"Chapter I\n\n\nI confess that when first I made acquaintance with Charles\nStrickland I never for a moment discerned that there was in\nhim anything out of the ordinary.  Yet now few will be found\nto deny his greatness.  I do not speak of that greatness which\nis achieved by the fortunate politician or the successful\nsoldier; that is a quality which belongs to the place he\noccupies rather than to the man; and a change of circumstances\nreduces it to very discreet proportions.  The Prime Minister\nout of office is seen, too often, to have been but a pompous\nrhetorician, and the General without an army is but the tame\nhero of a market town.  The greatness of Charles Strickland\nwas authentic.  It may be that you do not like his art, but at\nall events you can hardly refuse it the tribute of your\ninterest.  He disturbs and arrests.  The time has passed when\nhe was an object of ridicule, and it is no longer a mark of\neccentricity to defend or of perversity to extol him.\nHis faults are accepted as the necessary complement to his merits.\nIt is still possible to discuss his place in art, and the\nadulation of his admirers is perhaps no less capricious than\nthe disparagement of his detractors; but one thing can never\nbe doubtful, and that is that he had genius.  To my mind the\nmost interesting thing in art is the personality of the\nartist; and if that is singular, I am willing to excuse a\nthousand faults.  I suppose Velasquez was a better painter\nthan El Greco, but custom stales one's admiration for him:\nthe Cretan, sensual and tragic, proffers the mystery of his\nsoul like a standing sacrifice.  The artist, painter, poet, or\nmusician, by his decoration, sublime or beautiful, satisfies\nthe aesthetic sense; but that is akin to the sexual instinct,\nand shares its barbarity:  he lays before you also the greater\ngift of himself.  To pursue his secret has something of the\nfascination of a detective story.  It is a riddle which shares\nwith the universe the merit of having no answer.  The most\ninsignificant of Strickland's works suggests a personality\nwhich is strange, tormented, and complex; and it is this\nsurely which prevents even those who do not like his pictures\nfrom being indifferent to them; it is this which has excited\nso curious an interest in his life and character.\n\nIt was not till four years after Strickland's death that\nMaurice Huret wrote that article in the <i Mercure de France>\nwhich rescued the unknown painter from oblivion and blazed the\ntrail which succeeding writers, with more or less docility,\nhave followed.  For a long time no critic has enjoyed in\nFrance a more incontestable authority, and it was impossible\nnot to be impressed by the claims he made; they seemed\nextravagant; but later judgments have confirmed his estimate,\nand the reputation of Charles Strickland is now firmly\nestablished on the lines which he laid down.  The rise of this\nreputation is one of the most romantic incidents in the\nhistory of art.  But I do not propose to deal with Charles\nStrickland's work except in so far as it touches upon\nhis character. I cannot agree with the painters who claim\nsuperciliously that the layman can understand nothing of\npainting, and that he can best show his appreciation of their\nworks by silence and a cheque-book.  It is a grotesque\nmisapprehension which sees in art no more than a craft\ncomprehensible perfectly only to the craftsman:  art is a\nmanifestation of emotion, and emotion speaks a language that\nall may understand.  But I will allow that the critic who has\nnot a practical knowledge of technique is seldom able to say\nanything on the subject of real value, and my ignorance of\npainting is extreme.  Fortunately, there is no need for me to\nrisk the adventure, since my friend, Mr. Edward Leggatt, an\nable writer as well as an admirable painter, has exhaustively\ndiscussed Charles Strickland's work in a little book[1] which\nis a charming example of a style, for the most part, less\nhappily cultivated in England than in France.\n\n\n[1]  \"A Modern Artist:  Notes on the Work of Charles\nStrickland,\" by Edward Leggatt, A.R.H.A.  Martin Secker, 1917.\n\n\nMaurice Huret in his famous article gave an outline of Charles\nStrickland's life which was well calculated to whet the\nappetites of the inquiring.  With his disinterested passion\nfor art, he had a real desire to call the attention of the\nwise to a talent which was in the highest degree original;\nbut he was too good a journalist to be unaware that the \"human\ninterest\" would enable him more easily to effect his purpose.\nAnd when such as had come in contact with Strickland in the\npast, writers who had known him in London, painters who had\nmet him in the cafes of Montmartre, discovered to their\namazement that where they had seen but an unsuccessful artist,\nlike another, authentic genius had rubbed shoulders with them\nthere began to appear in the magazines of France and America a\nsuccession of articles, the reminiscences of one, the\nappreciation of another, which added to Strickland's\nnotoriety, and fed without satisfying the curiosity of\nthe public.  The subject was grateful, and the industrious\nWeitbrecht-Rotholz in his imposing monograph[2] has been able\nto give a remarkable list of authorities.\n\n\n[2]  \"Karl Strickland:  sein Leben und seine Kunst,\" by Hugo\nWeitbrecht-Rotholz, Ph.D.  Schwingel und Hanisch.  Leipzig, 1914.\n\n\nThe faculty for myth is innate in the human race.  It seizes\nwith avidity upon any incidents, surprising or mysterious, in\nthe career of those who have at all distinguished themselves\nfrom their fellows, and invents a legend to which it then\nattaches a fanatical belief.  It is the protest of romance\nagainst the commonplace of life.  The incidents of the legend\nbecome the hero's surest passport to immortality.  The ironic\nphilosopher reflects with a smile that Sir Walter Raleigh is\nmore safely inshrined in the memory of mankind because he set\nhis cloak for the Virgin Queen to walk on than because he\ncarried the English name to undiscovered countries.\nCharles Strickland lived obscurely.  He made enemies rather\nthan friends.  It is not strange, then, that those who wrote of\nhim should have eked out their scanty recollections with a\nlively fancy, and it is evident that there was enough in the\nlittle that was known of him to give opportunity to the romantic\nscribe; there was much in his life which was strange and terrible,\nin his character something outrageous, and in his fate\nnot a little that was pathetic.  In due course a legend arose\nof such circumstantiality that the wise historian would\nhesitate to attack it.\n\nBut a wise historian is precisely what the Rev. Robert\nStrickland is not.  He wrote his biography[3] avowedly to\n\"remove certain misconceptions which had gained currency\" in\nregard to the later part of his father's life, and which had\n\"caused considerable pain to persons still living.\"  It is\nobvious that there was much in the commonly received account\nof Strickland's life to embarrass a respectable family.\nI have read this work with a good deal of amusement, and upon\nthis I congratulate myself, since it is colourless and dull.\nMr. Strickland has drawn the portrait of an excellent husband\nand father, a man of kindly temper, industrious habits, and\nmoral disposition.  The modern clergyman has acquired in his\nstudy of the science which I believe is called exegesis an\nastonishing facility for explaining things away, but the\nsubtlety with which the Rev. Robert Strickland has\n\"interpreted\" all the facts in his father's life which a\ndutiful son might find it inconvenient to remember must surely\nlead him in the fullness of time to the highest dignities of\nthe Church.  I see already his muscular calves encased in the\ngaiters episcopal.  It was a hazardous, though maybe a gallant\nthing to do, since it is probable that the legend commonly\nreceived has had no small share in the growth of Strickland's\nreputation; for there are many who have been attracted to his\nart by the detestation in which they held his character or the\ncompassion with which they regarded his death; and the son's\nwell-meaning efforts threw a singular chill upon the father's\nadmirers.  It is due to no accident that when one of his most\nimportant works, <i The Woman of Samaria>,[4] was sold at\nChristie's shortly after the discussion which followed the\npublication of Mr. Strickland's biography, it fetched POUNDS\n235 less than it had done nine months before when it was\nbought by the distinguished collector whose sudden death had\nbrought it once more under the hammer.  Perhaps Charles\nStrickland's power and originality would scarcely have\nsufficed to turn the scale if the remarkable mythopoeic\nfaculty of mankind had not brushed aside with impatience a\nstory which disappointed all its craving for the\nextraordinary.  And presently Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz produced\nthe work which finally set at rest the misgivings of all\nlovers of art.\n\n\n[3]  \"Strickland:  The Man and His Work,\" by his son, Robert\nStrickland.  Wm.  Heinemann, 1913.\n\n[4]  This was described in Christie's catalogue as follows:\n\"A nude woman, a native of the Society Islands, is lying on\nthe ground beside a brook.  Behind is a tropical Landscape\nwith palm-trees, bananas, etc.  60 in.  x 48 in.\"\n\n\nDr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz belongs to that school of historians\nwhich believes that human nature is not only about as bad as\nit can be, but a great deal worse; and certainly the reader is\nsafer of entertainment in their hands than in those of the\nwriters who take a malicious pleasure in representing the\ngreat figures of romance as patterns of the domestic virtues.\nFor my part, I should be sorry to think that there was nothing\nbetween Anthony and Cleopatra but an economic situation; and\nit will require a great deal more evidence than is ever likely\nto be available, thank God, to persuade me that Tiberius was\nas blameless a monarch as King George V.  Dr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz\nhas dealt in such terms with the Rev. Robert Strickland's\ninnocent biography that it is difficult to avoid\nfeeling a certain sympathy for the unlucky parson.  His decent\nreticence is branded as hypocrisy, his circumlocutions are\nroundly called lies, and his silence is vilified as treachery.\nAnd on the strength of peccadillos, reprehensible in an\nauthor, but excusable in a son, the Anglo-Saxon race is\naccused of prudishness, humbug, pretentiousness, deceit,\ncunning, and bad cooking.  Personally I think it was rash of\nMr. Strickland, in refuting the account which had gained\nbelief of a certain \"unpleasantness\" between his father and\nmother, to state that Charles Strickland in a letter written\nfrom Paris had described her as \"an excellent woman,\" since\nDr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz was able to print the letter in\nfacsimile, and it appears that the passage referred to ran in\nfact as follows:  <i God damn my wife.  She is an excellent woman.\nI wish she was in hell.>  It is not thus that the Church\nin its great days dealt with evidence that was unwelcome.\n\nDr. Weitbrecht-Rotholz was an enthusiastic admirer of Charles\nStrickland, and there was no danger that he would whitewash him.\nHe had an unerring eye for the despicable motive in\nactions that had all the appearance of innocence.  He was a\npsycho-pathologist, as well as a student of art, and the\nsubconscious had few secrets from him.  No mystic ever saw\ndeeper meaning in common things.  The mystic sees the\nineffable, and the psycho-pathologist the unspeakable.\nThere is a singular fascination in watching the eagerness with\nwhich the learned author ferrets out every circumstance which may\nthrow discredit on his hero.  His heart warms to him when he\ncan bring forward some example of cruelty or meanness, and he\nexults like an inquisitor at the <i auto da fe> of an heretic\nwhen with some forgotten story he can confound the filial piety\nof the Rev. Robert Strickland.  His industry has been amazing.\nNothing has been too small to escape him, and you\nmay be sure that if Charles Strickland left a laundry bill\nunpaid it will be given you <i in extenso>, and if he forebore\nto return a borrowed half-crown no detail of the transaction\nwill be omitted.\n\n\n\n\nChapter II\n\n\nWhen so much has been written about Charles Strickland, it may\nseem unnecessary that I should write more.  A painter's\nmonument is his work.  It is true I knew him more intimately\nthan most:  I met him first before ever he became a painter,\nand I saw him not infrequently during the difficult years he\nspent in Paris; but I do not suppose I should ever have set\ndown my recollections if the hazards of the war had not taken\nme to Tahiti.  There, as is notorious, he spent the last years\nof his life; and there I came across persons who were familiar\nwith him.  I find myself in a position to throw light on just\nthat part of his tragic career which has remained most obscure.\nIf they who believe in Strickland's greatness are right,\nthe personal narratives of such as knew him in the\nflesh can hardly be superfluous.  What would we not give for\nthe reminiscences of someone who had been as intimately\nacquainted with El Greco as I was with Strickland?\n\nBut I seek refuge in no such excuses.  I forget who it was\nthat recommended men for their soul's good to do each day two\nthings they disliked:  it was a wise man, and it is a precept\nthat I have followed scrupulously; for every day I have got up\nand I have gone to bed.  But there is in my nature a strain of\nasceticism, and I have subjected my flesh each week to a more\nsevere mortification. I have never failed to read the Literary\nSupplement of <i The Times>.  It is a salutary discipline to\nconsider the vast number of books that are written, the fair\nhopes with which their authors see them published, and the\nfate which awaits them.  What chance is there that any book\nwill make its way among that multitude?  And the successful\nbooks are but the successes of a season.  Heaven knows what\npains the author has been at, what bitter experiences he has\nendured and what heartache suffered, to give some chance\nreader a few hours' relaxation or to while away the tedium of\na journey.  And if I may judge from the reviews, many of these\nbooks are well and carefully written; much thought has gone to\ntheir composition; to some even has been given the anxious\nlabour of a lifetime.  The moral I draw is that the writer\nshould seek his reward in the pleasure of his work and in\nrelease from the burden of his thought; and, indifferent to aught\nelse, care nothing for praise or censure, failure or success.\n\nNow the war has come, bringing with it a new attitude.\nYouth has turned to gods we of an earlier day knew not, and it\nis possible to see already the direction in which those who come\nafter us will move.  The younger generation, conscious of\nstrength and tumultuous, have done with knocking at the door;\nthey have burst in and seated themselves in our seats.\nThe air is noisy with their shouts.  Of their elders some, by\nimitating the antics of youth, strive to persuade themselves\nthat their day is not yet over; they shout with the lustiest,\nbut the war cry sounds hollow in their mouth; they are like\npoor wantons attempting with pencil, paint and powder, with\nshrill gaiety, to recover the illusion of their spring.\nThe wiser go their way with a decent grace.  In their chastened\nsmile is an indulgent mockery.  