《月亮与六便士》读后感

月亮和六便士>读后感（一）

>故事讲的是一个英国>证券交易所的经纪人，本已有牢靠的职业和地位、美满的家庭，但却迷恋上绘画，像'被魔鬼附了体',突然弃家出走，到巴黎去追求绘画的理想。他的行径没有人能够理解。他在异国不仅肉体受着贫穷和饥饿煎熬，精神亦在忍受痛苦折磨。经过一番离奇的遭遇后，主人公最后离开文明世界，远遁到与世隔绝的塔希提岛上。他终于找到灵魂的宁静和适合自己艺术气质的氛围。他同一个土著女子同居，创作出一幅又一幅使后世震惊的杰作。在他染上麻风病双目失明之前，曾在自己住房四壁画了一幅表现伊甸园的伟大作品。但在逝世之前，他却命令土著女子在他死后把这幅画作付之一炬。

试想你的一个朋友，有份还不错的工作，有个幸福的家庭，虽谈不上无忧无虑，但也过得充实。平日里他处事低调，话也不多，以至于大多时候你都想不起这样一个人。偶尔看到他发的朋友圈，你想起他，随手也点了个赞。似乎我们都有不少这样的朋友，然而你能想象这样一个朋友突然离家出走吗？再听到他消息的时候，他已经到了巴黎学画画，为了自己的梦想，为了成为一名画家。就是这样一个故事，但不同以往，这并不是一个追逐梦想的人经历艰难最终实现理想的故事。

他的梦想道路注定异于常人，因为他是天才。一半冷酷，一半热情。他毫无顾虑的抛弃了自己的家庭，只留给太太一封信，我不回来了。没有原因，没有歉意，到像是一场说走就走的旅行，只是他真的再也没有回来。后来的故事他对待生活、周遭同样的冷酷，甚至到了极致。他自私、他目无他人，拒绝任何世俗，所以他也无所顾及。但他同样也是无辜的，因为他的眼中没有别人，甚至没有自己。他不像是在追求梦想，更像是追逐自己的厄运。然而他有多冷酷，就有多热情，画画像是唤起了他的灵魂，生命也被赋予了新的意义。他说'我必须画画，就像溺水的人必须挣扎'.面对生活的贫困潦倒、疾病缠身，他没有犹豫过，只凭极致的热情驱使前进。不为出名，不为认可，在生命的最后画出一幅伊甸园式的伟大杰作，却被要求在他死后付之一炬。

他是天才，不疯不成魔。历史的长河需要天才，但更多的芸芸众生。每个人都有梦想，在追逐的路上会遇到形形色色的阻力，大到生活压力，小到柴米油盐。理想和现实像是一对冤家，每当我们怀揣梦想赶在路上，总是显得不那么尽如人意。然而他们也并非非黑即白。月亮与六便士，梦想和现实，一半坚守，一半妥协。当梦想照进现实，请保护他。

有人说，满地都是六便士，他却抬头看见了月亮。

月亮和六便士读后感（二）

异类

叶琦

虽然偶尔会读些书，也经常写日记，但是写书评确实从来没有过。本来就是个很拖延的人，更别说提笔写一点有点逻辑和内容的东西。已经被GP师兄催促过好几次，总是拖着，今天已经被出示警告了，再拖都不好意思在群里待了。

回顾近期以及去年下半年读过的一些书，罗列出来，想抽出一本感触最深的来写。总共也才五六本单子，结果一本都无法想起来，就连前几天才读完的《月亮和六便士》也得借助当时的标注来回忆当时的感受。即使当时读到某些章节击掌称快，相见恨晚，但是没有特意地记忆，不消几个月，这些内容以及曾经的情感波动就会被日常生活琐事淹没。我想最好保留记忆和情感的方法还是及时记录，在大脑的沟回中深深地刻上一笔，

内化成自我的一部分。

那就从《月亮与六便士》开始吧。

读这本书的时候，感觉就是作者坐在你旁边和你讲他听说的，他接触的，他研究的一个'异类'的画家的故事。说他另类，是因为故事主人公年过中年的查理斯·思特里克兰突然放弃作为证券经纪人的成功事业和美好幸福的家庭--温柔贤惠的妻子，一双可爱乖巧的儿女，离开自己的家乡孤身一人去往法国巴黎，住在肮脏的旅馆过着潦倒的生活，只为学习绘画。倘若，思特里克兰学习绘画是为了完成自己一个年轻时候的愿望，开始决定专注自己的兴趣，这倒也为世人理解，毕竟在功成名就或者事业略有所成，衣食无忧，解甲归田享受单纯器物之乐的人也不在少数。然而，思特里克兰在巴黎不名一文，经常一天只吃一顿，有时候甚至一顿也没有。或者，我们把他这种做法理解为破釜沉舟，追求出色的绘画技艺，希望有一天能够一举成名，一幅画便能够卖几百万。这也能够为少数翘楚理解，毕竟成大事者必有常人没有的勇气和魄力。但思特里克兰不给任何人看他的画，也不卖画。甚至在一个唯一特别欣赏他的人为他的推销，他也恶言相对。最为极端的例子的是，在他弥留之际，让他的妻子答应在他死后将用带病之躯花费几个月完成的及其壮丽诡谲的壁画付之一炬。

