, and I waited for some time for him to speak. At last I had to break the silence myself.

“What have you to say to that?”

“Only that you’re a damned fool.”

“At all events, you can be forced to support your wife and children,” I retorted, somewhat piqued. “I suppose the law has some protection to offer them.”

“Can the law get blood out of a stone? I haven’t any money. I’ve got about a hundred pounds.”

I began to be more puzzled than before. It was true that his hotel pointed to the most straitened circumstances.

“What are you going to do when you’ve spent that?”

“Earn some.”

He was perfectly cool, and his eyes kept that mocking smile which made all I said seem rather foolish. I paused for a little while to consider what I had better say next. But it was he who spoke first.

“Why doesn’t Amy marry again? She’s comparatively young, and she’s not unattractive. I can recommend her as an excellent wife. If she wants to divorce me I don’t mind giving her the necessary grounds.”

Now it was my turn to smile. He was very cunning, but it was evidently this that he was aiming at. He had some reason to conceal the fact that he had run away with a woman, and he was using every precaution to hide her whereabouts. I answered with decision.

“Your wife says that nothing you can do will ever induce her to divorce you. She’s quite made up her mind. You can put any possibility of that definitely out of your head.”

He looked at me with an astonishment that was certainly not feigned. The smile abandoned his lips, and he spoke quite seriously.

“But, my dear fellow, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter a twopenny damn to me one way or the other.”

I laughed.

“Oh, come now; you mustn’t think us such fools as all that. We happen to know that you came away with a woman.”

He gave a little start, and then suddenly burst into a shout of laughter. He laughed so uproariously that people sitting near us looked round, and some of them began to laugh too.

“I don’t see anything very amusing in that.”

“Poor Amy,” he grinned.

Then his face grew bitterly scornful.

“What poor minds women have got! Love. It’s always love. They think a man leaves only because he wants others. Do you think I should be such a fool as to do what I’ve done for a woman?”

“Do you mean to say you didn’t leave your wife for another woman?”

“Of course not.”

“On your word of honour?”

I don’t know why I asked for that. It was very ingenuous of me.

“On my word of honour.”

“Then, what in God’s name have you left her for?”

“I want to paint.”

I looked at him for quite a long time. I did not understand. I thought he was mad. It must be remembered that I was very young, and I looked upon him as a middle-aged man. I forgot everything but my own amazement.

“But you’re forty.”

“That’s what made me think it was high time to begin.”

“Have you ever painted?”

“I rather wanted to be a painter when I was a boy, but my father made me go into business because he said there was no money in art. I began to paint a bit a year ago. For the last year I’ve been going to some classes at night.”

“Was that where you went when Mrs. Strickland thought you were playing bridge at your club?”

“That’s it.”

“Why didn’t you tell her?”

“I preferred to keep it to myself.”

“Can you paint?”

“Not yet. But I shall. That’s why I’ve come over here. I couldn’t get what I wanted in London. Perhaps I can here.”

“Do you think it’s likely that a man will do any good when he starts at your age? Most men begin painting at eighteen.”

“I can learn quicker than I could when I was eighteen.”

“What makes you think you have any talent?”

He did not answer for a minute. His gaze rested on the passing throng, but I do not think he saw it. His answer was no answer.

“I’ve got to paint.”

“Aren’t you taking an awful chance?”

He looked at me. His eyes had something strange in them, so that I felt rather uncomfortable.

“How old are you? Twenty-three?”

It seemed to me that the question was beside the point. It was natural that I should take chances; but he was a man whose youth was past, a stockbroker with a position of respectability, a wife and two children. A course that would have been natural for me was absurd for him. I wished to be quite fair.

“Of course a miracle may happen, and you may be a great painter, but you must confess the chances are a million to one against it. It’ll be an awful sell if at the end you have to acknowledge you’ve made a hash of it.”

“I’ve got to paint,” he repeated.

“Supposing you’re never anything more than third-rate, do you think it will have been worth while to give up everything? After all, in any other walk in life it doesn’t matter if you’re not very good; you can get along quite comfortably if you’re just adequate; but it’s different with an artist.”

“You blasted fool,” he said.

“I don’t see why, unless it’s folly to say the obvious.”

“I tell you I’ve got to paint. I can’t help myself. When a man falls into the water it doesn’t matter how he swims, well or