They remember that they too\ntrod down a sated generation, with just such clamor and with\njust such scorn, and they foresee that these brave torch-bearers\nwill presently yield their place also.  There is no last word.\nThe new evangel was old when Nineveh reared her greatness\nto the sky.  These gallant words which seem so novel to those\nthat speak them were said in accents scarcely changed a hundred\ntimes before.  The pendulum swings backwards and forwards.\nThe circle is ever travelled anew.\n\nSometimes a man survives a considerable time from an era in\nwhich he had his place into one which is strange to him, and\nthen the curious are offered one of the most singular\nspectacles in the human comedy.  Who now, for example, thinks\nof George Crabbe?  He was a famous poet in his day, and the\nworld recognised his genius with a unanimity which the greater\ncomplexity of modern life has rendered infrequent.  He had\nlearnt his craft at the school of Alexander Pope, and he wrote\nmoral stories in rhymed couplets.  Then came the French\nRevolution and the Napoleonic Wars, and the poets sang new songs.\nMr. Crabbe continued to write moral stories in rhymed couplets.\nI think he must have read the verse of these young\nmen who were making so great a stir in the world, and I fancy\nhe found it poor stuff.  Of course, much of it was.  But the\nodes of Keats and of Wordsworth, a poem or two by Coleridge, a\nfew more by Shelley, discovered vast realms of the spirit that\nnone had explored before.  Mr. Crabbe was as dead as mutton,\nbut Mr. Crabbe continued to write moral stories in rhymed couplets.\nI have read desultorily the writings of the younger generation.\nIt may be that among them a more fervid Keats, a more\nethereal Shelley, has already published numbers the world\nwill willingly remember.  I cannot tell.  I admire their\npolish -- their youth is already so accomplished that it seems\nabsurd to speak of promise -- I marvel at the felicity of\ntheir style;  but with all their copiousness (their vocabulary\nsuggests that they fingered Roget's <i Thesaurus> in their\ncradles) they say nothing to me:  to my mind they know too\nmuch and feel too obviously; I cannot stomach the heartiness\nwith which they slap me on the back or the emotion with which\nthey hurl themselves on my bosom; their passion seems to me a\nlittle anaemic and their dreams a trifle dull.  I do not like them.\nI am on the shelf.  I will continue to write moral stories in\nrhymed couplets.  But I should be thrice a fool if I did it for\naught but my own entertainment.\n\n\n\n\nChapter III\n\n\nBut all this is by the way.\n\nI was very young when I wrote my first book. By a lucky chance\nit excited attention, and various persons sought my acquaintance.\n\nIt is not without melancholy that I wander among my\nrecollections of the world of letters in London when first,\nbashful but eager, I was introduced to it.  It is long since I\nfrequented it, and if the novels that describe its present\nsingularities are accurate much in it is now changed.  The\nvenue is different.  Chelsea and Bloomsbury have taken the\nplace of Hampstead, Notting Hill Gate, and High Street, Kensington.\nThen it was a distinction to be under forty, but now to\nbe more than twenty-five is absurd.  I think in those\ndays we were a little shy of our emotions, and the fear of\nridicule tempered the more obvious forms of pretentiousness.\nI do not believe that there was in that genteel Bohemia an\nintensive culture of chastity, but I do not remember so crude\na promiscuity as seems to be practised in the present day.\nWe did not think it hypocritical to draw over our vagaries the\ncurtain of a decent silence.  The spade was not invariably\ncalled a bloody shovel.  Woman had not yet altogether come\ninto her own.\n\nI lived near Victoria Station, and I recall long excursions by\nbus to the hospitable houses of the literary.  In my timidity\nI wandered up and down the street while I screwed up my\ncourage to ring the bell; and then, sick with apprehension,\nwas ushered into an airless room full of people.  I was\nintroduced to this celebrated person after that one, and the\nkind words they said about my book made me excessively\nuncomfortable.  I felt they expected me to say clever things,\nand I never could think of any till after the party was over.\nI tried to conceal my embarrassment by handing round cups of\ntea and rather ill-cut bread-and-butter.  I wanted no one to\ntake notice of me, so that I could observe these famous\ncreatures at my ease and listen to the clever things they said.\n\nI have a recollection of large, unbending women with great\nnoses and rapacious eyes, who wore their clothes as though\nthey were armour; and of little, mouse-like spinsters, with\nsoft voices and a shrewd glance.  I never ceased to be\nfascinated by their persistence in eating buttered toast with\ntheir gloves on, and I observed with admiration the unconcern\nwith which they wiped their fingers on their chair when they\nthought no one was looking.  It must have been bad for the\nfurniture, but I suppose the hostess took her revenge on the\nfurniture of her friends when, in turn, she visited them.\nSome of them were dressed fashionably, and they said they\ncouldn't for the life of them see why you should be dowdy just\nbecause you had written a novel; if you had a neat figure you\nmight as well make the most of it, and a smart shoe on a small\nfoot had never prevented an editor from taking your \"stuff.\"\nBut others thought this frivolous, and they wore \"art fabrics\"\nand barbaric jewelry.  The men were seldom eccentric in appearance.\nThey tried to look as little like authors as possible.\nThey wished to be taken for men of the world, and could\nhave passed anywhere for the managing clerks of a city firm.\nThey always seemed a little tired.  I had never known\nwriters before, and I found them very strange, but I do not\nthink they ever seemed to me quite real.\n\nI remember that I thought their conversation brilliant, and I\nused to listen with astonishment to the stinging humour with\nwhich they would tear a brother-author to pieces the moment\nthat his back was turned.  The artist has this advantage over\nthe rest of the world, that his friends offer not only their\nappearance and their character to his satire, but also their work.\nI despaired of ever expressing myself with such aptness\nor with such fluency.  In those days conversation was still\ncultivated as an art; a neat repartee was more highly valued than\nthe crackling of thorns under a pot; and the epigram, not yet\na mechanical appliance by which the dull may achieve a semblance\nof wit, gave sprightliness to the small talk of the urbane.\nIt is sad that I can remember nothing of all this scintillation.\nBut I think the conversation never settled down so\ncomfortably as when it turned to the details of the\ntrade which was the other side of the art we practised.\nWhen we had done discussing the merits of the latest book,\nit was natural to wonder how many copies had been sold,\nwhat advance the author had received, and how much he was likely\nto make out of it.  Then we would speak of this publisher and\nof that, comparing the generosity of one with the meanness of another;\nwe would argue whether it was better to go to one who gave\nhandsome royalties or to another who \"pushed\" a book for all\nit was worth.  Some advertised badly and some well.  Some were\nmodern and some were old-fashioned.  Then we would talk of\nagents and the offers they had obtained for us; of editors and\nthe sort of contributions they welcomed, how much they paid a\nthousand, and whether they paid promptly or otherwise.  To me\nit was all very romantic.  It gave me an intimate sense of\nbeing a member of some mystic brotherhood.\n\n\n\n\nChapter IV\n\n\nNo one was kinder to me at that time than Rose Waterford.\nShe combined a masculine intelligence with a feminine perversity,\nand the novels she wrote were original and disconcerting.\nIt was at her house one day that I met Charles Strickland's wife.\nMiss Waterford was giving a tea-party, and her small room was\nmore than usually full.  Everyone seemed to be talking, and I,\nsitting in silence, felt awkward; but I was too shy to break\ninto any of the groups that seemed absorbed in their own affairs.\nMiss Waterford was a good hostess, and seeing my embarrassment\ncame up to me.\n\n\"I want you to talk to Mrs. Strickland,\" she said.\n\"She's raving about your book.\"\n\n\"What does she do?\" I asked.\n\nI was conscious of my ignorance, and if Mrs. Strickland was a\nwell-known writer I thought it as well to ascertain the fact\nbefore I spoke to her.\n\nRose Waterford cast down her eyes demurely to give greater\neffect to her reply.\n\n\"She gives luncheon-parties.  You've only got to roar a\nlittle, and she'll ask you.\"\n\nRose Waterford was a cynic.  She looked upon life as an\nopportunity for writing novels and the public as her raw\nmaterial.  Now and then she invited members of it to her house\nif they showed an appreciation of her talent and entertained\nwith proper lavishness.  She held their weakness for lions in\ngood-humoured contempt, but played to them her part of the\ndistinguished woman of letters with decorum.\n\nI was led up to Mrs. Strickland, and for ten minutes we\ntalked together.  I noticed nothing about her except that she\nhad a pleasant voice.  She had a flat in Westminster, overlooking\nthe unfinished cathedral, and because we lived in the same\nneighbourhood we felt friendly disposed to one another.\nThe Army and Navy Stores are a bond of union between all who dwell\nbetween the river and St. James's Park.  Mrs. Strickland asked\nme for my address, and a few days later I received an\ninvitation to luncheon.\n\nMy engagements were few, and I was glad to accept.  When I\narrived, a little late, because in my fear of being too early\nI had walked three times round the cathedral, I found the\nparty already complete.  Miss Waterford was there and Mrs. Jay,\nRichard Twining and George Road.  We were all writers.\nIt was a fine day, early in spring, and we were in a good humour.\nWe talked about a hundred things.  Miss Waterford,\ntorn between the aestheticism of her early youth, when she\nused to go to parties in sage green, holding a daffodil, and\nthe flippancy of her maturer years, which tended to high heels\nand Paris frocks, wore a new hat.  It put her in high spirits.\nI had never heard her more malicious about our common friends.\nMrs. Jay, aware that impropriety is the soul of wit, made\nobservations in tones hardly above a whisper that might well\nhave tinged the snowy tablecloth with a rosy hue.\nRichard Twining bubbled over with quaint absurdities, and\nGeorge Road, conscious that he need not exhibit a brilliancy which\nwas almost a by-word, opened his mouth only to put food into it.\nMrs. Strickland did not talk much, but she had a pleasant gift\nfor keeping the conversation general; and when there was a\npause she threw in just the right remark to set it going once more.\nShe was a woman of thirty-seven, rather tall and plump,\nwithout being fat; she was not pretty, but her face was\npleasing, chiefly, perhaps, on account of her kind brown eyes.\nHer skin was rather sallow.  Her dark hair was elaborately dressed.\nShe was the only woman of the three whose face was\nfree of make-up, and by contrast with the others she seemed\nsimple and unaffected.\n\nThe dining-room was in the good taste of the period.  It was\nvery severe.  There was a high dado of white wood and a green\npaper on which were etchings by Whistler in neat black frames.\nThe green curtains with their peacock design, hung in straight\nlines, and the green carpet, in the pattern of which pale\nrabbits frolicked among leafy trees, suggested the influence\nof William Morris.  There was blue delft on the chimney-piece.\nAt that time there must have been five hundred dining-rooms in\nLondon decorated in exactly the same manner.  It was chaste,\nartistic, and dull.\n\nWhen we left I walked away with Miss Waterford, and the fine\nday and her new hat persuaded us to saunter through the Park.\n\n\"That was a very nice party,\" I said.\n\n\"Did you think the food was good?  I told her that if she\nwanted writers she must feed them well.\"\n\n\"Admirable advice,\" I answered.  \"But why does she want them?\"\n\nMiss Waterford shrugged her shoulders.\n\n\"She finds them amusing.  She wants to be in the movement.\nI fancy she's rather simple, poor dear, and she thinks we're\nall wonderful.  After all, it pleases her to ask us to luncheon,\nand it doesn't hurt us.  I like her for it.\"\n\nLooking back, I think that Mrs. Strickland was the most\nharmless of all the lion-hunters that pursue their quarry from\nthe rarefied heights of Hampstead to the nethermost studios of\nCheyne Walk.  She had led a very quiet youth in the country,\nand the books that came down from Mudie's Library brought with\nthem not only their own romance, but the romance of London.\nShe had a real passion for reading (rare in her kind, who for\nthe most part are more interested in the author than in his book,\nin the painter than in his pictures), and she invented a\nworld of the imagination in which she lived with a freedom she\nnever acquired in the world of every day.  When she came to\nknow writers it was like adventuring upon a stage which till\nthen she had known only from the other side of the footlights.\nShe saw them dramatically, and really seemed herself to live a\nlarger life because she entertained them and visited them in\ntheir fastnesses.  She accepted the rules with which they\nplayed the game of life as valid for them, but never for a\nmoment thought of regulating her own conduct in accordance\nwith them.  Their moral eccentricities, like their oddities of dress,\ntheir wild theories and paradoxes, were an entertainment which\namused her, but had not the slightest influence on her convictions.\n\n\"Is there a Mr. Strickland?\" I asked\n\n\"Oh yes; he's something in the city.  I believe he's a\nstockbroker.  He's very dull.\"\n\n\"Are they good friends?\"\n\n\"They adore one another.  You'll meet him if you dine there.\nBut she doesn't often have people to dinner.  He's very quiet.\nHe's not in the least interested in literature or the arts.\"\n\n\"Why do nice women marry dull men?\"\n\n\"Because intelligent men won't marry nice women.\"\n\nI could not think of any retort to this, so I asked if Mrs.\nStrickland had children.\n\n\"Yes; she has a boy and a girl.  They're both at school.\"\n\nThe subject was exhausted, and we began to talk of other things.\n\n\n\n\nChapter V\n\n\nDuring the summer I met Mrs. Strickland not infrequently.\nI went now and then to pleasant little luncheons at her flat,\nand to rather more formidable tea-parties.  We took a fancy to\none another.  I was very young, and perhaps she liked the idea\nof guiding my virgin steps on the hard road of letters; while\nfor me it was pleasant to have someone I could go to with my\nsmall troubles, certain of an attentive ear and reasonable\ncounsel.  Mrs. Strickland had the gift of sympathy.  It is a\ncharming faculty, but one often abused by those who are\nconscious of its possession:  for there is something ghoulish\nin the avidity with which they will pounce upon the misfortune\nof their friends so that they may exercise their dexterity.\nIt gushes forth like an oil-well, and the sympathetic pour out\ntheir sympathy with an abandon that is sometimes embarrassing\nto their victims.  There are bosoms on which so many tears\nhave been shed that I cannot bedew them with mine.\nMrs. Strickland used her advantage with tact.  You felt that you\nobliged her by accepting her sympathy.  