'异类'的还有他的残酷，自私和毛姆不厌其烦的提及的粗野的透露出肉欲的面容。 这样的'异类'当然为文明社会不容。毛姆并没有特别列举任何思特里克兰受到的排挤和厌弃。相反毛姆告诉我们他受到了一个并不高明但鉴赏能力极高的画家的认可。戴尔克·施特略夫接济他，为他推销画，在他因病垂危时候将他搬回自己家悉心看护，最后甚至赔上了自己挚爱的妻子。对于这些思特里克兰非但没有感激，反倒是认为戴尔克·施特略夫自作自受。读者在这样叙述中，对思特里克兰的厌恶一点一点地加深。 写到这里，才发觉了毛姆的高明之处，他将思特里克兰设计成一个表达能力很差，话语极少人，即便有也都是写极其恶毒的话语，而且整部小说很少有关于思特里克兰的正面描写。即便是思特里克兰稍显正常的表达，毛姆也特意强调那是自己根据思特里克兰的手势，表情和不成句子的词语中揣测出来的。

讲述并不是一气呵成，倒像是两个朋友偶尔见面，几个月或者几年，见面的时候又想起上一次聊到过某个人，于是继续补充故事的进展。所有其他的人讲述的思特里克兰的事情，毛姆也像女生八卦告诉别人'我也只是听说'那样告诉我们，他也只是听说，而且那个说的人也很靠谱。我仿佛看着他说完之后提起杯子喝了口水，又接着回忆思特里克兰的其他事情。

结果，虽然小说提供了很多思特里克兰的片段，关于所有关于思特里克兰的内心思想全靠读者自己揣测。

厌恶加深，但小说并不是以厌恶为终结。不然，这样的情感诉求也不会成就《月亮和六便士》这本经典。只是不知道从什么开始，我也同作者一起对思特里克兰产生了同情。作者是在思特里克兰的画里感受他内心的挣扎。尽管作者尝试道出那种不明晰的感受，这种感受无论如何也无法传到到我的内心。我想是因为缺乏绘画的艺术修养吧，没有经历过看一幅画时，内心产生激荡的情绪，于是无法移情。

我的同情或许始于作者提及他给戴尔克·施特略夫的妻子绘画。施特略夫得知妻子背叛他和思特里克兰在一起之后，在自己画室看到思特里克兰给妻子画的裸体画时顿时羞恼万分，正欲举手撕破之际，他还是被这幅画给震慑到了。按作者的说法，这是一幅透露着美与肉欲画。也许，思特里克兰内心便是一直被这两种东西纠缠着，让他就像被'魔鬼给缠住了'.

更深的同情或者理解来自于思特里克兰毁弃了忍着病痛创作的巨幅壁画。思特里克兰舍弃文明生活，来到了南太平洋群岛的塔希提岛。在这里，他没有被当做'异类',只

是一个比较特别的人而已，就想这里的每一个人都有着自己的特别一样。他甚至在这里找到了个'不打扰'他的妻子爱塔，过着幸福的生活—至少静谧幽深的丛林给了内心的平静。

小说还有一个值得一提的是，作者在叙述主人公之外提及的他曾遇见过的同样被他人看做异类的人，还有一段论述家乡--出生地和另外一个家乡与异类之间的关系。 '我认为有些人诞生在某一个地方可以说未得其所。机缘把他们随便抛掷到一个环境中，而他们却一直思念着一处他们自己也不知道坐落在何处的家乡。在出生的地方他们好象是过客；从孩提时代就非常熟悉的浓荫郁郁的小巷，同小伙伴游戏其中的人烟稠密的街衢，对他们说来都不过是旅途中的一个宿站。这种人在自己亲友中可能终生落落寡台，在他们唯一熟悉的环境里也始终孑身独处。也许正是在本乡本土的这种陌生感才逼着他们远游异乡，寻找一处永恒定居的寓所。说不定在他们内心深处仍然隐伏着多少世代前祖先的习性和癖好，叫这些彷徨者再回到他们祖先在远古就已离开的土地。有时候一个人偶然到了一个地方，会神秘地感觉到这正是自己栖身之所，是他一直在寻找的家园。于是他就在这些从未寓目的景物里，从不相识的人群中定居下来，倒好象这里的一切都是他从小就熟稔的一样。他在这里终于找到了宁静。'

直到整篇小说读完，我也还不明白，为什么小说的名字是'月亮和六便士'.百度百科词条的解释是月亮和六便士对应的是理想和现实，这样的解释并不让我满意。 月亮和六便士读后感（三）

选择

——读毛姆《月亮和六便士》有感

迄今为止，《月亮和六便士》仍是我最喜爱的小说，喜爱毛姆作为一个敏锐的洞察者对人性的理解，喜爱书中思特里克兰德追逐梦想与噩运，却心甘情愿深陷其中的姿态。毛姆洞察出梦想的贬值，世俗的污浊，月亮高悬于空，便士乃生活必须，他不批判手握便士的人生赢家，却也分外赞赏脚踩便士意欲奔赴蟾宫的dreamer.我们不必站在道德的制高点上去批判一些选择，却也要守住一颗赤子之心。

思特里克兰德，性别男，中年，职业股票交易员，生活单调，朝九晚五。你能想象这样一个扔进人海都难以被揪出的，再再普通不过的人，在自己40岁这一年离家出走了吗？思特里克兰德抛家弃子去巴黎当一个画家。离家时，他只写了一张纸条提醒家人晚饭准备好了，然后他只带了100元钱，住在全巴黎最破旧的旅馆，画画。

