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- Уильям Сомерсет Моэм
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He
bore
himself
most
unbecomingly
.
Knowing
at
what
time
his
wife
did
her
shopping
,
one
day
,
unable
any
longer
to
bear
not
seeing
her
,
he
waylaid
her
in
the
street
.
She
would
not
speak
to
him
,
but
he
insisted
on
speaking
to
her
.
He
spluttered
out
words
of
apology
for
any
wrong
he
had
committed
towards
her
;
he
told
her
he
loved
her
devotedly
and
begged
her
to
return
to
him
.
She
would
not
answer
;
she
walked
hurriedly
,
with
averted
face
.
I
imagined
him
with
his
fat
little
legs
trying
to
keep
up
with
her
.
Panting
a
little
in
his
haste
,
he
told
her
how
miserable
he
was
;
he
besought
her
to
have
mercy
on
him
;
he
promised
,
if
she
would
forgive
him
,
to
do
everything
she
wanted
.
He
offered
to
take
her
for
a
journey
.
He
told
her
that
Strickland
would
soon
tire
of
her
.
When
he
repeated
to
me
the
whole
sordid
little
scene
I
was
outraged
.
He
had
shown
neither
sense
nor
dignity
.
He
had
omitted
nothing
that
could
make
his
wife
despise
him
.
There
is
no
cruelty
greater
than
a
woman
’
s
to
a
man
who
loves
her
and
whom
she
does
not
love
;
she
has
no
kindness
then
,
no
tolerance
even
,
she
has
only
an
insane
irritation
.
Blanche
Stroeve
stopped
suddenly
,
and
as
hard
as
she
could
slapped
her
husband
’
s
face
.
She
took
advantage
of
his
confusion
to
escape
,
and
ran
up
the
stairs
to
the
studio
.
No
word
had
passed
her
lips
.
When
he
told
me
this
he
put
his
hand
to
his
cheek
as
though
he
still
felt
the
smart
of
the
blow
,
and
in
his
eyes
was
a
pain
that
was
heartrending
and
an
amazement
that
was
ludicrous
.
He
looked
like
an
overblown
schoolboy
,
and
though
I
felt
so
sorry
for
him
,
I
could
hardly
help
laughing
.
Then
he
took
to
walking
along
the
street
which
she
must
pass
through
to
get
to
the
shops
,
and
he
would
stand
at
the
corner
,
on
the
other
side
,
as
she
went
along
.
He
dared
not
speak
to
her
again
,
but
sought
to
put
into
his
round
eyes
the
appeal
that
was
in
his
heart
.
I
suppose
he
had
some
idea
that
the
sight
of
his
misery
would
touch
her
.
She
never
made
the
smallest
sign
that
she
saw
him
.
She
never
even
changed
the
hour
of
her
errands
or
sought
an
alternative
route
.
I
have
an
idea
that
there
was
some
cruelty
in
her
indifference
.
Perhaps
she
got
enjoyment
out
of
the
torture
she
inflicted
.
I
wondered
why
she
hated
him
so
much
.
I
begged
Stroeve
to
behave
more
wisely
.
His
want
of
spirit
was
exasperating
.
"
You
’
re
doing
no
good
at
all
by
going
on
like
this
,
"
I
said
.
"
I
think
you
’
d
have
been
wiser
if
you
’
d
hit
her
over
the
head
with
a
stick
.
She
wouldn
’
t
have
despised
you
as
she
does
now
.
"
I
suggested
that
he
should
go
home
for
a
while
.
He
had
often
spoken
to
me
of
the
silent
town
,
somewhere
up
in
the
north
of
Holland
,
where
his
parents
still
lived
.
They
were
poor
people
.
His
father
was
a
carpenter
,
and
they
dwelt
in
a
little
old
red
-
brick
house
,
neat
and
clean
,
by
the
side
of
a
sluggish
canal
.
The
streets
were
wide
and
empty
;
for
two
hundred
years
the
place
had
been
dying
,
but
the
houses
had
the
homely
stateliness
of
their
time
.
Rich
merchants
,
sending
their
wares
to
the
distant
Indies
,
had
lived
in
them
calm
and
prosperous
lives
,
and
in
their
decent
decay
they
kept
still
an
aroma
of
their
splendid
past
.
You
could
wander
along
the
canal
till
you
came
to
broad
green
fields
,
with
windmills
here
and
there
,
in
which
cattle
,
black
and
white
,
grazed
lazily
.
I
thought
that
among
those
surroundings
,
with
their
recollections
of
his
boyhood
,
Dirk
Stroeve
would
forget
his
unhappiness
.
But
he
would
not
go
.
"
I
must
be
here
when
she
needs
me
,
"
he
repeated
.
"
It
would
be
dreadful
if
something
terrible
happened
and
I
were
not
at
hand
.
"
"
What
do
you
think
is
going
to
happen
?
"
I
asked
.