When, in the\nenthusiasm of my youth, I remarked on this to Rose Waterford,\nshe said:\n\n\"Milk is very nice, especially with a drop of brandy in it,\nbut the domestic cow is only too glad to be rid of it.\nA swollen udder is very uncomfortable.\"\n\nRose Waterford had a blistering tongue.  No one could say such\nbitter things; on the other hand, no one could do more\ncharming ones.\n\nThere was another thing I liked in Mrs. Strickland.\nShe managed her surroundings with elegance.  Her flat was always\nneat and cheerful, gay with flowers, and the chintzes in the\ndrawing-room, notwithstanding their severe design, were bright\nand pretty.  The meals in the artistic little dining-room were\npleasant; the table looked nice, the two maids were trim and\ncomely; the food was well cooked.  It was impossible not to\nsee that Mrs. Strickland was an excellent housekeeper.\nAnd you felt sure that she was an admirable mother.  There were\nphotographs in the drawing-room of her son and daughter.\nThe son -- his name was Robert -- was a boy of sixteen at Rugby;\nand you saw him in flannels and a cricket cap, and again in a\ntail-coat and a stand-up collar.  He had his mother's candid\nbrow and fine, reflective eyes.  He looked clean, healthy, and normal.\n\n\"I don't know that he's very clever,\" she said one day, when I\nwas looking at the photograph, \"but I know he's good.  He has\na charming character.\"\n\nThe daughter was fourteen.  Her hair, thick and dark like her\nmother's, fell over her shoulders in fine profusion, and she\nhad the same kindly expression and sedate, untroubled eyes.\n\n\"They're both of them the image of you,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes; I think they are more like me than their father.\"\n\n\"Why have you never let me meet him?\" I asked.\n\n\"Would you like to?\"\n\nShe smiled, her smile was really very sweet, and she blushed a\nlittle; it was singular that a woman of that age should flush\nso readily.  Perhaps her naivete was her greatest charm.\n\n\"You know, he's not at all literary,\" she said.  \"He's a\nperfect philistine.\"\n\nShe said this not disparagingly, but affectionately rather, as\nthough, by acknowledging the worst about him, she wished to\nprotect him from the aspersions of her friends.\n\n\"He's on the Stock Exchange, and he's a typical broker.\nI think he'd bore you to death.\"\n\n\"Does he bore you?\" I asked.\n\n\"You see, I happen to be his wife.  I'm very fond of him.\"\n\nShe smiled to cover her shyness, and I fancied she had a fear\nthat I would make the sort of gibe that such a confession\ncould hardly have failed to elicit from Rose Waterford.\nShe hesitated a little.  Her eyes grew tender.\n\n\"He doesn't pretend to be a genius.  He doesn't even make much\nmoney on the Stock Exchange.  But he's awfully good and kind.\"\n\n\"I think I should like him very much.\"\n\n\"I'll ask you to dine with us quietly some time, but mind, you come\nat your own risk; don't blame me if you have a very dull evening.\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter VI\n\n\nBut when at last I met Charles Strickland, it was under\ncircumstances which allowed me to do no more than just make\nhis acquaintance.  One morning Mrs. Strickland sent me round a\nnote to say that she was giving a dinner-party that evening,\nand one of her guests had failed her.  She asked me to stop\nthe gap.  She wrote:\n\n\n\"It's only decent to warn you that you will be bored to\nextinction.  It was a thoroughly dull party from the\nbeginning, but if you will come I shall be uncommonly grateful.\nAnd you and I can have a little chat by ourselves.\"\n\n\nIt was only neighbourly to accept.\n\nWhen Mrs. Strickland introduced me to her husband, he gave me\na rather indifferent hand to shake.  Turning to him gaily,\nshe attempted a small jest.\n\n\"I asked him to show him that I really had a husband.  I think\nhe was beginning to doubt it.\"\n\nStrickland gave the polite little laugh with which people\nacknowledge a facetiousness in which they see nothing funny,\nbut did not speak.  New arrivals claimed my host's attention,\nand I was left to myself.  When at last we were all assembled,\nwaiting for dinner to be announced, I reflected, while I\nchatted with the woman I had been asked to \"take in,\" that\ncivilised man practises a strange ingenuity in wasting on\ntedious exercises the brief span of his life.  It was the kind\nof party which makes you wonder why the hostess has troubled\nto bid her guests, and why the guests have troubled to come.\nThere were ten people.  They met with indifference, and would\npart with relief.  It was, of course, a purely social function.\nThe Stricklands \"owed\" dinners to a number of persons,\nwhom they took no interest in, and so had asked them;\nthese persons had accepted.  Why?  To avoid the tedium of\ndining <i tete-a-tete>, to give their servants a rest, because\nthere was no reason to refuse, because they were \"owed\" a dinner.\n\nThe dining-room was inconveniently crowded.  There was a K.C.\nand his wife, a Government official and his wife,\nMrs. Strickland's sister and her husband, Colonel MacAndrew,\nand the wife of a Member of Parliament.  It was because the Member\nof Parliament found that he could not leave the House that I had\nbeen invited.  The respectability of the party was portentous.\nThe women were too nice to be well dressed, and\ntoo sure of their position to be amusing.  The men were solid.\nThere was about all of them an air of well-satisfied prosperity.\n\nEveryone talked a little louder than natural in an instinctive\ndesire to make the party go, and there was a great deal of\nnoise in the room.  But there was no general conversation.\nEach one talked to his neighbour; to his neighbour on the\nright during the soup, fish, and entree; to his neighbour on\nthe left during the roast, sweet, and savoury.  They talked of\nthe political situation and of golf, of their children and the\nlatest play, of the pictures at the Royal Academy, of the\nweather and their plans for the holidays.  There was never a\npause, and the noise grew louder.  Mrs. Strickland might\ncongratulate herself that her party was a success.\nHer husband played his part with decorum.  Perhaps he did not talk\nvery much, and I fancied there was towards the end a look of\nfatigue in the faces of the women on either side of him.\nThey were finding him heavy.  Once or twice Mrs. Strickland's eyes\nrested on him somewhat anxiously.\n\nAt last she rose and shepherded the ladies out of one room.\nStrickland shut the door behind her, and, moving to the other\nend of the table, took his place between the K.C. and the\nGovernment official.  He passed round the port again and\nhanded us cigars.  The K.C. remarked on the excellence of the\nwine, and Strickland told us where he got it.  We began to\nchat about vintages and tobacco.  The K.C. told us of a case\nhe was engaged in, and the Colonel talked about polo.  I had\nnothing to say and so sat silent, trying politely to show\ninterest in the conversation; and because I thought no one was\nin the least concerned with me, examined Strickland at my\nease.  He was bigger than I expected:  I do not know why I had\nimagined him slender and of insignificant appearance; in point\nof fact he was broad and heavy, with large hands and feet, and\nhe wore his evening clothes clumsily.  He gave you somewhat\nthe idea of a coachman dressed up for the occasion.  He was a\nman of forty, not good-looking, and yet not ugly, for his\nfeatures were rather good; but they were all a little larger\nthan life-size, and the effect was ungainly.  He was clean\nshaven, and his large face looked uncomfortably naked.\nHis hair was reddish, cut very short, and his eyes were small,\nblue or grey.  He looked commonplace.  I no longer wondered\nthat Mrs. Strickland felt a certain embarrassment about him;\nhe was scarcely a credit to a woman who wanted to make herself\na position in the world of art and letters.  It was obvious\nthat he had no social gifts, but these a man can do without;\nhe had no eccentricity even, to take him out of the common run;\nhe was just a good, dull, honest, plain man.  One would\nadmire his excellent qualities, but avoid his company.\nHe was null.  He was probably a worthy member of society, a good\nhusband and father, an honest broker; but there was no reason\nto waste one's time over him.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VII\n\n\nThe season was drawing to its dusty end, and everyone I knew\nwas arranging to go away.  Mrs. Strickland was taking her\nfamily to the coast of Norfolk, so that the children might\nhave the sea and her husband golf.  We said good-bye to one\nanother, and arranged to meet in the autumn.  But on my last\nday in town, coming out of the Stores, I met her with her son\nand daughter; like myself, she had been making her final\npurchases before leaving London, and we were both hot and tired.\nI proposed that we should all go and eat ices in the park.\n\nI think Mrs. Strickland was glad to show me her children,\nand she accepted my invitation with alacrity.  They were even\nmore attractive than their photographs had suggested, and she was\nright to be proud of them.  I was young enough for them not to\nfeel shy, and they chattered merrily about one thing and another.\nThey were extraordinarily nice, healthy young children.\nIt was very agreeable under the trees.\n\nWhen in an hour they crowded into a cab to go home, I strolled\nidly to my club.  I was perhaps a little lonely, and it was\nwith a touch of envy that I thought of the pleasant family\nlife of which I had had a glimpse.  They seemed devoted to one\nanother.  They had little private jokes of their own which,\nunintelligible to the outsider, amused them enormously.\nPerhaps Charles Strickland was dull judged by a standard that\ndemanded above all things verbal scintillation; but his\nintelligence was adequate to his surroundings, and that is a\npassport, not only to reasonable success, but still more to\nhappiness.  Mrs. Strickland was a charming woman, and she\nloved him.  I pictured their lives, troubled by no untoward\nadventure, honest, decent, and, by reason of those two\nupstanding, pleasant children, so obviously destined to carry\non the normal traditions of their race and station,\nnot without significance.  They would grow old insensibly;\nthey would see their son and daughter come to years of reason,\nmarry in due course -- the one a pretty girl, future mother of\nhealthy children; the other a handsome, manly fellow,\nobviously a soldier; and at last, prosperous in their\ndignified retirement, beloved by their descendants, after a happy,\nnot unuseful life, in the fullness of their age they would\nsink into the grave.\n\nThat must be the story of innumerable couples, and the pattern\nof life it offers has a homely grace.  It reminds you of a\nplacid rivulet, meandering smoothly through green pastures and\nshaded by pleasant trees, till at last it falls into the vasty\nsea; but the sea is so calm, so silent, so indifferent, that\nyou are troubled suddenly by a vague uneasiness.  Perhaps it\nis only by a kink in my nature, strong in me even in those days,\nthat I felt in such an existence, the share of the great\nmajority, something amiss.  I recognised its social values,\nI saw its ordered happiness, but a fever in my blood asked for a\nwilder course.  There seemed to me something alarming in such\neasy delights.  In my heart was a desire to live more dangerously.\nI was not unprepared for jagged rocks and treacherous shoals if\nI could only have change -- change and the excitement of\nthe unforeseen.\n\n\n\n\nChapter VIII\n\n\nOn reading over what I have written of the Stricklands, I am\nconscious that they must seem shadowy.  I have been able to\ninvest them with none of those characteristics which make the\npersons of a book exist with a real life of their own; and,\nwondering if the fault is mine, I rack my brains to remember\nidiosyncrasies which might lend them vividness.  I feel that\nby dwelling on some trick of speech or some queer habit I\nshould be able to give them a significance peculiar to themselves.\nAs they stand they are like the figures in an old tapestry;\nthey do not separate themselves from the background,\nand at a distance seem to lose their pattern, so that you have\nlittle but a pleasing piece of colour.  My only excuse is that\nthe impression they made on me was no other.  There was just\nthat shadowiness about them which you find in people whose\nlives are part of the social organism, so that they exist in\nit and by it only.  They are like cells in the body, essential,\nbut, so long as they remain healthy, engulfed in\nthe momentous whole.  The Stricklands were an average family\nin the middle class.  A pleasant, hospitable woman, with a\nharmless craze for the small lions of literary society; a\nrather dull man, doing his duty in that state of life in which\na merciful Providence had placed him; two nice-looking,\nhealthy children.  Nothing could be more ordinary.  I do not\nknow that there was anything about them to excite the\nattention of the curious.\n\nWhen I reflect on all that happened later, I ask myself if I\nwas thick-witted not to see that there was in Charles\nStrickland at least something out of the common.  Perhaps.\nI think that I have gathered in the years that intervene between\nthen and now a fair knowledge of mankind, but even if when I first\nmet the Stricklands I had the experience which I have now,\nI do not believe that I should have judged them\ndifferently.  But because I have learnt that man is incalculable,\nI should not at this time of day be so surprised by the news\nthat reached me when in the early autumn I returned to London.\n\nI had not been back twenty-four hours before I ran across Rose\nWaterford in Jermyn Street.\n\n\"You look very gay and sprightly,\" I said.  \"What's the matter\nwith you?\"\n\nShe smiled, and her eyes shone with a malice I knew already.\nIt meant that she had heard some scandal about one of her\nfriends, and the instinct of the literary woman was all alert.\n\n\"You did meet Charles Strickland, didn't you?\"\n\nNot only her face, but her whole body, gave a sense of alacrity.\nI nodded.  I wondered if the poor devil had been\nhammered on the Stock Exchange or run over by an omnibus.\n\n\"Isn't it dreadful?  He's run away from his wife.\"\n\nMiss Waterford certainly felt that she could not do her\nsubject justice on the curb of Jermyn Street, and so,\nlike an artist, flung the bare fact at me and declared that\nshe knew no details.  I could not do her the injustice of supposing\nthat so trifling a circumstance would have prevented her from\ngiving them, but she was obstinate.\n\n\"I tell you I know nothing,\" she said, in reply to my agitated\nquestions, and then, with an airy shrug of the shoulders:\n\"I believe that a young person in a city tea-shop has left\nher situation.\"\n\nShe flashed a smile at me, and, protesting an engagement with\nher dentist, jauntily walked on.  I was more interested than\ndistressed.  In those days my experience of life at first hand\nwas small, and it excited me to come upon an incident among\npeople I knew of the same sort as I had read in books.\nI confess that time has now accustomed me to incidents of this\ncharacter among my acquaintance.  But I was a little shocked.\nStrickland was certainly forty, and I thought it disgusting\nthat a man of his age should concern himself with affairs of\nthe heart.  With the superciliousness of extreme youth, I put\nthirty-five as the utmost limit at which a man might fall in\nlove without making a fool of himself.  And this news was\nslightly disconcerting to me personally, because I had written\nfrom the country to Mrs. Strickland, announcing my return, and\nhad added that unless I heard from her to the contrary,\nI would come on a certain day to drink a dish of tea with her.