这种桥段不是应该出现在英俊帅气的20岁小伙身上吗？然后他勇敢追寻梦想，最终美梦成真，爱情事业双丰收，如同当今市面上出售的成功学书籍，读罢便让人热血沸腾。但毛姆却没描写这样的一个人物。毛姆笔下，40岁的思特里克兰德早已过了冲动的年纪，别人都在追寻稳定，他却在追逐噩运。正如作家刘瑜所说：'被梦想俘虏的人就是在追逐自己的噩运。'在他眼中，他的人生价值所在，就是疾步如飞，舍弃一切欲望，追上自己的梦想——画出一幅好画。他在巴黎贫困交加，身患重病，险些一命呜呼。后来，他沦落街头，成为一名码头工人。几年后，他自我放逐到太平洋上的一个小岛，双目失明，身患麻风病，最终还把自己最伟大的绘画作品付之一炬。就是这样疯狂的一个人，看穿城市，看穿欲望，看穿阶级观念，看穿命运，最终掐住梦想的火苗，放了一场盛大的烟火。

毫无疑问，毛姆是极力赞美这个人物的，但他又充分暴露出这个人物的自私之处，达到极端。书中的'我'问思特里克兰德，'难道你不爱自己的孩子不爱自己的妻子吗？你不想要爱情吗？'他回答道：'我对他们没有特殊的感情，爱情只会干扰我画画。'对他而言，画画是一日三餐，是生命的全部，其他所有的一切都是干扰，所以他一层层剥下父亲，丈夫，职员等等身份的外衣，剥下这些束缚，像一个溺水的人只能抓住身边的

浮木，他就抓着绘画，无论如何不肯放手。思特里克兰德无疑是一个圆形人物，自私、毫无责任感，却执着于梦想，并且勇敢无比。毛姆有千万种方式去赞美为追寻人生的意义而付出的人，却选择了这样一种对比鲜明的，极端的方式。可能他已然预见到，今天的许多人已然折服于身份、年龄、欲念，被梦想的锋利妖冶刺伤，成功的判断划向名利，梦想的价值得到质疑，稳定、舒适成为公众的诉求，人们沉醉便士的海洋中无法自拔，少有人能看到月亮。所以他用思特里克兰德这个极端的例子来警示众人，便士固然是生存之必须，但人总要抬头看看月亮。

不知其他人对这个人物有什么看法，我读到他时，是骇然且敬畏。随着文章的进程，羞愧一点点将我吞噬，在结尾，思特里克兰德将自己创世纪的著作付之一炬时达到极点。我仿佛看到了火光中，高大的双目失明的他是怎样将一切名利权情踩在脚下，踩着无数无数人伸向名利的手，踩着噩运这匹野马，全然是一个胜利者的姿态。我感觉到在他面前，自己在懦弱地奔逃，逃向一个尽可能让自己舒适的港湾，即别人口中的稳定生活。因为我深刻地知道要多用力才能抓住梦想的衣角，或者说，抓住它不是最难的，一直抓住它才是困难的。正如毛姆自己所说：'只有诗人同圣徒才会坚信，在沥青路面上辛勤浇水会培植出百合花来。'

毛姆在这部作品中以第一人称叙述，可以体味到一个大作家，因为看清人性而表现出的宽容。文中出现另两个次要人物也给我留下了深刻印象。年轻医生阿伯拉罕放弃了医生岗位，在毕业旅行中偶遇一个希腊周围的小岛，他感觉自己就是为这个地方而生，便在那儿度过了一生。而另一个顶替他上岗的'幸运者'却因此平步青云，成为了一位爵士，地位崇高，生活安逸。爵士对阿伯拉罕的选择嗤之以鼻。文中的'我'作了如此评价：'做自己最想做的事，生活在自己喜爱的环境里，淡泊宁静、与世无争，这难道是糟蹋自己吗？与此相反，做一个著名的外科医生，年薪一万镑，娶一位美丽的妻子，就是成功吗？我想，这一切取决于一个人如何看待生活的意义，取决于他认为对社会应尽什么义务，对自己有什么要求。'毛姆就这样淡淡地用一个'选择'的概念带过了这两个人物。的确，一个人生存的方式、梦想、价值观，哪一样不是自己的选择？爵士也好，在荒岛度过余生也罢，也许二者都不是社会主流价值观中最有价值的活法，但从生活意义的角度看，都是一个完整个体的自我选择，而这种选择只要不危害他人都是值得被尊重的。 因此，宽容的毛姆又给我以这样的安慰，也许我无法抛弃手中的便士，单纯地仰望月亮，但这是一个人的选择，因为在我眼中，生活不只有妖冶的梦想，还有责任，以及生活本身。生活本身便要求我们关心柴米油盐，寻得一处心安，享受天伦之乐。但月亮总是要有的，没有月亮的人会沦于便士的铜臭，而放弃便士的勇士也有可能像思特里克兰德那样，与自己的噩运偕行。我无比敬畏那样的人，却依然选择好好生活。

