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- Уильям Сомерсет Моэм
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On
reading
over
what
I
have
written
of
the
Stricklands
,
I
am
conscious
that
they
must
seem
shadowy
.
I
have
been
able
to
invest
them
with
none
of
those
characteristics
which
make
the
persons
of
a
book
exist
with
a
real
life
of
their
own
;
and
,
wondering
if
the
fault
is
mine
,
I
rack
my
brains
to
remember
idiosyncrasies
which
might
lend
them
vividness
.
I
feel
that
by
dwelling
on
some
trick
of
speech
or
some
queer
habit
I
should
be
able
to
give
them
a
significance
peculiar
to
themselves
.
As
they
stand
they
are
like
the
figures
in
an
old
tapestry
;
they
do
not
separate
themselves
from
the
background
,
and
at
a
distance
seem
to
lose
their
pattern
,
so
that
you
have
little
but
a
pleasing
piece
of
colour
.
My
only
excuse
is
that
the
impression
they
made
on
me
was
no
other
.
There
was
just
that
shadowiness
about
them
which
you
find
in
people
whose
lives
are
part
of
the
social
organism
,
so
that
they
exist
in
it
and
by
it
only
.
They
are
like
cells
in
the
body
,
essential
,
but
,
so
long
as
they
remain
healthy
,
engulfed
in
the
momentous
whole
.
The
Stricklands
were
an
average
family
in
the
middle
class
.
A
pleasant
,
hospitable
woman
,
with
a
harmless
craze
for
the
small
lions
of
literary
society
;
a
rather
dull
man
,
doing
his
duty
in
that
state
of
life
in
which
a
merciful
Providence
had
placed
him
;
two
nice
-
looking
,
healthy
children
.
Nothing
could
be
more
ordinary
.
I
do
not
know
that
there
was
anything
about
them
to
excite
the
attention
of
the
curious
.
When
I
reflect
on
all
that
happened
later
,
I
ask
myself
if
I
was
thick
-
witted
not
to
see
that
there
was
in
Charles
Strickland
at
least
something
out
of
the
common
.
Perhaps
.
I
think
that
I
have
gathered
in
the
years
that
intervene
between
then
and
now
a
fair
knowledge
of
mankind
,
but
even
if
when
I
first
met
the
Stricklands
I
had
the
experience
which
I
have
now
,
I
do
not
believe
that
I
should
have
judged
them
differently
.
But
because
I
have
learnt
that
man
is
incalculable
,
I
should
not
at
this
time
of
day
be
so
surprised
by
the
news
that
reached
me
when
in
the
early
autumn
I
returned
to
London
.
I
had
not
been
back
twenty
-
four
hours
before
I
ran
across
Rose
Waterford
in
Jermyn
Street
.
"
You
look
very
gay
and
sprightly
,
"
I
said
.
"
What
’
s
the
matter
with
you
?
"
She
smiled
,
and
her
eyes
shone
with
a
malice
I
knew
already
.
It
meant
that
she
had
heard
some
scandal
about
one
of
her
friends
,
and
the
instinct
of
the
literary
woman
was
all
alert
.
"
You
did
meet
Charles
Strickland
,
didn
’
t
you
?
"
Not
only
her
face
,
but
her
whole
body
,
gave
a
sense
of
alacrity
.
I
nodded
.
I
wondered
if
the
poor
devil
had
been
hammered
on
the
Stock
Exchange
or
run
over
by
an
omnibus
.
"
Isn
’
t
it
dreadful
?
He
’
s
run
away
from
his
wife
.
"
Miss
Waterford
certainly
felt
that
she
could
not
do
her
subject
justice
on
the
curb
of
Jermyn
Street
,
and
so
,
like
an
artist
,
flung
the
bare
fact
at
me
and
declared
that
she
knew
no
details
.
I
could
not
do
her
the
injustice
of
supposing
that
so
trifling
a
circumstance
would
have
prevented
her
from
giving
them
,
but
she
was
obstinate
.