\nThis was the very day, and I had received no word from Mrs.\nStrickland.  Did she want to see me or did she not?  It was\nlikely enough that in the agitation of the moment my note had\nescaped her memory.  Perhaps I should be wiser not to go.\nOn the other hand, she might wish to keep the affair quiet,\nand it might be highly indiscreet on my part to give any sign that\nthis strange news had reached me.  I was torn between the fear\nof hurting a nice woman's feelings and the fear of being in\nthe way.  I felt she must be suffering, and I did not want to\nsee a pain which I could not help; but in my heart was a\ndesire, that I felt a little ashamed of, to see how she was\ntaking it.  I did not know what to do.\n\nFinally it occurred to me that I would call as though nothing\nhad happened, and send a message in by the maid asking Mrs.\nStrickland if it was convenient for her to see me.  This would\ngive her the opportunity to send me away.  But I was\noverwhelmed with embarrassment when I said to the maid the\nphrase I had prepared, and while I waited for the answer in a\ndark passage I had to call up all my strength of mind not to bolt.\nThe maid came back.  Her manner suggested to my excited\nfancy a complete knowledge of the domestic calamity.\n\n\"Will you come this way, sir?\" she said.\n\nI followed her into the drawing-room.  The blinds were partly\ndrawn to darken the room, and Mrs. Strickland was sitting with\nher back to the light.  Her brother-in-law, Colonel MacAndrew,\nstood in front of the fireplace, warming his back at an unlit fire.\nTo myself my entrance seemed excessively awkward.  I imagined\nthat my arrival had taken them by surprise, and Mrs. Strickland\nhad let me come in only because she had forgotten to put me off.\nI fancied that the Colonel resented the interruption.\n\n\"I wasn't quite sure if you expected me,\" I said, trying to\nseem unconcerned.\n\n\"Of course I did.  Anne will bring the tea in a minute.\"\n\nEven in the darkened room, I could not help seeing that Mrs.\nStrickland's face was all swollen with tears.  Her skin,\nnever very good, was earthy.\n\n\"You remember my brother-in-law, don't you?  You met at dinner,\njust before the holidays.\"\n\nWe shook hands.  I felt so shy that I could think of nothing\nto say, but Mrs. Strickland came to my rescue.  She asked me\nwhat I had been doing with myself during the summer, and with\nthis help I managed to make some conversation till tea was\nbrought in.  The Colonel asked for a whisky-and-soda.\n\n\"You'd better have one too, Amy,\" he said.\n\n\"No; I prefer tea.\"\n\nThis was the first suggestion that anything untoward\nhad happened. I took no notice, and did my best to engage\nMrs. Strickland in talk.  The Colonel, still standing in front\nof the fireplace, uttered no word.  I wondered how soon I could\ndecently take my leave, and I asked myself why on earth Mrs.\nStrickland had allowed me to come.  There were no flowers,\nand various knick-knacks, put away during the summer, had not been\nreplaced; there was something cheerless and stiff about the\nroom which had always seemed so friendly;  it gave you an odd\nfeeling, as though someone were lying dead on the other side\nof the wall.  I finished tea.\n\n\"Will you have a cigarette?\" asked Mrs. Strickland.\n\nShe looked about for the box, but it was not to be seen.\n\n\"I'm afraid there are none.\"\n\nSuddenly she burst into tears, and hurried from the room.\n\nI was startled.  I suppose now that the lack of cigarettes,\nbrought as a rule by her husband, forced him back upon her\nrecollection, and the new feeling that the small comforts she\nwas used to were missing gave her a sudden pang.  She realised\nthat the old life was gone and done with.  It was impossible\nto keep up our social pretences any longer.\n\n\"I dare say you'd like me to go,\" I said to the Colonel,\ngetting up.\n\n\"I suppose you've heard that blackguard has deserted her,\"\nhe cried explosively.\n\nI hesitated.\n\n\"You know how people gossip,\" I answered.  \"I was vaguely told\nthat something was wrong.\"\n\n\"He's bolted.  He's gone off to Paris with a woman.  He's left\nAmy without a penny.\"\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry,\" I said, not knowing what else to say.\n\nThe Colonel gulped down his whisky.  He was a tall, lean man\nof fifty, with a drooping moustache and grey hair.  He had\npale blue eyes and a weak mouth.  I remembered from my\nprevious meeting with him that he had a foolish face, and was\nproud of the fact that for the ten years before he left the\narmy he had played polo three days a week.\n\n\"I don't suppose Mrs. Strickland wants to be bothered with me\njust now,\" I said.  \"Will you tell her how sorry I am?\nIf there's anything I can do.  I shall be delighted to do it.\"\n\nHe took no notice of me.\n\n\"I don't know what's to become of her.  And then there are the\nchildren.  Are they going to live on air?  Seventeen years.\"\n\n\"What about seventeen years?\"\n\n\"They've been married,\" he snapped.  \"I never liked him.\nOf course he was my brother-in-law, and I made the best of it.\nDid you think him a gentleman?  She ought never to have\nmarried him.\"\n\n\"Is it absolutely final?\"\n\n\"There's only one thing for her to do, and that's to divorce\nhim.  That's what I was telling her when you came in.\n'Fire in with your petition, my dear Amy,' I said.  'You owe it\nto yourself and you owe it to the children.' He'd better not let\nme catch sight of him.  I'd thrash him within an inch of his life.\"\n\nI could not help thinking that Colonel MacAndrew might have\nsome difficulty in doing this, since Strickland had struck me\nas a hefty fellow, but I did not say anything.  It is always\ndistressing when outraged morality does not possess the\nstrength of arm to administer direct chastisement on the sinner.\nI was making up my mind to another attempt at going\nwhen Mrs. Strickland came back.  She had dried her eyes and\npowdered her nose.\n\n\"I'm sorry I broke down,\" she said.  \"I'm glad you didn't go away.\"\n\nShe sat down.  I did not at all know what to say.  I felt a\ncertain shyness at referring to matters which were no concern\nof mine.  I did not then know the besetting sin of woman,\nthe passion to discuss her private affairs with anyone who is\nwilling to listen.  Mrs. Strickland seemed to make an effort\nover herself.\n\n\"Are people talking about it?\" she asked.\n\nI was taken aback by her assumption that I knew all about her\ndomestic misfortune.\n\n\"I've only just come back.  The only person I've seen is Rose\nWaterford.\"\n\nMrs. Strickland clasped her hands.\n\n\"Tell me exactly what she said.\"  And when I hesitated,\nshe insisted.  \"I particularly want to know.\"\n\n\"You know the way people talk.  She's not very reliable, is\nshe?  She said your husband had left you.\"\n\n\"Is that all?\"\n\nI did not choose to repeat Rose Waterford's parting reference\nto a girl from a tea-shop.  I lied.\n\n\"She didn't say anything about his going with anyone?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"That's all I wanted to know.\"\n\nI was a little puzzled, but at all events I understood that I\nmight now take my leave.  When I shook hands with Mrs.\nStrickland I told her that if I could be of any use to her I\nshould be very glad.  She smiled wanly.\n\n\"Thank you so much.  I don't know that anybody can do anything\nfor me.\"\n\nToo shy to express my sympathy, I turned to say good-bye to\nthe Colonel.  He did not take my hand.\n\n\"I'm just coming.  If you're walking up Victoria Street,\nI'll come along with you.\"\n\n\"All right,\" I said.  \"Come on.\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter IX\n\n\n\"This is a terrible thing,\" he said, the moment we got out\ninto the street.\n\nI realised that he had come away with me in order to discuss\nonce more what he had been already discussing for hours with\nhis sister-in-law.\n\n\"We don't know who the woman is, you know,\" he said.  \"All we\nknow is that the blackguard's gone to Paris.\"\n\n\"I thought they got on so well.\"\n\n\"So they did.  Why, just before you came in Amy said they'd\nnever had a quarrel in the whole of their married life.\nYou know Amy.  There never was a better woman in the world.\"\n\nSince these confidences were thrust on me, I saw no harm in\nasking a few questions.\n\n\"But do you mean to say she suspected nothing?\"\n\n\"Nothing.  He spent August with her and the children in Norfolk.\nHe was just the same as he'd always been.  We went\ndown for two or three days, my wife and I, and I played golf\nwith him.  He came back to town in September to let his\npartner go away, and Amy stayed on in the country.\nThey'd taken a house for six weeks, and at the end of her tenancy\nshe wrote to tell him on which day she was arriving in London.\nHe answered from Paris.  He said he'd made up his mind not to\nlive with her any more.\"\n\n\"What explanation did he give?\"\n\n\"My dear fellow, he gave no explanation.  I've seen the\nletter.  It wasn't more than ten lines.\"\n\n\"But that's extraordinary.\"\n\nWe happened then to cross the street, and the traffic\nprevented us from speaking.  What Colonel MacAndrew had told\nme seemed very improbable, and I suspected that Mrs.\nStrickland, for reasons of her own, had concealed from him\nsome part of the facts.  It was clear that a man after\nseventeen years of wedlock did not leave his wife without\ncertain occurrences which must have led her to suspect that\nall was not well with their married life.  The Colonel caught me up.\n\n\"Of course, there was no explanation he could give except that\nhe'd gone off with a woman.  I suppose he thought she could\nfind that out for herself.  That's the sort of chap he was.\"\n\n\"What is Mrs. Strickland going to do?\"\n\n\"Well, the first thing is to get our proofs.  I'm going over\nto Paris myself.\"\n\n\"And what about his business?\"\n\n\"That's where he's been so artful.  He's been drawing in his\nhorns for the last year.\"\n\n\"Did he tell his partner he was leaving?\"\n\n\"Not a word.\"\n\nColonel MacAndrew had a very sketchy knowledge of business\nmatters, and I had none at all, so I did not quite understand\nunder what conditions Strickland had left his affairs.\nI gathered that the deserted partner was very angry and\nthreatened proceedings.  It appeared that when everything was\nsettled he would be four or five hundred pounds out of pocket.\n\n\"It's lucky the furniture in the flat is in Amy's name.\nShe'll have that at all events.\"\n\n\"Did you mean it when you said she wouldn't have a bob?\"\n\n\"Of course I did.  She's got two or three hundred pounds and\nthe furniture.\"\n\n\"But how is she going to live?\"\n\n\"God knows.\"\n\nThe affair seemed to grow more complicated, and the Colonel,\nwith his expletives and his indignation, confused rather than\ninformed me.  I was glad that, catching sight of the clock at\nthe Army and Navy Stores, he remembered an engagement to play\ncards at his club, and so left me to cut across St. James Park.\n\n\n\n\nChapter X\n\n\nA day or two later Mrs. Strickland sent me round a note asking\nif I could go and see her that evening after dinner.  I found\nher alone.  Her black dress, simple to austerity, suggested\nher bereaved condition, and I was innocently astonished that\nnotwithstanding a real emotion she was able to dress the part\nshe had to play according to her notions of seemliness.\n\n\"You said that if I wanted you to do anything you wouldn't\nmind doing it,\" she remarked.\n\n\"It was quite true.\"\n\n\"Will you go over to Paris and see Charlie?\"\n\n\"I?\"\n\nI was taken aback.  I reflected that I had only seen him once.\nI did not know what she wanted me to do.\n\n\"Fred is set on going.\"  Fred was Colonel MacAndrew.  \"But I'm\nsure he's not the man to go.  He'll only make things worse.\nI don't know who else to ask.\"\n\nHer voice trembled a little, and I felt a brute even to hesitate.\n\n\"But I've not spoken ten words to your husband.  He doesn't\nknow me.  He'll probably just tell me to go to the devil.\"\n\n\"That wouldn't hurt you,\" said Mrs. Strickland, smiling.\n\n\"What is it exactly you want me to do?\"\n\nShe did not answer directly.\n\n\"I think it's rather an advantage that he doesn't know you.\nYou see, he never really liked Fred; he thought him a fool; he\ndidn't understand soldiers.  Fred would fly into a passion,\nand there'd be a quarrel, and things would be worse instead\nof better.  If you said you came on my behalf, he couldn't\nrefuse to listen to you.\"\n\n\"I haven't known you very long,\" I answered.  \"I don't see how\nanyone can be expected to tackle a case like this unless he\nknows all the details.  I don't want to pry into what doesn't\nconcern me.  Why don't you go and see him yourself?\"\n\n\"You forget he isn't alone.\"\n\nI held my tongue.  I saw myself calling on Charles Strickland\nand sending in my card; I saw him come into the room,\nholding it between finger and thumb:\n\n\"To what do I owe this honour?\"\n\n\"I've come to see you about your wife.\"\n\n\"Really.  When you are a little older you will doubtless learn\nthe advantage of minding your own business.  If you will be so\ngood as to turn your head slightly to the left, you will see\nthe door.  I wish you good-afternoon.\"\n\nI foresaw that it would be difficult to make my exit with\ndignity, and I wished to goodness that I had not returned to\nLondon till Mrs. Strickland had composed her difficulties.\nI stole a glance at her.  She was immersed in thought.\nPresently she looked up at me, sighed deeply, and smiled.\n\n\"It was all so unexpected,\" she said.  \"We'd been married\nseventeen years.  I sever dreamed that Charlie was the sort of\nman to get infatuated with anyone.  We always got on very well\ntogether.  Of course, I had a great many interests that he\ndidn't share.\"\n\n\"Have you found out who\" -- I did not quite know how to\nexpress myself -- \"who the person, who it is he's gone away\nwith?\"\n\n\"No.  No one seems to have an idea.  It's so strange.\nGenerally when a man falls in love with someone people see\nthem about together, lunching or something, and her friends\nalways come and tell the wife.  I had no warning -- nothing.\nHis letter came like a thunderbolt.  I thought he was\nperfectly happy.\"\n\nShe began to cry, poor thing, and I felt very sorry for her.\nBut in a little while she grew calmer.\n\n\"It's no good making a fool of myself,\" she said, drying\nher eyes. \"The only thing is to decide what is the best\nthing to do.\"\n\nShe went on, talking somewhat at random, now of the recent\npast, then of their first meeting and their marriage;\nbut presently I began to form a fairly coherent picture of\ntheir lives; and it seemed to me that my surmises had not\nbeen incorrect.  Mrs. Strickland was the daughter of an\nIndian civilian, who on his retirement had settled in the depths\nof the country, but it was his habit every August to take his\nfamily to Eastbourne for change of air; and it was here,\nwhen she was twenty, that she met Charles Strickland.\nHe was twenty-three.  They played together, walked on the front\ntogether, listened together to the nigger minstrels; and she\nhad made up her mind to accept him a week before he proposed\nto her.  They lived in London, first in Hampstead, and then,\nas he grew more prosperous, in town.  Two children were born\nto them.\n\n\"He always seemed very fond of them.  Even if he was tired of me,\nI wonder that he had the heart to leave them.  It's all so\nincredible.  Even now I can hardly believe it's true.\"\n\nAt last she showed me the letter he had written.