这是我的选择，想必有同学完全崇拜思特里克兰德的伟大，也有人批判他的自私无情，正如老师品读其他作品时所说的那样，这正是经典作品的魅力。

By 浙江大学（原安吉县高级中学就读） 潘吟潇

第二篇：毛姆,月亮与六便士,英文版26～30章

Chapter XXVI

Next day we moved Strickland. It needed a good deal of firmness and still more patience to induce him to come, but he was really too ill to offer any effective resistance to Stroeve's entreaties and to my determination. We dressed him, while he feebly cursed us, got him downstairs, into a cab, and eventually to Stroeve's studio. He was so exhausted by the time we arrived that he allowed us to put him to bed without a word. He was ill for six weeks. At one time it looked as though he could not live more than a few hours, and I am convinced that it was only through the Dutchman's doggedness that he pulled through. I have never known a more difficult patient. It was not that he was exacting and querulous; on the contrary, he never complained, he asked for nothing, he was perfectly silent; but he seemed to resent the care that was taken of him; he received all inquiries about his feelings or his needs with a jibe, a sneer, or an oath. I found him detestable, and as soon as he was out of danger I had no hesitation in telling him so.

"Go to hell," he answered briefly.

Dirk Stroeve, giving up his work entirely, nursed Strickland with tenderness and sympathy. He was dexterous to make him comfortable, and he exercised a cunning of which I should never have thought him capable to induce him to take the medicines prescribed by the doctor. Nothing was too much trouble for him. Though his means were adequate to the needs of himself and his wife, he certainly had no money to waste; but now he was wantonly extravagant in the purchase of delicacies, out of season and dear, which might tempt Strickland's capricious appetite. I shall never forget the tactful patience with which he

persuaded him to take nourishment. He was never put out by Strickland's rudeness; if it was merely sullen, he appeared not to notice it; if it was aggressive, he only chuckled. When Strickland, recovering somewhat, was in a good humour and amused himself by laughing at him, he deliberately did absurd things to excite his ridicule. Then he would give me little happy glances, so that I might notice in how much better form the patient was. Stroeve was sublime.

But it was Blanche who most surprised me. She proved herself not only a capable, but a devoted nurse. There was nothing in her to remind you that she had so vehemently struggled against her husband's wish to bring Strickland to the studio. She insisted on doing her share of the offices needful to the sick. She arranged his bed so that it was possible to change the sheet without disturbing him. She washed him. When I remarked on her competence, she told me with that pleasant little smile of hers that for a while she had worked in a hospital. She gave no sign that she hated Strickland so desperately. She did not speak to him much, but she was quick to forestall his wants. For a fortnight it was necessary that someone should stay with him all night, and she took turns at watching with her husband. I wondered what

she thought during the long darkness as she sat by the bedside. Strickland was a weird figure as he lay there, thinner than ever, with his ragged red beard and his eyes staring feverishly into vacancy; his illness seemed to have made them larger, and they had an unnatural brightness.

"Does he ever talk to you in the night?" I asked her once.

"Never."

"Do you dislike him as much as you did?"

"More, if anything."

She looked at me with her calm gray eyes. Her expression was so placid, it was hard to believe that she was capable of the violent emotion I had witnessed.

"Has he ever thanked you for what you do for him?"

"No," she smiled.

"He's inhuman."

"He's abominable."

Stroeve was, of course, delighted with her. He could not do enough to show his gratitude for the whole-hearted devotion with which she had accepted the burden he laid on her. But he was a little puzzled by the behaviour of Blanche and Strickland towards one another. "Do you know, I've seen them sit there for hours together without saying a word?"

On one occasion, when Strickland was so much better that in a day or two he was to get up, I sat with them in the studio. Dirk and I were talking. Mrs. Stroeve sewed, and I thought I recognised the shirt she was mending as Strickland's. He lay on his back; he did not speak. Once I saw that his eyes were fixed on Blanche Stroeve, and there was in them a curious irony. Feeling their gaze, she raised her own, and for a moment they stared at one another. I could not quite understand her expression. Her eyes had in them a strange perplexity, and perhaps -- but why? -- alarm. In a moment Strickland looked away and idly surveyed the ceiling, but she continued to stare at him, and now her look was quite inexplicable.

In a few days Strickland began to get up. He was nothing but skin and bone. His clothes hung upon him like rags on a scarecrow. With his untidy beard and long hair, his features, always a little larger than life, now emphasised by illness, he had an extraordinary aspect; but it was so odd that it was not quite ugly. There was something monumental in his ungainliness. I do not know how to express precisely the impression he made upon me. It was not exactly spirituality that was obvious, though the screen of the flesh seemed almost transparent, because there was in his face an outrageous sensuality; but, though it sounds nonsense, it

seemed as though his sensuality were curiously spiritual. There was in him something primitive. He seemed to partake of those obscure forces of nature which the Greeks

personified in shapes part human and part beast, the satyr and the faun. I thought of Marsyas, whom the god flayed because he had dared to rival him in song. Strickland seemed to bear in his heart strange harmonies and unadventured patterns, and I foresaw for him an end of torture and despair. I had again the feeling that he was possessed of a devil; but you could not say that it was a devil of evil, for it was a primitive force that existed before good and ill. He was still too weak to paint, and he sat in the studio, silent, occupied with God knows what dreams, or reading. The books he liked were queer; sometimes I would find him poring over the poems of Mallarme, and he read them as a child reads, forming the words with his lips, and I wondered what strange emotion he got from those subtle cadences and obscure phrases; and again I found him absorbed in the detective novels of Gaboriau. I amused myself by thinking that in his choice of books he showed pleasantly the irreconcilable sides of his fantastic nature. It was singular to notice that even in the weak state of his body he had no thought for its comfort. Stroeve liked his ease, and in his studio were a couple of heavily upholstered arm-chairs and a large divan. Strickland would not go near them, not from any affectation of stoicism, for I found him seated on a three-legged stool when I went into the studio one day and he was alone, but because he did not like them. For choice he sat on a kitchen chair without arms. It often exasperated me to see him. I never knew a man so entirely indifferent to his surroundings.

