The Moon and Sixpence by W. Somerset Maugham

like him. How strange that you should know Strickland!'
    'I don't like bad manners', said Mrs Stroeve.
    Dirk, laughing still, turned to me to explain.
    'You see, I asked him to come here one day and look at my pictures. Well, he came, and I showed him everything I had.' Stroeve hesitated a moment with embarrassment. I do not know why he had begun the story against himself; he felt an awkwardness at finishing it. 'He looked at – at my pictures, and he didn't say anything. I thought he was reserving his judgement till the end. And at last I said: "There, that's the lot!" He said: "I came to ask you to lend me twenty francs.'"
    'And Dirk actually gave it him', said his wife indignantly.
    'I was so taken aback. I didn't like to refuse. He put the money in his pocket, just nodded, said "Thanks", and walked out.'
    Dirk Stroeve, telling the story, had such a look of blank astonishment on his round, foolish face that it was almost impossible not to laugh.
    'I shouldn't have minded if he'd said my pictures were bad, but he said nothing – nothing.'
    'And you will tell the story, Dirk', said his wife.
    It was lamentable that one was more amused by the ridiculous figure cut by the Dutchman than outraged by Strickland's brutal treatment of him.
    'I hope I shall never see him again', said Mrs Stroeve.
    Stroeve smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He had already recovered his good humour.
    'The fact remains that he's a great artist, a very great artist.'
    'Strickland?' I exclaimed. 'It can't be the same man.'
    'A big fellow with a red beard. Charles Strickland. An Englishman.'
    'He had no beard when I knew him, but if he has grown one it might well be red. The man I'm thinking of only began painting five years ago.'
    'That's it. He's a great artist.'
    'Impossible.'
    'Have I ever been mistaken?' Dirk asked me. 'I tell you he has genius. I'm convinced of it. In a hundred years, if you and I are remembered at all, it will be because we knew Charles Strickland.'
    I was astonished, and at the same time I was very much excited. I remembered suddenly my last talk with him.
    'Where can one see his work?' I asked. 'Is he having any success? Where is he living?'
    'No; he has no success. I don't think he's ever sold a picture. When you speak to men about him they only laugh. But I know he's a great artist. After all, they laughed at Manet. Corot never sold a picture. I don't know where he lives, but I can take you to see him. He goes to a café in the Avenue de Clichy at seven o'clock every evening. If you like we'll go there tomorrow.'
    'I'm not sure if he'll wish to see me. I think I may remind him of a time he prefers to forget. But I'll come all the same. Is there any chance of seeing any of his pictures?'
    'Not from him. He won't show you a thing. There's a little dealer I know who has two or three. But you mustn't go without me; you wouldn't understand. I must show them to you myself.'
    'Dirk, you make me impatient', said Mrs Stroeve. 'How. can you talk like that about his pictures when he treated you as he did?' She turned to me. 'Do you know, when some Dutch people came here to buy Dirk's pictures he tried to persuade them to buy Strickland's. He insisted on bringing them here to show.'
    'What did you think of them?' I asked her, smiling.
    'They were awful.'
    'Ah, sweetheart, you don't understand.'
    'Well, your Dutch people were furious with you. They thought you were having a joke with them.'
    Dirk Stroeve took off his spectacles and wiped them. His flushed face was shining with excitement.
    'Why should you think that beauty, which is the most precious thing in the world, lies like a stone on the beach for the careless passer-by to pick up idly? Beauty is something wonderful and strange that the artist fashions out of the chaos of the world in the torment of his soul. And when he has made it, it is not given to all to know it. To recognize it you must repeat the adventure of the artist. It is a melody that he sings to you, and to hear it