\nI was curious to see it, but had not ventured to ask for it.\n\n\n\"MY DEAR AMY,\n\n<i \"I think you will find everything all right in the flat.\nI have given Anne your instructions, and dinner will be ready\nfor you and the children when you come.  I shall not be there\nto meet you.  I have made up my mind to live apart from you,\nand I am going to Paris in the morning.  I shall post this\nletter on my arrival.  I shall not come back.  My decision is\nirrevocable.\n\n\"Yours always,>\n\n\"CHARLES STRICKLAND.\"\n\n\n\"Not a word of explanation or regret.  Don't you think it's inhuman?\"\n\n\"It's a very strange letter under the circumstances,\" I replied.\n\n\"There's only one explanation, and that is that he's not himself.\nI don't know who this woman is who's got hold of him,\nbut she's made him into another man.  It's evidently been\ngoing on a long time.\"\n\n\"What makes you think that?\"\n\n\"Fred found that out.  My husband said he went to the club\nthree or four nights a week to play bridge.  Fred knows one of\nthe members, and said something about Charles being a great\nbridge-player.  The man was surprised.  He said he'd never\neven seen Charles in the card-room.  It's quite clear now that\nwhen I thought Charles was at his club he was with her.\"\n\nI was silent for a moment.  Then I thought of the children.\n\n\"It must have been difficult to explain to Robert,\" I said.\n\n\"Oh, I never said a word to either of them.  You see, we only\ncame up to town the day before they had to go back to school.\nI had the presence of mind to say that their father had been\ncalled away on business.\"\n\nIt could not have been very easy to be bright and careless\nwith that sudden secret in her heart, nor to give her\nattention to all the things that needed doing to get her\nchildren comfortably packed off.  Mrs. Strickland's voice\nbroke again.\n\n\"And what is to happen to them, poor darlings?  How are we\ngoing to live?\"\n\nShe struggled for self-control, and I saw her hands clench and\nunclench spasmodically.  It was dreadfully painful.\n\n\"Of course I'll go over to Paris if you think I can do any good,\nbut you must tell me exactly what you want me to do.\"\n\n\"I want him to come back.\"\n\n\"I understood from Colonel MacAndrew that you'd made up your\nmind to divorce him.\"\n\n\"I'll never divorce him,\" she answered with a sudden violence.\n\"Tell him that from me.  He'll never be able to marry that woman.\nI'm as obstinate as he is, and I'll never divorce him.\nI have to think of my children.\"\n\nI think she added this to explain her attitude to me, but I\nthought it was due to a very natural jealousy rather than to\nmaternal solicitude.\n\n\"Are you in love with him still?\"\n\n\"I don't know.  I want him to come back.  If he'll do that\nwe'll let bygones be bygones.  After all, we've been married\nfor seventeen years.  I'm a broadminded woman.  I wouldn't\nhave minded what he did as long as I knew nothing about it.\nHe must know that his infatuation won't last.  If he'll come\nback now everything can be smoothed over, and no one will know\nanything about it.\"\n\nIt chilled me a little that Mrs. Strickland should be\nconcerned with gossip, for I did not know then how great a\npart is played in women's life by the opinion of others.\nIt throws a shadow of insincerity over their most deeply\nfelt emotions.\n\nIt was known where Strickland was staying.  His partner, in a\nviolent letter, sent to his bank, had taunted him with hiding\nhis whereabouts:  and Strickland, in a cynical and humourous\nreply, had told his partner exactly where to find him.  He was\napparently living in an Hotel.\n\n\"I've never heard of it,\" said Mrs. Strickland.  \"But Fred\nknows it well.  He says it's very expensive.\"\n\nShe flushed darkly.  I imagined that she saw her husband\ninstalled in a luxurious suite of rooms, dining at one smart\nrestaurant after another, and she pictured his days spent at\nrace-meetings and his evenings at the play.\n\n\"It can't go on at his age,\" she said.  \"After all, he's forty.\nI could understand it in a young man, but I think it's\nhorrible in a man of his years, with children who are nearly\ngrown up.  His health will never stand it.\"\n\nAnger struggled in her breast with misery.\n\n\"Tell him that our home cries out for him.  Everything is just\nthe same, and yet everything is different.  I can't live\nwithout him.  I'd sooner kill myself.  Talk to him about the past,\nand all we've gone through together.  What am I to say\nto the children when they ask for him?  His room is exactly as\nit was when he left it.  It's waiting for him.  We're all\nwaiting for him.\"\n\nNow she told me exactly what I should say.  She gave me\nelaborate answers to every possible observation of his.\n\n\"You will do everything you can for me?\" she said pitifully.\n\"Tell him what a state I'm in.\"\n\nI saw that she wished me to appeal to his sympathies by every\nmeans in my power.  She was weeping freely.  I was\nextraordinarily touched.  I felt indignant at Strickland's\ncold cruelty, and I promised to do all I could to bring him back.\nI agreed to go over on the next day but one, and to\nstay in Paris till I had achieved something.  Then, as it was\ngrowing late and we were both exhausted by so much emotion,\nI left her.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XI\n\n\nDuring the journey I thought over my errand with misgiving.\nNow that I was free from the spectacle of Mrs. Strickland's\ndistress I could consider the matter more calmly.  I was\npuzzled by the contradictions that I saw in her behaviour.\nShe was very unhappy, but to excite my sympathy she was able\nto make a show of her unhappiness.  It was evident that she\nhad been prepared to weep, for she had provided herself with a\nsufficiency of handkerchiefs; I admired her forethought, but\nin retrospect it made her tears perhaps less moving.  I could\nnot decide whether she desired the return of her husband\nbecause she loved him, or because she dreaded the tongue of\nscandal; and I was perturbed by the suspicion that the anguish\nof love contemned was alloyed in her broken heart with the\npangs, sordid to my young mind, of wounded vanity.  I had not\nyet learnt how contradictory is human nature; I did not know\nhow much pose there is in the sincere, how much baseness in\nthe noble, nor how much goodness in the reprobate.\n\nBut there was something of an adventure in my trip, and my\nspirits rose as I approached Paris.  I saw myself, too, from\nthe dramatic standpoint, and I was pleased with my role of the\ntrusted friend bringing back the errant husband to his\nforgiving wife.  I made up my mind to see Strickland the\nfollowing evening, for I felt instinctively that the hour must\nbe chosen with delicacy.  An appeal to the emotions is little\nlikely to be effectual before luncheon.  My own thoughts were\nthen constantly occupied with love, but I never could imagine\nconnubial bliss till after tea.\n\nI enquired at my hotel for that in which Charles Strickland\nwas living.  It was called the Hotel des Belges.  But the\nconcierge, somewhat to my surprise, had never heard of it.\nI had understood from Mrs. Strickland that it was a large and\nsumptuous place at the back of the Rue de Rivoli.  We looked\nit out in the directory.  The only hotel of that name was in\nthe Rue des Moines.  The quarter was not fashionable; it was\nnot even respectable.  I shook my head.\n\n\"I'm sure that's not it,\" I said.\n\nThe concierge shrugged his shoulders.  There was no other\nhotel of that name in Paris.  It occurred to me that\nStrickland had concealed his address, after all.  In giving\nhis partner the one I knew he was perhaps playing a trick on him.\nI do not know why I had an inkling that it would appeal\nto Strickland's sense of humour to bring a furious stockbroker\nover to Paris on a fool's errand to an ill-famed house in a\nmean street.  Still, I thought I had better go and see.\nNext day about six o'clock I took a cab to the Rue des Moines,\nbut dismissed it at the corner, since I preferred to walk to the\nhotel and look at it before I went in.  It was a street of\nsmall shops subservient to the needs of poor people, and about\nthe middle of it, on the left as I walked down, was the Hotel\ndes Belges.  My own hotel was modest enough, but it was\nmagnificent in comparison with this.  It was a tall, shabby\nbuilding, that cannot have been painted for years, and it had\nso bedraggled an air that the houses on each side of it looked\nneat and clean.  The dirty windows were all shut.  It was not\nhere that Charles Strickland lived in guilty splendour with\nthe unknown charmer for whose sake he had abandoned honour and duty.\nI was vexed, for I felt that I had been made a fool of,\nand I nearly turned away without making an enquiry.  I went in\nonly to be able to tell Mrs. Strickland that I had done my best.\n\nThe door was at the side of a shop.  It stood open, and just\nwithin was a sign:  <i Bureau au premier.>  I walked up narrow\nstairs, and on the landing found a sort of box, glassed in,\nwithin which were a desk and a couple of chairs.  There was a\nbench outside, on which it might be presumed the night porter\npassed uneasy nights.  There was no one about, but under an\nelectric bell was written <i Garcon.>  I rang, and presently a\nwaiter appeared.  He was a young man with furtive eyes and a\nsullen look.  He was in shirt-sleeves and carpet slippers.\n\nI do not know why I made my enquiry as casual as possible.\n\n\"Does Mr. Strickland live here by any chance?\" I asked.\n\n\"Number thirty-two.  On the sixth floor.\"\n\nI was so surprised that for a moment I did not answer.\n\n\"Is he in?\"\n\nThe waiter looked at a board in the <i bureau.>\n\n\"He hasn't left his key.  Go up and you'll see.\"\n\nI thought it as well to put one more question.\n\n<i \"Madame est la?\">\n\n<i \"Monsieur est seul.\">\n\nThe waiter looked at me suspiciously as I made my way upstairs.\nThey were dark and airless.  There was a foul and\nmusty smell.  Three flights up a Woman in a dressing-gown,\nwith touzled hair, opened a door and looked at me silently as\nI passed.  At length I reached the sixth floor, and knocked at\nthe door numbered thirty-two.  There was a sound within, and\nthe door was partly opened.  Charles Strickland stood before me.\nHe uttered not a word.  He evidently did not know me.\n\nI told him my name.  I tried my best to assume an airy manner.\n\n\"You don't remember me.  I had the pleasure of dining with you\nlast July.\"\n\n\"Come in,\" he said cheerily.  \"I'm delighted to see you.\nTake a pew.\"\n\nI entered.  It was a very small room, overcrowded with\nfurniture of the style which the French know as Louis\nPhilippe.  There was a large wooden bedstead on which was a\nbillowing red eiderdown, and there was a large wardrobe,\na round table, a very small washstand, and two stuffed chairs\ncovered with red rep.  Everything was dirty and shabby.\nThere was no sign of the abandoned luxury that Colonel MacAndrew\nhad so confidently described.  Strickland threw on the floor the\nclothes that burdened one of the chairs, and I sat down on it.\n\n\"What can I do for you?\" he asked.\n\nIn that small room he seemed even bigger than I remembered him.\nHe wore an old Norfolk jacket, and he had not shaved for\nseveral days.  When last I saw him he was spruce enough,\nbut he looked ill at ease:  now, untidy and ill-kempt,\nhe looked perfectly at home.  I did not know how he would\ntake the remark I had prepared.\n\n\"I've come to see you on behalf of your wife.\"\n\n\"I was just going out to have a drink before dinner.\nYou'd better come too.  Do you like absinthe?\"\n\n\"I can drink it.\"\n\n\"Come on, then.\"\n\nHe put on a bowler hat much in need of brushing.\n\n\"We might dine together.  You owe me a dinner, you know.\"\n\n\"Certainly.  Are you alone?\"\n\nI flattered myself that I had got in that important question\nvery naturally.\n\n\"Oh yes.  In point of fact I've not spoken to a soul for three days.\nMy French isn't exactly brilliant.\"\n\nI wondered as I preceded him downstairs what had happened to\nthe little lady in the tea-shop.  Had they quarrelled already,\nor was his infatuation passed?  It seemed hardly likely if,\nas appeared, he had been taking steps for a year to make his\ndesperate plunge.  We walked to the Avenue de Clichy, and sat\ndown at one of the tables on the pavement of a large cafe.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XII\n\n\nThe Avenue de Clichy was crowded at that hour, and a lively\nfancy might see in the passers-by the personages of many a\nsordid romance.  There were clerks and shopgirls; old fellows\nwho might have stepped out of the pages of Honore de Balzac;\nmembers, male and female, of the professions which make their\nprofit of the frailties of mankind.  There is in the streets\nof the poorer quarters of Paris a thronging vitality which\nexcites the blood and prepares the soul for the unexpected.\n\n\"Do you know Paris well?\" I asked.\n\n\"No.  We came on our honeymoon.  I haven't been since.\"\n\n\"How on earth did you find out your hotel?\"\n\n\"It was recommended to me.  I wanted something cheap.\"\n\nThe absinthe came, and with due solemnity we dropped water\nover the melting sugar.\n\n\"I thought I'd better tell you at once why I had come to see you,\"\nI said, not without embarrassment.\n\nHis eyes twinkled.  \"I thought somebody would come along\nsooner or later.  I've had a lot of letters from Amy.\"\n\n\"Then you know pretty well what I've got to say.\"\n\n\"I've not read them.\"\n\nI lit a cigarette to give myself a moment's time.  I did not\nquite know now how to set about my mission.  The eloquent\nphrases I had arranged, pathetic or indignant, seemed out of\nplace on the Avenue de Clichy.  Suddenly he gave a chuckle.\n\n\"Beastly job for you this, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" I answered.\n\n\"Well, look here, you get it over, and then we'll have a\njolly evening.\"\n\nI hesitated.\n\n\"Has it occurred to you that your wife is frightfully unhappy?\"\n\n\"She'll get over it.\"\n\nI cannot describe the extraordinary callousness with which he\nmade this reply.  It disconcerted me, but I did my best not to\nshow it.  I adopted the tone used by my Uncle Henry,\na clergyman, when he was asking one of his relatives for a\nsubscription to the Additional Curates Society.\n\n\"You don't mind my talking to you frankly?\"\n\nHe shook his head, smiling.\n\n\"Has she deserved that you should treat her like this?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Have you any complaint to make against her?\"\n\n\"None.\"\n\n\"Then, isn't it monstrous to leave her in this fashion,\nafter seventeen years of married life, without a fault\nto find with her?\"\n\n\"Monstrous.\"\n\nI glanced at him with surprise.  His cordial agreement with\nall I said cut the ground from under my feet.  It made my\nposition complicated, not to say ludicrous.  I was prepared to\nbe persuasive, touching, and hortatory, admonitory and\nexpostulating, if need be vituperative even, indignant and\nsarcastic; but what the devil does a mentor do when the sinner\nmakes no bones about confessing his sin?  I had no experience,\nsince my own practice has always been to deny everything.\n\n\"What, then?\" asked Strickland.\n\nI tried to curl my lip.\n\n\"Well, if you acknowledge that, there doesn't seem much more\nto be said.\"\n\n\"I don't think there is.\"\n\nI felt that I was not carrying out my embassy with any great skill.\nI was distinctly nettled.\n\n\"Hang it all, one can't leave a woman without a bob.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"How is she going to live?\"\n\n\"I've supported her for seventeen years.  