? ? ?

Chapter XXVII

Two or three weeks passed. One morning, having come to a pause in my work, I thought I would give myself a holiday, and I went to the Louvre. I wandered about looking at the pictures I knew so well, and let my fancy play idly with the emotions they suggested. I

sauntered into the long gallery, and there suddenly saw Stroeve. I smiled, for his appearance, so rotund and yet so startled, could never fail to excite a smile, and then as I came nearer I noticed that he seemed singularly disconsolate. He looked woebegone and yet ridiculous, like a man who has fallen into the water with all his clothes on, and, being rescued from death, frightened still, feels that he only looks a fool. Turning round, he stared at me, but I perceived that he did not see me. His round blue eyes looked harassed behind his glasses.

"Stroeve," I said.

He gave a little start, and then smiled, but his smile was rueful.

"Why are you idling in this disgraceful fashion?" I asked gaily.

"It's a long time since I was at the Louvre. I thought I'd come and see if they had anything new."

"But you told me you had to get a picture finished this week."

"Strickland's painting in my studio."

"Well?"

"I suggested it myself. He's not strong enough to go back to his own place yet. I thought we could both paint there. Lots of fellows in the Quarter share a studio. I thought it would be fun. I've always thought it would be jolly to have someone to talk to when one was tired of work." He said all this slowly, detaching statement from statement with a little awkward silence, and he kept his kind, foolish eyes fixed on mine. They were full of tears.

"I don't think I understand," I said.

"Strickland can't work with anyone else in the studio."

"Damn it all, it's your studio. That's his lookout."

He looked at me pitifully. His lips were trembling.

"What happened?" I asked, rather sharply.

He hesitated and flushed. He glanced unhappily at one of the pictures on the wall. "He wouldn't let me go on painting. He told me to get out."

"But why didn't you tell him to go to hell?"

"He turned me out. I couldn't very well struggle with him. He threw my hat after me, and locked the door."

I was furious with Strickland, and was indignant with myself, because Dirk Stroeve cut such an absurd figure that I felt inclined to laugh.

"But what did your wife say?"

"She'd gone out to do the marketing."

"Is he going to let her in?"

"I don't know."

I gazed at Stroeve with perplexity. He stood like a schoolboy with whom a master is finding fault.

"Shall I get rid of Strickland for you?" I asked.

He gave a little start, and his shining face grew very red.

"No. You'd better not do anything."

He nodded to me and walked away. It was clear that for some reason he did not want to discuss the matter. I did not understand.

? ? ?

Chapter XXVIII

The explanation came a week later. It was about ten o' clock at night; I had been dining by myself at a restaurant, and having returned to my small apartment, was sitting in my parlour, reading I heard the cracked tinkling of the bell, and, going into the corridor, opened the door. Stroeve stood before me.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

In the dimness of the landing I could not see him very well, but there was something in his voice that surprised me. I knew he was of abstemious habit or I should have thought he had been drinking. I led the way into my sitting room and asked him to sit down.

"Thank God I've found you," he said.

"What's the matter?" I asked in astonishment at his vehemence.

I was able now to see him well. As a rule he was neat in his person, but now his clothes were in disorder. He looked suddenly bedraggled. I was convinced he had been drinking, and I smiled. I was on the point of chaffing him on his state.

"I didn't know where to go," he burst out. "I came here earlier, but you weren't in." "I dined late," I said.

I changed my mind: it was not liquor that had driven him to this obvious desperation. His face, usually so rosy, was now strangely mottled. His hands trembled.

"Has anything happened?" I asked.

"My wife has left me."

He could hardly get the words out. He gave a little gasp, and the tears began to trickle down his round cheeks. I did not know what to say. My first thought was that she had come to the end of her forbearance with his infatuation for Strickland, and, goaded by the latter's cynical behaviour, had insisted that he should be turned out. I knew her capable of temper, for all the calmness of her manner; and if Stroeve still refused, she might easily have flung out of the studio with vows never to return. But the little man was so distressed that I could not smile. "My dear fellow, don't be unhappy. She'll come back. You mustn't take very seriously what women say when they're in a passion."

"You don't understand. She's in love with Strickland."

"What!" I was startled at this, but the idea had no sooner taken possession of me than I saw it was absurd. "How can you be so silly? You don't mean to say you're jealous of Strickland?" I almost laughed. "You know very well that she can't bear the sight of him."

"You don't understand," he moaned.

"You're an hysterical ass," I said a little impatiently. "Let me give you a whisky-and-soda, and you'll feel better."

I supposed that for some reason or other -- and Heaven knows what ingenuity men exercise to torment themselves -- Dirk had got it into his head that his wife cared for Strickland, and with his genius for blundering he might quite well have offended her so that, to anger him, perhaps, she had taken pains to foster his suspicion.

