The Moon and Sixpence, W. Somerset Maugham [beach books .txt] 📗

him books to read, but after a page or two he would put the book down and stare miserably into space. During the evening we played innumerable games of piquet, and bravely, not to disappoint my efforts, he tried to appear interested. Finally I gave him a draught, and he sank into uneasy slumber.

When we went again to the hospital we saw a nursing sister. She told us that Blanche seemed a little better, and she went in to ask if she would see her husband. We heard voices in the room in which she lay, and presently the nurse returned to say that the patient refused to see anyone. We had told her that if she refused to see Dirk the nurse was to ask if she would see me, but this she refused also. Dirk’s lips trembled.

“I dare not insist,” said the nurse. “She is too ill. Perhaps in a day or two she may change her mind.”

“Is there anyone else she wants to see?” asked Dirk, in a voice so low it was almost a whisper.

“She says she only wants to be left in peace.”

Dirk’s hands moved strangely, as though they had nothing to do with his body, with a movement of their own.

“Will you tell her that if there is anyone else she wishes to see I will bring him? I only want her to be happy.”

The nurse looked at him with her calm, kind eyes, which had seen all the horror and pain of the world, and yet, filled with the vision of a world without sin, remained serene.

“I will tell her when she is a little calmer.”

Dirk, filled with compassion, begged her to take the message at once.

“It may cure her. I beseech you to ask her now.”

With a faint smile of pity, the nurse went back into the room. We heard her low voice, and then, in a voice I did not recognise the answer:

“No. No. No.”

The nurse came out again and shook her head.

“Was that she who spoke then?” I asked. “Her voice sounded so strange.”

“It appears that her vocal cords have been burnt by the acid.”

Dirk gave a low cry of distress. I asked him to go on and wait for me at the entrance, for I wanted to say something to the nurse. He did not ask what it was, but went silently. He seemed to have lost all power of will; he was like an obedient child.

“Has she told you why she did it?” I asked.

“No. She won’t speak. She lies on her back quite quietly. She doesn’t move for hours at a time. But she cries always. Her pillow is all wet. She’s too weak to use a handkerchief, and the tears just run down her face.”

It gave me a sudden wrench of the heartstrings. I could have killed Strickland then, and I knew that my voice was trembling when I bade the nurse goodbye.

I found Dirk waiting for me on the steps. He seemed to see nothing, and did not notice that I had joined him till I touched him on the arm. We walked along in silence. I tried to imagine what had happened to drive the poor creature to that dreadful step. I presumed that Strickland knew what had happened, for someone must have been to see him from the police, and he must have made his statement. I did not know where he was. I supposed he had gone back to the shabby attic which served him as a studio. It was curious that she should not wish to see him. Perhaps she refused to have him sent for because she knew he would refuse to come. I wondered what an abyss of cruelty she must have looked into that in horror she refused to live.

XXXVI

The next week was dreadful. Stroeve went twice a day to the hospital to enquire after his wife, who still declined to see him; and came away at first relieved and hopeful because he was told that she seemed to be growing better, and then in despair because, the complication which the doctor had feared having ensued, recovery was impossible. The nurse was pitiful to his distress, but she had little to say that could console him. The poor woman lay quite still, refusing to speak, with her eyes intent, as though she watched for the coming of death. It could now be only the question of a day or two; and when, late one evening, Stroeve came to see me I knew it was to tell me she was dead. He was absolutely exhausted. His volubility had left him at last, and he sank down wearily on my sofa. I felt that no words of condolence availed, and I let him lie there quietly. I feared he would think it heartless if I read, so I sat by the window, smoking a pipe, till he felt inclined to speak.

“You’ve been very kind to me,” he said at last. “Everyone’s been very kind.”

“Nonsense,” I said, a little embarrassed.

“At the hospital they told me I might wait. They gave me a chair, and I sat outside the door. When she became unconscious they said I might go in. Her mouth and chin were all burnt by the acid. It was awful to see her lovely skin all wounded. She died very peacefully, so that I didn’t know she was dead till the sister told me.”

He was too tired to weep. He lay on his back limply, as though all the strength had gone out of his limbs, and presently I saw that he had fallen asleep. It was the first natural sleep he had had for a week. Nature, sometimes so cruel, is sometimes merciful. I covered him and turned down the light. In the morning when I awoke he was still asleep. He had not moved. His gold-rimmed spectacles were still on his nose.

XXXVII

The circumstances of Blanche