Why shouldn't she\nsupport herself for a change?\"\n\n\"She can't.\"\n\n\"Let her try.\"\n\nOf course there were many things I might have answered to this.\nI might have spoken of the economic position of woman,\nof the contract, tacit and overt, which a man accepts by his\nmarriage, and of much else; but I felt that there was only one\npoint which really signified.\n\n\"Don't you care for her any more?\"\n\n\"Not a bit,\" he replied.\n\nThe matter was immensely serious for all the parties concerned,\nbut there was in the manner of his answer such a cheerful\neffrontery that I had to bite my lips in order not to laugh.\nI reminded myself that his behaviour was abominable.\nI worked myself up into a state of moral indignation.\n\n\"Damn it all, there are your children to think of.\nThey've never done you any harm.  They didn't ask to be\nbrought into the world.  If you chuck everything like this,\nthey'll be thrown on the streets.\n\n\"They've had a good many years of comfort.  It's much more\nthan the majority of children have.  Besides, somebody will\nlook after them.  When it comes to the point, the MacAndrews\nwill pay for their schooling.\"\n\n\"But aren't you fond of them?  They're such awfully nice kids.\nDo you mean to say you don't want to have anything more to do\nwith them?\"\n\n\"I liked them all right when they were kids, but now they're\ngrowing up I haven't got any particular feeling for them.\"\n\n\"It's just inhuman.\"\n\n\"I dare say.\"\n\n\"You don't seem in the least ashamed.\"\n\n\"I'm not.\"\n\nI tried another tack.\n\n\"Everyone will think you a perfect swine.\"\n\n\"Let them.\"\n\n\"Won't it mean anything to you to know that people loathe and\ndespise you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nHis brief answer was so scornful that it made my question,\nnatural though it was, seem absurd. I reflected for a minute\nor two.\n\n\"I wonder if one can live quite comfortably when one's\nconscious of the disapproval of one's fellows?  Are you sure\nit won't begin to worry you?  Everyone has some sort of a\nconscience, and sooner or later it will find you out.\nSupposing your wife died, wouldn't you be tortured by remorse?\"\n\nHe did not answer, and I waited for some time for him to\nspeak.  At last I had to break the silence myself.\n\n\"What have you to say to that?\"\n\n\"Only that you're a damned fool.\"\n\n\"At all events, you can be forced to support your wife and\nchildren,\" I retorted, somewhat piqued.  \"I suppose the law\nhas some protection to offer them.\"\n\n\"Can the law get blood out of a stone?  I haven't any money.\nI've got about a hundred pounds.\"\n\nI began to be more puzzled than before.  It was true that his\nhotel pointed to the most straitened circumstances.\n\n\"What are you going to do when you've spent that?\"\n\n\"Earn some.\"\n\nHe was perfectly cool, and his eyes kept that mocking smile\nwhich made all I said seem rather foolish.  I paused for a\nlittle while to consider what I had better say next.  But it\nwas he who spoke first.\n\n\"Why doesn't Amy marry again?  She's comparatively young, and\nshe's not unattractive.  I can recommend her as an excellent wife.\nIf she wants to divorce me I don't mind giving her the\nnecessary grounds.\"\n\nNow it was my turn to smile.  He was very cunning, but it was\nevidently this that he was aiming at.  He had some reason to\nconceal the fact that he had run away with a woman, and he was\nusing every precaution to hide her whereabouts.  I answered\nwith decision.\n\n\"Your wife says that nothing you can do will ever induce her\nto divorce you.  She's quite made up her mind.  You can put\nany possibility of that definitely out of your head.\"\n\nHe looked at me with an astonishment that was certainly not\nfeigned.  The smile abandoned his lips, and he spoke quite seriously.\n\n\"But, my dear fellow, I don't care.  It doesn't matter a\ntwopenny damn to me one way or the other.\"\n\nI laughed.\n\n\"Oh, come now; you mustn't think us such fools as all that.\nWe happen to know that you came away with a woman.\"\n\nHe gave a little start, and then suddenly burst into a shout\nof laughter.  He laughed so uproariously that people sitting\nnear us looked round, and some of them began to laugh too.\n\n\"I don't see anything very amusing in that.\"\n\n\"Poor Amy,\" he grinned.\n\nThen his face grew bitterly scornful.\n\n\"What poor minds women have got!  Love.  It's always love.\nThey think a man leaves only because he wants others.\nDo you think I should be such a fool as to do what I've\ndone for a woman?\"\n\n\"Do you mean to say you didn't leave your wife for another woman?\"\n\n\"Of course not.\"\n\n\"On your word of honour?\"\n\nI don't know why I asked for that.  It was very ingenuous of me.\n\n\"On my word of honour.\"\n\n\"Then, what in God's name have you left her for?\"\n\n\"I want to paint.\"\n\nI looked at him for quite a long time.  I did not understand.\nI thought he was mad.  It must be remembered that I was very\nyoung, and I looked upon him as a middle-aged man.  I forgot\neverything but my own amazement.\n\n\"But you're forty.\"\n\n\"That's what made me think it was high time to begin.\"\n\n\"Have you ever painted?\"\n\n\"I rather wanted to be a painter when I was a boy, but my\nfather made me go into business because he said there was no\nmoney in art.  I began to paint a bit a year ago.  For the\nlast year I've been going to some classes at night.\"\n\n\"Was that where you went when Mrs. Strickland thought you were\nplaying bridge at your club?\"\n\n\"That's it.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you tell her?\"\n\n\"I preferred to keep it to myself.\"\n\n\"Can you paint?\"\n\n\"Not yet.  But I shall.  That's why I've come over here.\nI couldn't get what I wanted in London.  Perhaps I can here.\"\n\n\"Do you think it's likely that a man will do any good when he\nstarts at your age?  Most men begin painting at eighteen.\"\n\n\"I can learn quicker than I could when I was eighteen.\"\n\n\"What makes you think you have any talent?\"\n\nHe did not answer for a minute.  His gaze rested on the\npassing throng, but I do not think he saw it.  His answer was\nno answer.\n\n\"I've got to paint.\"\n\n\"Aren't you taking an awful chance?\"\n\nHe looked at me.  His eyes had something strange in them,\nso that I felt rather uncomfortable.\n\n\"How old are you?  Twenty-three?\"\n\nIt seemed to me that the question was beside the point.\nIt was natural that I should take chances; but he was a man whose\nyouth was past, a stockbroker with a position of\nrespectability, a wife and two children.  A course that would\nhave been natural for me was absurd for him.  I wished to be\nquite fair.\n\n\"Of course a miracle may happen, and you may be a great painter,\nbut you must confess the chances are a million to one\nagainst it.  It'll be an awful sell if at the end you have to\nacknowledge you've made a hash of it.\"\n\n\"I've got to paint,\" he repeated.\n\n\"Supposing you're never anything more than third-rate, do you\nthink it will have been worth while to give up everything?\nAfter all, in any other walk in life it doesn't matter if\nyou're not very good; you can get along quite comfortably if\nyou're just adequate; but it's different with an artist.\"\n\n\"You blasted fool,\" he said.\n\n\"I don't see why, unless it's folly to say the obvious.\"\n\n\"I tell you I've got to paint.  I can't help myself.  When a\nman falls into the water it doesn't matter how he swims,\nwell or badly: he's got to get out or else he'll drown.\"\n\nThere was real passion in his voice, and in spite of myself I\nwas impressed.  I seemed to feel in him some vehement power\nthat was struggling within him; it gave me the sensation of\nsomething very strong, overmastering, that held him, as it were,\nagainst his will.  I could not understand.  He seemed\nreally to be possessed of a devil, and I felt that it might\nsuddenly turn and rend him.  Yet he looked ordinary enough.\nMy eyes, resting on him curiously, caused him no\nembarrassment.  I wondered what a stranger would have taken\nhim to be, sitting there in his old Norfolk jacket and his\nunbrushed bowler; his trousers were baggy, his hands were not\nclean; and his face, with the red stubble of the unshaved\nchin, the little eyes, and the large, aggressive nose,\nwas uncouth and coarse.  His mouth was large, his lips were heavy\nand sensual.  No; I could not have placed him.\n\n\"You won't go back to your wife?\" I said at last.\n\n\"Never.\"\n\n\"She's willing to forget everything that's happened and start afresh.\nShe'll never make you a single reproach.\"\n\n\"She can go to hell.\"\n\n\"You don't care if people think you an utter blackguard?\nYou don't care if she and your children have to beg their bread?\"\n\n\"Not a damn.\"\n\nI was silent for a moment in order to give greater force to my\nnext remark.  I spoke as deliberately as I could.\n\n\"You are a most unmitigated cad.\"\n\n\"Now that you've got that off your chest, let's go and have dinner.\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIII\n\n\nI dare say it would have been more seemly to decline this proposal.\nI think perhaps I should have made a show of the\nindignation I really felt, and I am sure that Colonel\nMacAndrew at least would have thought well of me if I had been\nable to report my stout refusal to sit at the same table with\na man of such character.  But the fear of not being able to\ncarry it through effectively has always made me shy of\nassuming the moral attitude; and in this case the certainty\nthat my sentiments would be lost on Strickland made it\npeculiarly embarrassing to utter them.  Only the poet or the\nsaint can water an asphalt pavement in the confident\nanticipation that lilies will reward his labour.\n\nI paid for what we had drunk, and we made our way to a cheap\nrestaurant, crowded and gay, where we dined with pleasure.\nI had the appetite of youth and he of a hardened conscience.\nThen we went to a tavern to have coffee and liqueurs.\n\nI had said all I had to say on the subject that had brought me\nto Paris, and though I felt it in a manner treacherous to Mrs.\nStrickland not to pursue it, I could not struggle against his\nindifference.  It requires the feminine temperament to repeat\nthe same thing three times with unabated zest.  I solaced\nmyself by thinking that it would be useful for me to find out\nwhat I could about Strickland's state of mind.  It also\ninterested me much more.  But this was not an easy thing to do,\nfor Strickland was not a fluent talker.  He seemed to\nexpress himself with difficulty, as though words were not the\nmedium with which his mind worked; and you had to guess the\nintentions of his soul by hackneyed phrases, slang, and vague,\nunfinished gestures.  But though he said nothing of any\nconsequence, there was something in his personality which\nprevented him from being dull.  Perhaps it was sincerity.\nHe did not seem to care much about the Paris he was now seeing\nfor the first time (I did not count the visit with his wife),\nand he accepted sights which must have been strange to him\nwithout any sense of astonishment.  I have been to Paris a\nhundred times, and it never fails to give me a thrill of excitement;\nI can never walk its streets without feeling myself\non the verge of adventure.  Strickland remained placid.\nLooking back, I think now that he was blind to everything but\nto some disturbing vision in his soul.\n\nOne rather absurd incident took place.  There were a number of\nharlots in the tavern:  some were sitting with men, others by\nthemselves; and presently I noticed that one of these was\nlooking at us.  When she caught Strickland's eye she smiled.\nI do not think he saw her.  In a little while she went out,\nbut in a minute returned and, passing our table, very politely\nasked us to buy her something to drink.  She sat down and I\nbegan to chat with her; but, it was plain that her interest\nwas in Strickland.  I explained that he knew no more than two\nwords of French.  She tried to talk to him, partly by signs,\npartly in pidgin French, which, for some reason, she thought\nwould be more comprehensible to him, and she had half a dozen\nphrases of English.  She made me translate what she could only\nexpress in her own tongue, and eagerly asked for the meaning\nof his replies.  He was quite good-tempered, a little amused,\nbut his indifference was obvious.\n\n\"I think you've made a conquest,\" I laughed.\n\n\"I'm not flattered.\"\n\nIn his place I should have been more embarrassed and less calm.\nShe had laughing eyes and a most charming mouth.\nShe was young.  I wondered what she found so attractive in\nStrickland.  She made no secret of her desires, and I was\nbidden to translate.\n\n\"She wants you to go home with her.\"\n\n\"I'm not taking any,\" he replied.\n\nI put his answer as pleasantly as I could.  It seemed to me a\nlittle ungracious to decline an invitation of that sort,\nand I ascribed his refusal to lack of money.\n\n\"But I like him,\" she said.  \"Tell him it's for love.\"\n\nWhen I translated this, Strickland shrugged his shoulders impatiently.\n\n\"Tell her to go to hell,\" he said.\n\nHis manner made his answer quite plain, and the girl threw\nback her head with a sudden gesture.  Perhaps she reddened\nunder her paint.  She rose to her feet.\n\n<i \"Monsieur n'est pas poli,\"> she said.\n\nShe walked out of the inn.  I was slightly vexed.\n\n\"There wasn't any need to insult her that I can see,\" I said.\n\"After all, it was rather a compliment she was paying you.\"\n\n\"That sort of thing makes me sick,\" he said roughly.\n\nI looked at him curiously.  There was a real distaste in his\nface, and yet it was the face of a coarse and sensual man.\nI suppose the girl had been attracted by a certain brutality in it.\n\n\"I could have got all the women I wanted in London.  I didn't\ncome here for that.\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIV\n\n\nDuring the journey back to England I thought much of\nStrickland.  I tried to set in order what I had to tell his wife.\nIt was unsatisfactory, and I could not imagine that she\nwould be content with me; I was not content with myself.\nStrickland perplexed me.  I could not understand his motives.\nWhen I had asked him what first gave him the idea of being a\npainter, he was unable or unwilling to tell me.  I could make\nnothing of it.  I tried to persuade myself than an obscure\nfeeling of revolt had been gradually coming to a head in his\nslow mind, but to challenge this was the undoubted fact that\nhe had never shown any impatience with the monotony of his life.\nIf, seized by an intolerable boredom, he had determined\nto be a painter merely to break with irksome ties, it would\nhave been comprehensible, and commonplace; but commonplace is\nprecisely what I felt he was not.  At last, because I was\nromantic, I devised an explanation which I acknowledged to be\nfar-fetched, but which was the only one that in any way\nsatisfied me.  It was this:  I asked myself whether there was\nnot in his soul some deep-rooted instinct of creation, which\nthe circumstances of his life had obscured, but which grew\nrelentlessly, as a cancer may grow in the living tissues,\ntill at last it took possession of his whole being and forced\nhim irresistibly to action.  The cuckoo lays its egg in the\nstrange bird's nest, and when the young one is hatched it\nshoulders its foster-brothers out and breaks at last the nest\nthat has sheltered it.