"Look here," I said, "let's go back to your studio. If you've made a fool of yourself you must eat humble pie. Your wife doesn't strike me as the sort of woman to bear malice."

"How can I go back to the studio?" he said wearily. "They're there. I've left it to them." "Then it's not your wife who's left you; it's you who've left your wife."

"For God's sake don't talk to me like that."

Still I could not take him seriously. I did not for a moment believe what he had told me. But he was in very real distress.

"Well, you've come here to talk to me about it. You'd better tell me the whole story."

"This afternoon I couldn't stand it any more. I went to Strickland and told him I thought he was quite well enough to go back to his own place. I wanted the studio myself."

"No one but Strickland would have needed telling," I said. "What did he say?"

"He laughed a little; you know how he laughs, not as though he were amused, but as though you were a damned fool, and said he'd go at once. He began to put his things together. You remember I fetched from his room what I thought he needed, and he asked Blanche for a piece of paper and some string to make a parcel."

Stroeve stopped, gasping, and I thought he was going to faint. This was not at all the story I had expected him to tell me.

"She was very pale, but she brought the paper and the string. He didn't say anything. He made the parcel and he whistled a tune. He took no notice of either of us. His eyes had an

ironic smile in them. My heart was like lead. I was afraid something was going to happen, and I wished I hadn't spoken. He looked round for his hat. Then she spoke:

"`I'm going with Strickland, Dirk,' she said. `I can't live with you any more.'

"I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Strickland didn't say anything. He went on whistling as though it had nothing to do with him."

Stroeve stopped again and mopped his face. I kept quite still. I believed him now, and I was astounded. But all the same I could not understand.

Then he told me, in a trembling voice, with the tears pouring down his cheeks, how he had gone up to her, trying to take her in his arms, but she had drawn away and begged him not to touch her. He implored her not to leave him. He told her how passionately he loved her, and reminded her of all the devotion he had lavished upon her. He spoke to her of the happiness of their life. He was not angry with her. He did not reproach her.

"Please let me go quietly, Dirk," she said at last. "Don't you understand that I love Strickland? Where he goes I shall go."

"But you must know that he'll never make you happy. For your own sake don't go. You don't know what you've got to look forward to."

"It's your fault. You insisted on his coming here."

He turned to Strickland.

"Have mercy on her," he implored him. "You can't let her do anything so mad."

"She can do as she chooses," said Strickland. "She's not forced to come."

"My choice is made," she said, in a dull voice.

Strickland's injurious calm robbed Stroeve of the rest of his self-control. Blind rage seized him, and without knowing what he was doing he flung himself on Strickland. Strickland was taken by surprise and he staggered, but he was very strong, even after his illness, and in a moment, he did not exactly know how, Stroeve found himself on the floor.

"You funny little man," said Strickland.

Stroeve picked himself up. He noticed that his wife had remained perfectly still, and to be made ridiculous before her increased his humiliation. His spectacles had tumbled off in the struggle, and he could not immediately see them. She picked them up and silently handed them to him. He seemed suddenly to realise his unhappiness, and though he knew he was making himself still more absurd, he began to cry. He hid his face in his hands. The others watched him without a word. They did not move from where they stood.

"Oh, my dear," he groaned at last, "how can you be so cruel?"

"I can't help myself, Dirk," she answered.

"I've worshipped you as no woman was ever worshipped before. If in anything I did I

displeased you, why didn't you tell me, and I'd have changed. I've done everything I could for you."

She did not answer. Her face was set, and he saw that he was only boring her. She put on a coat and her hat. She moved towards the door, and he saw that in a moment she would be gone. He went up to her quickly and fell on his knees before her, seizing her hands: he abandoned all self-respect.

"Oh, don't go, my darling. I can't live without you; I shall kill myself. If I've done anything to offend you I beg you to forgive me. Give me another chance. I'll try harder still to make you happy."

"Get up, Dirk. You're making yourself a perfect fool."

He staggered to his feet, but still he would not let her go.

"Where are you going?" he said hastily. "You don't know what Strickland's place is like. You can't live there. It would be awful."

"If I don't care, I don't see why you should."

"Stay a minute longer. I must speak. After all, you can't grudge me that."

"What is the good? I've made up my mind. Nothing that you can say will make me alter it." He gulped, and put his hand to his heart to ease its painful beating.

"I'm not going to ask you to change your mind, but I want you to listen to me for a minute. It's the last thing I shall ever ask you. Don't refuse me that."

She paused, looking at him with those reflective eyes of hers, which now were so different to him. She came back into the studio and leaned against the table.

"Well?"

Stroeve made a great effort to collect himself.

"You must be a little reasonable. You can't live on air, you know. Strickland hasn't got a penny."

"I know."

"You'll suffer the most awful privations. You know why he took so long to get well. He was half starved."

"I can earn money for him."

"How?"

"I don't know. I shall find a way."

A horrible thought passed through the Dutchman's mind, and he shuddered.

"I think you must be mad. I don't know what has come over you."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Now may I go?"

"Wait one second longer."

He looked round his studio wearily; he had loved it because her presence had made it gay and homelike; he shut his eyes for an instant; then he gave her a long look as though to impress on his mind the picture of her. He got up and took his hat.

"No; I'll go."

"You?"

She was startled. She did not know what he meant.

