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- Уильям Сомерсет Моэм
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- Стр. 111/193
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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
.
But
I
suppose
that
everyone
’
s
conception
of
the
passion
is
formed
on
his
own
idiosyncrasies
,
and
it
is
different
with
every
different
person
.
A
man
like
Strickland
would
love
in
a
manner
peculiar
to
himself
.
It
was
vain
to
seek
the
analysis
of
his
emotion
.
Next
day
,
though
I
pressed
him
to
remain
,
Stroeve
left
me
.
I
offered
to
fetch
his
things
from
the
studio
,
but
he
insisted
on
going
himself
;
I
think
he
hoped
they
had
not
thought
of
getting
them
together
,
so
that
he
would
have
an
opportunity
of
seeing
his
wife
again
and
perhaps
inducing
her
to
come
back
to
him
.
But
he
found
his
traps
waiting
for
him
in
the
porter
’
s
lodge
,
and
the
concierge
told
him
that
Blanche
had
gone
out
.
I
do
not
think
he
resisted
the
temptation
of
giving
her
an
account
of
his
troubles
.
I
found
that
he
was
telling
them
to
everyone
he
knew
;
he
expected
sympathy
,
but
only
excited
ridicule
.