\n\nBut how strange it was that the creative instinct should seize\nupon this dull stockbroker, to his own ruin, perhaps, and to\nthe misfortune of such as were dependent on him; and yet no\nstranger than the way in which the spirit of God has seized men,\npowerful and rich, pursuing them with stubborn vigilance\ntill at last, conquered, they have abandoned the joy of the\nworld and the love of women for the painful austerities of\nthe cloister. Conversion may come under many shapes, and it may\nbe brought about in many ways.  With some men it needs a\ncataclysm, as a stone may be broken to fragments by the fury\nof a torrent; but with some it comes gradually, as a stone may\nbe worn away by the ceaseless fall of a drop of water.\nStrickland had the directness of the fanatic and the ferocity\nof the apostle.\n\nBut to my practical mind it remained to be seen whether the\npassion which obsessed him would be justified of its works.\nWhen I asked him what his brother-students at the night\nclasses he had attended in London thought of his painting,\nhe answered with a grin:\n\n\"They thought it a joke.\"\n\n\"Have you begun to go to a studio here?\"\n\n\"Yes.  The blighter came round this morning -- the master,\nyou know; when he saw my drawing he just raised his eyebrows\nand walked on.\"\n\nStrickland chuckled.  He did not seem discouraged.\nHe was independent of the opinion of his fellows.\n\nAnd it was just that which had most disconcerted me in my\ndealings with him.  When people say they do not care what\nothers think of them, for the most part they deceive themselves.\nGenerally they mean only that they will do as\nthey choose, in the confidence that no one will know their\nvagaries; and at the utmost only that they are willing to act\ncontrary to the opinion of the majority because they are\nsupported by the approval of their neighbours.  It is not\ndifficult to be unconventional in the eyes of the world when\nyour unconventionality is but the convention of your set.\nIt affords you then an inordinate amount of self-esteem.\nYou have the self-satisfaction of courage without the\ninconvenience of danger.  But the desire for approbation is\nperhaps the most deeply seated instinct of civilised man.\nNo one runs so hurriedly to the cover of respectability as the\nunconventional woman who has exposed herself to the slings and\narrows of outraged propriety.  I do not believe the people who\ntell me they do not care a row of pins for the opinion of\ntheir fellows.  It is the bravado of ignorance.  They mean\nonly that they do not fear reproaches for peccadillos which\nthey are convinced none will discover.\n\nBut here was a man who sincerely did not mind what people\nthought of him, and so convention had no hold on him; he was\nlike a wrestler whose body is oiled; you could not get a grip\non him; it gave him a freedom which was an outrage.\nI remember saying to him:\n\n\"Look here, if everyone acted like you, the world couldn't go on.\"\n\n\"That's a damned silly thing to say.  Everyone doesn't want to\nact like me.  The great majority are perfectly content to do\nthe ordinary thing.\"\n\nAnd once I sought to be satirical.\n\n\"You evidently don't believe in the maxim:  Act so that every\none of your actions is capable of being made into a universal rule.\"\n\n\"I never heard it before, but it's rotten nonsense.\"\n\n\"Well, it was Kant who said it.\"\n\n\"I don't care; it's rotten nonsense.\"\n\nNor with such a man could you expect the appeal to conscience\nto be effective.  You might as well ask for a reflection\nwithout a mirror.  I take it that conscience is the guardian\nin the individual of the rules which the community has evolved\nfor its own preservation.  It is the policeman in all our\nhearts, set there to watch that we do not break its laws.\nIt is the spy seated in the central stronghold of the ego.\nMan's desire for the approval of his fellows is so strong, his dread\nof their censure so violent, that he himself has brought his\nenemy within his gates; and it keeps watch over him, vigilant\nalways in the interests of its master to crush any half-formed\ndesire to break away from the herd.  It will force him to\nplace the good of society before his own.  It is the very\nstrong link that attaches the individual to the whole.\nAnd man, subservient to interests he has persuaded himself are\ngreater than his own, makes himself a slave to his taskmaster.\nHe sits him in a seat of honour.  At last, like a courtier\nfawning on the royal stick that is laid about his shoulders,\nhe prides himself on the sensitiveness of his conscience.\nThen he has no words hard enough for the man who does not\nrecognise its sway; for, a member of society now, he realises\naccurately enough that against him he is powerless.  When I\nsaw that Strickland was really indifferent to the blame his\nconduct must excite, I could only draw back in horror as from\na monster of hardly human shape.\n\nThe last words he said to me when I bade him good-night were:\n\n\"Tell Amy it's no good coming after me.  Anyhow, I shall\nchange my hotel, so she wouldn't be able to find me.\"\n\n\"My own impression is that she's well rid of you,\" I said.\n\n\"My dear fellow, I only hope you'll be able to make her see it.\nBut women are very unintelligent.\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter XV\n\n\nWhen I reached London I found waiting for me an urgent request\nthat I should go to Mrs. Strickland's as soon after dinner as\nI could.  I found her with Colonel MacAndrew and his wife.\nMrs. Strickland's sister was older than she, not unlike her,\nbut more faded; and she had the efficient air, as though she\ncarried the British Empire in her pocket, which the wives of\nsenior officers acquire from the consciousness of belonging to\na superior caste.  Her manner was brisk, and her good-breeding\nscarcely concealed her conviction that if you were not a\nsoldier you might as well be a counter-jumper.  She hated the\nGuards, whom she thought conceited, and she could not trust\nherself to speak of their ladies, who were so remiss in calling.\nHer gown was dowdy and expensive.\n\nMrs. Strickland was plainly nervous.\n\n\"Well, tell us your news,\" she said.\n\n\"I saw your husband.  I'm afraid he's quite made up his mind\nnot to return.\"  I paused a little.  \"He wants to paint.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" cried Mrs. Strickland, with the utmost\nastonishment.\n\n\"Did you never know that he was keen on that sort of thing.\"\n\n\"He must be as mad as a hatter,\" exclaimed the Colonel.\n\nMrs. Strickland frowned a little.  She was searching among her\nrecollections.\n\n\"I remember before we were married he used to potter about\nwith a paint-box.  But you never saw such daubs.  We used to\nchaff him.  He had absolutely no gift for anything like that.\"\n\n\"Of course it's only an excuse,\" said Mrs. MacAndrew.\n\nMrs. Strickland pondered deeply for some time.  It was quite\nclear that she could not make head or tail of my announcement.\nShe had put some order into the drawing-room by now,\nher housewifely instincts having got the better of her dismay;\nand it no longer bore that deserted look, like a furnished house\nlong to let, which I had noticed on my first visit after the\ncatastrophe.  But now that I had seen Strickland in Paris it\nwas difficult to imagine him in those surroundings.  I thought\nit could hardly have failed to strike them that there was\nsomething incongruous in him.\n\n\"But if he wanted to be an artist, why didn't he say so?\"\nasked Mrs. Strickland at last.  \"I should have thought I was\nthe last person to be unsympathetic to -- to aspirations of\nthat kind.\"\n\nMrs. MacAndrew tightened her lips.  I imagine that she had\nnever looked with approval on her sister's leaning towards\npersons who cultivated the arts.  She spoke of \"culchaw\"\nderisively.\n\nMrs. Strickland continued:\n\n\"After all, if he had any talent I should be the first to\nencourage it.  I wouldn't have minded sacrifices.  I'd much\nrather be married to a painter than to a stockbroker.  If it\nweren't for the children, I wouldn't mind anything.  I could\nbe just as happy in a shabby studio in Chelsea as in this flat.\"\n\n\"My dear, I have no patience with you,\" cried Mrs. MacAndrew.\n\"You don't mean to say you believe a word of this nonsense?\"\n\n\"But I think it's true,\" I put in mildly.\n\nShe looked at me with good-humoured contempt.\n\n\"A man doesn't throw up his business and leave his wife and\nchildren at the age of forty to become a painter unless\nthere's a woman in it.  I suppose he met one of your --\nartistic friends, and she's turned his head.\"\n\nA spot of colour rose suddenly to Mrs. Strickland's pale cheeks.\n\n\"What is she like?\"\n\nI hesitated a little.  I knew that I had a bombshell.\n\n\"There isn't a woman.\"\n\nColonel MacAndrew and his wife uttered expressions of incredulity,\nand Mrs. Strickland sprang to her feet.\n\n\"Do you mean to say you never saw her?\"\n\n\"There's no one to see.  He's quite alone.\"\n\n\"That's preposterous,\" cried Mrs. MacAndrew.\n\n\"I knew I ought to have gone over myself,\" said the Colonel.\n\"You can bet your boots I'd have routed her out fast enough.\"\n\n\"I wish you had gone over,\" I replied, somewhat tartly.\n\"You'd have seen that every one of your suppositions was wrong.\nHe's not at a smart hotel.  He's living in one tiny\nroom in the most squalid way.  If he's left his home, it's not\nto live a gay life.  He's got hardly any money.\"\n\n\"Do you think he's done something that we don't know about,\nand is lying doggo on account of the police?\"\n\nThe suggestion sent a ray of hope in all their breasts, but I\nwould have nothing to do with it.\n\n\"If that were so, he would hardly have been such a fool as to\ngive his partner his address,\" I retorted acidly.\n\"Anyhow, there's one thing I'm positive of, he didn't go\naway with anyone.  He's not in love.  Nothing is farther\nfrom his thoughts.\"\n\nThere was a pause while they reflected over my words.\n\n\"Well, if what you say is true,\" said Mrs. MacAndrew at last,\n\"things aren't so bad as I thought.\"\n\nMrs. Strickland glanced at her, but said nothing.\n\nShe was very pale now, and her fine brow was dark and lowering.\nI could not understand the expression of her face.\nMrs. MacAndrew continued:\n\n\"If it's just a whim, he'll get over it.\"\n\n\"Why don't you go over to him, Amy?\" hazarded the Colonel.\n\"There's no reason why you shouldn't live with him in Paris\nfor a year.  We'll look after the children.  I dare say he'd\ngot stale.  Sooner or later he'll be quite ready to come back\nto London, and no great harm will have been done.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't do that,\" said Mrs. MacAndrew.  \"I'd give him all\nthe rope he wants.  He'll come back with his tail between his\nlegs and settle down again quite comfortably.\"  Mrs. MacAndrew\nlooked at her sister coolly.  \"Perhaps you weren't very wise\nwith him sometimes.  Men are queer creatures, and one has to\nknow how to manage them.\"\n\nMrs. MacAndrew shared the common opinion of her sex that a man\nis always a brute to leave a woman who is attached to him, but\nthat a woman is much to blame if he does.  <i Le coeur a ses\nraisons que la raison ne connait pas.>\n\nMrs. Strickland looked slowly from one to another of us.\n\n\"He'll never come back,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh, my dear, remember what we've just heard.  He's been used\nto comfort and to having someone to look after him.  How long\ndo you think it'll be before he gets tired of a scrubby room\nin a scrubby hotel?  Besides, he hasn't any money.  He must\ncome back.\"\n\n\"As long as I thought he'd run away with some woman I thought\nthere was a chance.  I don't believe that sort of thing ever answers.\nHe'd have got sick to death of her in three months.\nBut if he hasn't gone because he's in love, then it's finished.\"\n\n\"Oh, I think that's awfully subtle,\" said the Colonel,\nputting into the word all the contempt he felt for a quality\nso alien to the traditions of his calling.  \"Don't you believe it.\nHe'll come back, and, as Dorothy says, I dare say he'll be\nnone the worse for having had a bit of a fling.\"\n\n\"But I don't want him back,\" she said.\n\n\"Amy!\"\n\nIt was anger that had seized Mrs. Strickland, and her pallor\nwas the pallor of a cold and sudden rage.  She spoke quickly now,\nwith little gasps.\n\n\"I could have forgiven it if he'd fallen desperately in love\nwith someone and gone off with her.  I should have thought\nthat natural.  I shouldn't really have blamed him.  I should\nhave thought he was led away.  Men are so weak, and women are\nso unscrupulous.  But this is different.  I hate him.\nI'll never forgive him now.\"\n\nColonel MacAndrew and his wife began to talk to her together.\nThey were astonished.  They told her she was mad.  They could\nnot understand.  Mrs. Strickland turned desperately to me.\n\n\"Don't <i you> see?\" she cried.\n\n\"I'm not sure.  Do you mean that you could have forgiven him\nif he'd left you for a woman, but not if he's left you for an idea?\nYou think you're a match for the one, but against the\nother you're helpless?\"\n\nMrs. Strickland gave me a look in which I read no great\nfriendliness, but did not answer.  Perhaps I had struck home.\nShe went on in a low and trembling voice:\n\n\"I never knew it was possible to hate anyone as much as I hate him.\nDo you know, I've been comforting myself by thinking\nthat however long it lasted he'd want me at the end?  I knew\nwhen he was dying he'd send for me, and I was ready to go;\nI'd have nursed him like a mother, and at the last I'd have told\nhim that it didn't matter, I'd loved him always, and I forgave\nhim everything.\"\n\nI have always been a little disconcerted by the passion women\nhave for behaving beautifully at the death-bed of those they love.\nSometimes it seems as if they grudge the longevity which\npostpones their chance of an effective scene.\n\n\"But now -- now it's finished.  I'm as indifferent to him as\nif he were a stranger.  I should like him to die miserable,\npoor, and starving, without a friend.  I hope he'll rot with\nsome loathsome disease.  I've done with him.\"\n\nI thought it as well then to say what Strickland had suggested.\n\n\"If you want to divorce him, he's quite willing to do whatever\nis necessary to make it possible.\"\n\n\"Why should I give him his freedom?\"\n\n\"I don't think he wants it.  He merely thought it might be\nmore convenient to you.\"\n\nMrs. Strickland shrugged her shoulders impatiently.  I think\nI was a little disappointed in her.  I expected then people to\nbe more of a piece than I do now, and I was distressed to find\nso much vindictiveness in so charming a creature.  I did not\nrealise how motley are the qualities that go to make up a\nhuman being.  Now I am well aware that pettiness and grandeur,\nmalice and charity, hatred and love, can find place side by\nside in the same human heart.\n\nI wondered if there was anything I could say that would ease\nthe sense of bitter humiliation which at present tormented\nMrs. Strickland.  I thought I would try.\n\n\"You know, I'm not sure that your husband is quite responsible\nfor his actions.  I do not think he is himself.  He seems to\nme to be possessed by some power which is using him for its\nown ends, and in whose hold he is as helpless as a fly in a\nspider's web.  It's as though someone had cast a spell over him.\nI'm reminded of those strange stories one sometimes\nhears of another personality entering into a man and driving\nout the old one.  The soul lives unstably in the body, and is\ncapable of mysterious transformations.  In the old days they\nwould say Charles Strickland had a devil.\"\n\nMrs. MacAndrew smoothed down the lap of her gown, and gold\nbangles fell over her wrists.\n\n\"All that seems to me very far-fetched,\" she said acidly.\n\"I don't deny that perhaps Amy took her husband a little too much\nfor granted.  