"I can't bear to think of you living in that horrible, filthy attic. After all, this is your home just as much as mine. You'll be comfortable here. You'll be spared at least the worst privations." He went to the drawer in which he kept his money and took out several bank-notes. "I would like to give you half what I've got here."

He put them on the table. Neither Strickland nor his wife spoke.

Then he recollected something else.

"Will you pack up my clothes and leave them with the concierge? I'll come and fetch them to-morrow." He tried to smile." Good-bye, my dear. I'm grateful for all the happiness you gave me in the past."

He walked out and closed the door behind him. With my mind's eye I saw Strickland throw his hat on a table, and, sitting down, begin to smoke a cigarette.

Chapter XXIX

I kept silence for a little while, thinking of what Stroeve had told me. I could not stomach his weakness, and he saw my disapproval. "You know as well as I do how Strickland lived," he said tremulously. "I couldn't let her live in those circumstances -- I simply couldn't." "That's your business," I answered.

"What would you have done?" he asked.

"She went with her eyes open. If she had to put up with certain inconveniences it was her own lookout."

"Yes; but, you see, you don't love her."

"Do you love her still?"

"Oh, more than ever. Strickland isn't the man to make a woman happy. It can't last. I want her to know that I shall never fail her."

"Does that mean that you're prepared to take her back?"

"I shouldn't hesitate. Why, she'll want me more than ever then. When she's alone and humiliated and broken it would be dreadful if she had nowhere to go."

He seemed to bear no resentment. I suppose it was commonplace in me that I felt slightly outraged at his lack of spirit. Perhaps he guessed what was in my mind, for he said:

"I couldn't expect her to love me as I loved her. I'm a buffoon. I'm not the sort of man that women love. I've always known that. I can't blame her if she's fallen in love with Strickland." "You certainly have less vanity than any man I've ever known," I said.

"I love her so much better than myself. It seems to me that when vanity comes into love it can only be because really you love yourself best. After all, it constantly happens that a man when he's married falls in love with somebody else; when he gets over it he returns to his wife, and she takes him back, and everyone thinks it very natural. Why should it be different with women?"

"I dare say that's logical," I smiled, "but most men are made differently, and they can't."

But while I talked to Stroeve I was puzzling over the suddenness of the whole affair. I could not imagine that he had had no warning. I remembered the curious look I had seen in Blanche Stroeve's eyes; perhaps its explanation was that she was growing dimly conscious of a feeling in her heart that surprised and alarmed her.

"Did you have no suspicion before to-day that there was anything between them?" I asked. He did not answer for a while. There was a pencil on the table, and unconsciously he drew a head on the blotting-paper.

"Please say so, if you hate my asking you questions," I said.

"It eases me to talk. Oh, if you knew the frightful anguish in my heart." He threw the pencil down. "Yes, I've known it for a fortnight. I knew it before she did."

"Why on earth didn't you send Strickland packing?"

"I couldn't believe it. It seemed so improbable. She couldn't bear the sight of him. It was more than improbable; it was incredible. I thought it was merely jealousy. You see, I've always been jealous, but I trained myself never to show it; I was jealous of every man she knew; I was jealous of you. I knew she didn't love me as I loved her. That was only natural, wasn't it? But she allowed me to love her, and that was enough to make me happy. I forced myself to go out for hours together in order to leave them by themselves; I wanted to punish myself for suspicions which were unworthy of me; and when I came back I found they didn't want me -- not Strickland, he didn't care if I was there or not, but Blanche. She shuddered when I went to kiss her. When at last I was certain I didn't know what to do; I knew they'd only laugh at me if I made a scene. I thought if I held my tongue and pretended not to see, everything would come right. I made up my mind to get him away quietly, without quarrelling. Oh, if you only knew what I've suffered!"

Then he told me again of his asking Strickland to go. He chose his moment carefully, and tried to make his request sound casual; but he could not master the trembling of his voice; and he felt himself that into words that he wished to seem jovial and friendly there crept the

bitterness of his jealousy. He had not expected Strickland to take him up on the spot and make his preparations to go there and then; above all, he had not expected his wife's decision to go with him. I saw that now he wished with all his heart that he had held his tongue. He preferred the anguish of jealousy to the anguish of separation.

"I wanted to kill him, and I only made a fool of myself."

He was silent for a long time, and then he said what I knew was in his mind.

"If I'd only waited, perhaps it would have gone all right. I shouldn't have been so impatient. Oh, poor child, what have I driven her to?"

I shrugged my shoulders, but did not speak. I had no sympathy for Blanche Stroeve, but knew that it would only pain poor Dirk if I told him exactly what I thought of her.

He had reached that stage of exhaustion when he could not stop talking. He went over again every word of the scene. Now something occurred to him that he had not told me before; now he discussed what he ought to have said instead of what he did say; then he lamented his blindness. He regretted that he had done this, and blamed himself that he had omitted the other. It grew later and later, and at last I was as tired as he.

"What are you going to do now?" I said finally.

"What can I do? I shall wait till she sends for me."

"Why don't you go away for a bit?"

"No, no; I must be at hand when she wants me."

