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

understand that it was absurd to hunt vaguely about Paris. We must first think of some plan.

“Yes; but all this time he may be dying, and when we get there it may be too late to do anything.”

“Sit still and let us think,” I said impatiently.

The only address I knew was the Hôtel des Belges, but Strickland had long left that, and they would have no recollection of him. With that queer idea of his to keep his whereabouts secret, it was unlikely that, on leaving, he had said where he was going. Besides, it was more than five years ago. I felt pretty sure that he had not moved far. If he continued to frequent the same café as when he had stayed at the hotel, it was probably because it was the most convenient. Suddenly I remembered that he had got his commission to paint a 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 were five in the immediate neighbourhood, and the only thing was to go to all of them. Stroeve accompanied me unwillingly. His own plan was to run up and down the streets that led out of the Avenue de Clichy and ask at every house if Strickland lived there. My commonplace scheme was, after all, effective, for in the second shop we asked at the woman behind the counter acknowledged that she knew him. She was not certain where he lived, but it was in one of the three houses opposite. Luck favoured us, and in the first we tried the concierge 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. “En effet, I have not seen him for several days.”

Stroeve ran up the stairs ahead of me, and when I reached the top floor I found him talking to a workman in his shirtsleeves who had opened a door at which Stroeve had knocked. He pointed to another door. He believed that the person who lived there was a painter. He had not seen him for a week. Stroeve made as though he were about to knock, and then turned to me with a 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, and found the door unlocked. I walked in, and Stroeve followed me. The room was in darkness. I could only see that it was an attic, with a sloping roof; and a faint glimmer, no more than a less profound obscurity, came from a skylight.

“Strickland,” I called.

There was no answer. It was really rather mysterious, and it seemed to me that Stroeve, standing just behind, was trembling in his shoes. For a moment I hesitated to strike a light. I dimly perceived a bed in the corner, and I wondered whether the 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 a rapid glimpse of a tiny apartment, half room, half studio, in which was nothing but a bed, canvases with their faces to the wall, an easel, a table, and a chair. There was no carpet on the floor. There was no fireplace. On the table, crowded with paints, palette-knives, and litter of all kinds, was the end of a candle. I lit it. Strickland was lying in the bed, uncomfortably because it was too small for him, and he had put all his clothes over him for warmth. It was obvious at a glance that he was in a high fever. Stroeve, his voice cracking with emotion, went up to him.

“Oh, my poor friend, what is the matter with you? I had no idea you were ill. Why didn’t you let me know? You must know I’d have done anything in the world for you. Were you thinking 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 to arrange the bedclothes. 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 some milk,” he said at last. “I haven’t been able to get out for two 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 had nothing 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 an outstretched arm.

“I’ll go immediately,” said Stroeve. “Is there anything you fancy?”

I suggested that he should get a thermometer, and a few grapes, 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 asked him one or two questions, but he would not answer, and when I pressed 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 brought candles, and meat-juice, and a spirit-lamp. He was a practical little fellow, and without delay set about making bread-and-milk. I took Strickland’s temperature. It was a hundred and four. He was obviously very ill.