For the present he seemed quite lost. He had made no plans. When I suggested that he should go to bed he said he could not sleep; he wanted to go out and walk about the streets till day. He was evidently in no state to be left alone. I persuaded him to stay the night with me, and I put him into my own bed. I had a divan in my sitting-room, and could very well sleep on that. He was by now so worn out that he could not resist my firmness. I gave him a sufficient dose of veronal to insure his unconsciousness for several hours. I thought that was the best service I could render him.

? ? ?

Chapter XXX

But the bed I made up for myself was sufficiently uncomfortable to give me a wakeful night, and I thought a good deal of what the unlucky Dutchman had told me. I was not so much puzzled by Blanche Stroeve's action, for I saw in that merely the result of a physical appeal. I do not suppose she had ever really cared for her husband, and what I had taken for love was no more than the feminine response to caresses and comfort which in the minds of most women passes for it. It is a passive feeling capable of being roused for any object, as the vine can grow on any tree; and the wisdom of the world recognises its strength when it urges a girl to marry the man who wants her with the assurance that love will follow. It is an emotion made up of the satisfaction in security, pride of property, the pleasure of being desired, the gratification of a household, and it is only by an amiable vanity that women ascribe to it spiritual value. It is an emotion which is defenceless against passion. I suspected that

Blanche Stroeve's violent dislike of Strickland had in it from the beginning a vague element of sexual attraction. Who am I that I should seek to unravel the mysterious intricacies of sex? Perhaps Stroeve's passion excited without satisfying that part of her nature, and she hated Strickland because she felt in him the power to give her what she needed. I think she was quite sincere when she struggled against her husband's desire to bring him into the studio; I think she was frightened of him, though she knew not why; and I remembered how she had foreseen disaster. I think in some curious way the horror which she felt for him was a

transference of the horror which she felt for herself because he so strangely troubled her. His appearance was wild and uncouth; there was aloofness in his eyes and sensuality in his mouth; he was big and strong; he gave the impression of untamed passion; and perhaps she felt in him, too, that sinister element which had made me think of those wild beings of the world's early history when matter, retaining its early connection with the earth, seemed to possess yet a spirit of its own. If he affected her at all, it was inevitable that she should love or hate him. She hated him.

And then I fancy that the daily intimacy with the sick man moved her strangely. She raised his head to give him food, and it was heavy against her hand; when she had fed him she wiped his sensual mouth and his red beard. She washed his limbs; they were covered with thick hair; and when she dried his hands, even in his weakness they were strong and sinewy. His fingers were long; they were the capable, fashioning fingers of the artist; and I know not what

troubling thoughts they excited in her. He slept very quietly, without a movement, so that he might have been dead, and he was like some wild creature of the woods, resting after a long chase; and she wondered what fancies passed through his dreams. Did he dream of the nymph flying through the woods of Greece with the satyr in hot pursuit? She fled, swift of foot and desperate, but he gained on her step by step, till she felt his hot breath on her neck; and

still she fled silently, and silently he pursued, and when at last he seized her was it terror that thrilled her heart or was it ecstasy?

Blanche Stroeve was in the cruel grip of appetite. Perhaps she hated Strickland still, but she hungered for him, and everything that had made up her life till then became of no account. She ceased to be a woman, complex, kind and petulant, considerate and thoughtless; she was a Maenad. She was desire.

But perhaps this is very fanciful; and it may be that she was merely bored with her husband and went to Strickland out of a callous curiosity. She may have had no particular feeling for him, but succumbed to his wish from propinquity or idleness, to find then that she was powerless in a snare of her own contriving. How did I know what were the thoughts and emotions behind that placid brow and those cool gray eyes?

But if one could be certain of nothing in dealing with creatures so incalculable as human beings, there were explanations of Blanche Stroeve's behaviour which were at all events plausible. On the other hand, I did not understand Strickland at all. I racked my brain, but could in no way account for an action so contrary to my conception of him. It was not strange that he should so heartlessly have betrayed his friends' confidence, nor that he hesitated not at all to gratify a whim at the cost of another's misery. That was in his character. He was a man without any conception of gratitude. He had no compassion. The emotions common to most of us simply did not exist in him, and it was as absurd to blame him for not feeling them as for blaming the tiger because he is fierce and cruel. But it was the whim I could not understand.

I could not believe that Strickland had fallen in love with Blanche Stroeve. I did not believe him capable of love. That is an emotion in which tenderness is an essential part, but Strickland had no tenderness either for himself or for others; there is in love a sense of weakness, a desire to protect, an eagerness to do good and to give pleasure -- if not unselfishness, at all events a selfishness which marvellously conceals itself; it has in it a

certain diffidence. These were not traits which I could imagine in Strickland. Love is absorbing; it takes the lover out of himself; the most clear-sighted, though he may know, cannot realise that his love will cease; it gives body to what he knows is illusion, and, knowing it is nothing else, he loves it better than reality. It makes a man a little more than himself, and at the same time a little less. He ceases to be himself. He is no longer an individual, but a thing, an

instrument to some purpose foreign to his ego. Love is never quite devoid of sentimentality, and Strickland was the least inclined to that infirmity of any man I have known. I could not believe that he would ever suffer that possession of himself which love is; he could never endure a foreign yoke. I believed him capable of uprooting from his heart, though it might be with agony, so that he was left battered and ensanguined, anything that came between himself and that uncomprehended craving that urged him constantly to he knew not what. If I have succeeded at all in giving the complicated impression that Strickland made on me, it will not seem outrageous to say that I felt he was at once too great and too small for love.