If she hadn't been so busy with her own affairs,\nI can't believe that she wouldn't have suspected something was\nthe matter.  I don't think that Alec could have something on\nhis mind for a year or more without my having a pretty shrewd\nidea of it.\"\n\nThe Colonel stared into vacancy, and I wondered whether anyone\ncould be quite so innocent of guile as he looked.\n\n\"But that doesn't prevent the fact that Charles Strickland is\na heartless beast.\"  She looked at me severely.  \"I can tell\nyou why he left his wife -- from pure selfishness and nothing\nelse whatever.\"\n\n\"That is certainly the simplest explanation,\" I said.\nBut I thought it explained nothing.  When, saying I was tired,\nI rose to go, Mrs. Strickland made no attempt to detain me.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVI\n\n\nWhat followed showed that Mrs. Strickland was a woman\nof character. Whatever anguish she suffered she concealed.\nShe saw shrewdly that the world is quickly bored by the\nrecital of misfortune, and willingly avoids the sight of distress.\nWhenever she went out -- and compassion for her misadventure\nmade her friends eager to entertain her -- she bore a\ndemeanour that was perfect.  She was brave, but not too obviously;\ncheerful, but not brazenly;  and she seemed more\nanxious to listen to the troubles of others than to discuss\nher own.  Whenever she spoke of her husband it was with pity.\nHer attitude towards him at first perplexed me.  One day she\nsaid to me:\n\n\"You know, I'm convinced you were mistaken about Charles being alone.\nFrom what I've been able to gather from certain\nsources that I can't tell you, I know that he didn't leave\nEngland by himself.\"\n\n\"In that case he has a positive genius for covering up his tracks.\"\n\nShe looked away and slightly coloured.\n\n\"What I mean is, if anyone talks to you about it, please don't\ncontradict it if they say he eloped with somebody.\"\n\n\"Of course not.\"\n\nShe changed the conversation as though it were a matter to\nwhich she attached no importance.  I discovered presently that\na peculiar story was circulating among her friends.  They said\nthat Charles Strickland had become infatuated with a French\ndancer, whom he had first seen in the ballet at the Empire,\nand had accompanied her to Paris.  I could not find out how\nthis had arisen, but, singularly enough, it created much\nsympathy for Mrs. Strickland, and at the same time gave her\nnot a little prestige.  This was not without its use in the\ncalling which she had decided to follow.  Colonel MacAndrew\nhad not exaggerated when he said she would be penniless, and\nit was necessary for her to earn her own living as quickly as\nshe could.  She made up her mind to profit by her acquaintance\nwith so many writers, and without loss of time began to learn\nshorthand and typewriting.  Her education made it likely that\nshe would be a typist more efficient than the average, and her\nstory made her claims appealing.  Her friends promised to send\nher work, and took care to recommend her to all theirs.\n\nThe MacAndrews, who were childless and in easy circumstances,\narranged to undertake the care of the children, and Mrs.\nStrickland had only herself to provide for.  She let her flat\nand sold her furniture.  She settled in two tiny rooms in\nWestminster, and faced the world anew.  She was so efficient\nthat it was certain she would make a success of the adventure.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVII\n\n\nIt was about five years after this that I decided to live in\nParis for a while.  I was growing stale in London.  I was\ntired of doing much the same thing every day.  My friends\npursued their course with uneventfulness; they had no longer\nany surprises for me, and when I met them I knew pretty well\nwhat they would say;  even their love-affairs had a tedious banality.\nWe were like tram-cars running on their lines from terminus\nto terminus, and it was possible to calculate within small\nlimits the number of passengers they would carry.  Life was\nordered too pleasantly.  I was seized with panic.  I gave\nup my small apartment, sold my few belongings, and resolved to\nstart afresh.\n\nI called on Mrs. Strickland before I left.  I had not seen her\nfor some time, and I noticed changes in her; it was not only\nthat she was older, thinner, and more lined; I think her\ncharacter had altered.  She had made a success of her\nbusiness, and now had an office in Chancery Lane; she did\nlittle typing herself, but spent her time correcting the work\nof the four girls she employed.  She had had the idea of\ngiving it a certain daintiness, and she made much use of blue\nand red inks; she bound the copy in coarse paper, that looked\nvaguely like watered silk, in various pale colours; and she\nhad acquired a reputation for neatness and accuracy.  She was\nmaking money.  But she could not get over the idea that to\nearn her living was somewhat undignified, and she was inclined\nto remind you that she was a lady by birth.  She could not\nhelp bringing into her conversation the names of people she\nknew which would satisfy you that she had not sunk in the\nsocial scale.  She was a little ashamed of her courage and\nbusiness capacity, but delighted that she was going to dine\nthe next night with a K.C. who lived in South Kensington.\nShe was pleased to be able to tell you that her son was at Cambridge,\nand it was with a little laugh that she spoke of the rush\nof dances to which her daughter, just out, was invited.\nI suppose I said a very stupid thing.\n\n\"Is she going into your business?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh no; I wouldn't let her do that,\" Mrs. Strickland answered.\n\"She's so pretty.  I'm sure she'll marry well.\"\n\n\"I should have thought it would be a help to you.\"\n\n\"Several people have suggested that she should go on the\nstage, but of course I couldn't consent to that, I know all\nthe chief dramatists, and I could get her a part to-morrow,\nbut I shouldn't like her to mix with all sorts of people.\"\n\nI was a little chilled by Mrs. Strickland's exclusiveness.\n\n\"Do you ever hear of your husband?\"\n\n\"No; I haven't heard a word.  He may be dead for all I know.\"\n\n\"I may run across him in Paris.  Would you like me to let you\nknow about him?\"\n\nShe hesitated a minute.\n\n\"If he's in any real want I'm prepared to help him a little.\nI'd send you a certain sum of money, and you could give it him\ngradually, as he needed it.\"\n\n\"That's very good of you,\" I said.\n\nBut I knew it was not kindness that prompted the offer. It is\nnot true that suffering ennobles the character; happiness does\nthat sometimes, but suffering, for the most part, makes men\npetty and vindictive.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XVIII\n\n\nIn point of fact, I met Strickland before I had been a\nfortnight in Paris.\n\nI quickly found myself a tiny apartment on the fifth floor of\na house in the Rue des Dames, and for a couple of hundred\nfrancs bought at a second-hand dealer's enough furniture to\nmake it habitable.  I arranged with the concierge to make my\ncoffee in the morning and to keep the place clean.  Then I\nwent to see my friend Dirk Stroeve.\n\nDirk Stroeve was one of those persons whom, according to your\ncharacter, you cannot think of without derisive laughter or an\nembarrassed shrug of the shoulders.  Nature had made him a buffoon.\nHe was a painter, but a very bad one, whom I had met\nin Rome, and I still remembered his pictures.  He had a\ngenuine enthusiasm for the commonplace.  His soul palpitating\nwith love of art, he painted the models who hung about the\nstairway of Bernini in the Piazza de Spagna, undaunted by\ntheir obvious picturesqueness; and his studio was full of\ncanvases on which were portrayed moustachioed, large-eyed\npeasants in peaked hats, urchins in becoming rags, and women\nin bright petticoats.  Sometimes they lounged at the steps of\na church, and sometimes dallied among cypresses against a\ncloudless sky; sometimes they made love by a Renaissance well-head,\nand sometimes they wandered through the Campagna by the side\nof an ox-waggon.  They were carefully drawn and carefully painted.\nA photograph could not have been more exact.  One of\nthe painters at the Villa Medici had called him <i Le Maitre\nde la Boite a Chocoloats.>  To look at his pictures you would\nhave thought that Monet, Manet, and the rest of the\nImpressionists had never been.\n\n\"I don't pretend to be a great painter,\" he said, \"I'm not a\nMichael Angelo, no, but I have something.  I sell.  I bring\nromance into the homes of all sorts of people.  Do you know,\nthey buy my pictures not only in Holland, but in Norway and\nSweden and Denmark?  It's mostly merchants who buy them, and\nrich tradesmen.  You can't imagine what the winters are like\nin those countries, so long and dark and cold.  They like to\nthink that Italy is like my pictures.  That's what they\nexpect.  That's what I expected Italy to be before I came\nhere.\"\n\nAnd I think that was the vision that had remained with him\nalways, dazzling his eyes so that he could not see the truth;\nand notwithstanding the brutality of fact, he continued to see\nwith the eyes of the spirit an Italy of romantic brigands and\npicturesque ruins.  It was an ideal that he painted -- a poor one,\ncommon and shop-soiled, but still it was an ideal; and it\ngave his character a peculiar charm.\n\nIt was because I felt this that Dirk Stroeve was not to me, as to\nothers, merely an object of ridicule. His fellow-painters made no\nsecret of their contempt for his work, but he earned a fair amount of\nmoney, and they did not hesitate to make free use of his purse. He was\ngenerous, and the needy, laughing at him because he believed so\nnaively their stories of distress, borrowed from him with effrontery.\nHe was very emotional, yet his feeling, so easily aroused, had in it\nsomething absurd, so that you accepted his kindness, but felt no\ngratitude. To take money from him was like robbing a child, and you\ndespised him because he was so foolish. I imagine that a pickpocket,\nproud of his light fingers, must feel a sort of indignation with the\ncareless woman who leaves in a cab a vanity-bag with all her jewels in\nit. Nature had made him a butt, but had denied him insensibility. He\nwrithed under the jokes, practical and otherwise, which were\nperpetually made at his expense, and yet never ceased, it seemed\nwilfully, to expose himself to them. He was constantly wounded, and\nyet his good-nature was such that he could not bear malice: the viper\nmight sting him, but he never learned by experience, and had no sooner\nrecovered from his pain than he tenderly placed it once more in his\nbosom. His life was a tragedy written in the terms of knockabout\nfarce. Because I did not laugh at him he was grateful to me, and he\nused to pour into my sympathetic ear the long list of his troubles.\nThe saddest thing about them was that they were grotesque, and the\nmore pathetic they were, the more you wanted to laugh.\n\nBut though so bad a painter, he had a very delicate feeling\nfor art, and to go with him to picture-galleries was a rare treat.\nHis enthusiasm was sincere and his criticism acute.\nHe was catholic.  He had not only a true appreciation of the\nold masters, but sympathy with the moderns.  He was quick to\ndiscover talent, and his praise was generous.  I think I have\nnever known a man whose judgment was surer.  And he was better\neducated than most painters.  He was not, like most of them,\nignorant of kindred arts, and his taste for music and\nliterature gave depth and variety to his comprehension of painting.\nTo a young man like myself his advice and guidance were\nof incomparable value.\n\nWhen I left Rome I corresponded with him, and about once in\ntwo months received from him long letters in queer English,\nwhich brought before me vividly his spluttering, enthusiastic,\ngesticulating conversation.  Some time before I went to Paris\nhe had married an Englishwoman, and was now settled in a\nstudio in Montmartre.  I had not seen him for four years,\nand had never met his wife.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XIX\n\n\nI had not announced my arrival to Stroeve, and when I rang the\nbell of his studio, on opening the door himself, for a moment\nhe did not know me.  Then he gave a cry of delighted surprise\nand drew me in.  It was charming to be welcomed with so much\neagerness.  His wife was seated near the stove at her sewing,\nand she rose as I came in.  He introduced me.\n\n\"Don't you remember?\" he said to her.  \"I've talked to you\nabout him often.\"  And then to me:  \"But why didn't you let me\nknow you were coming?  How long have you been here?  How long\nare you going to stay?  Why didn't you come an hour earlier,\nand we would have dined together?\"\n\nHe bombarded me with questions.  He sat me down in a chair,\npatting me as though I were a cushion, pressed cigars upon me,\ncakes, wine.  He could not let me alone.  He was heart-broken\nbecause he had no whisky, wanted to make coffee for me,\nracked his brain for something he could possibly do for me,\nand beamed and laughed, and in the exuberance of his delight\nsweated at every pore.\n\n\"You haven't changed,\" I said, smiling, as I looked at him.\n\nHe had the same absurd appearance that I remembered.  He was a\nfat little man, with short legs, young still -- he could not\nhave been more than thirty -- but prematurely bald.  His face\nwas perfectly round, and he had a very high colour, a white\nskin, red cheeks, and red lips.  His eyes were blue and round\ntoo, he wore large gold-rimmed spectacles, and his eyebrows\nwere so fair that you could not see them.  He reminded you of\nthose jolly, fat merchants that Rubens painted.\n\nWhen I told him that I meant to live in Paris for a while, and\nhad taken an apartment, he reproached me bitterly for not\nhaving let him know.  He would have found me an apartment\nhimself, and lent me furniture -- did I really mean that I had\ngone to the expense of buying it? -- and he would have helped\nme to move in.  He really looked upon it as unfriendly that I\nhad not given him the opportunity of making himself useful to me.\nMeanwhile, Mrs. Stroeve sat quietly mending her stockings,\nwithout talking, and she listened to all he said with a quiet\nsmile on her lips.\n\n\"So, you see, I'm married,\" he said suddenly; \"what do you\nthink of my wife?\"\n\nHe beamed at her, and settled his spectacles on the bridge of\nhis nose.  The sweat made them constantly slip down.\n\n\"What on earth do you expect me to say to that?\" I laughed.\n\n\"Really, Dirk,\" put in Mrs. Stroeve, smiling.\n\n\"But isn't she wonderful?  I tell you, my boy, lose no time;\nget married as soon as ever you can.  I'm the happiest man alive.\nLook at her sitting there.  Doesn't she make a picture?\nChardin, eh?  I've seen all the most beautiful women\nin the world; I've never seen anyone more beautiful than\nMadame Dirk Stroeve.\"\n\n\"If you don't be quiet, Dirk, I shall go away.\"\n\n<i \"Mon petit chou\">, he said.\n\nShe flushed a little, embarrassed by the passion in his tone.\nHis letters had told me that he was very much in love with his\nwife, and I saw that he could hardly take his eyes off her.\nI could not tell if she loved him.  Poor pantaloon, he was not\nan object to excite love, but the smile in her eyes was\naffectionate, and it was possible that her reserve concealed a\nvery deep feeling.  She was not the ravishing creature that\nhis love-sick fancy saw, but she had a grave comeliness.\nShe was rather tall, and her gray dress, simple and quite\nwell-cut, did not hide the fact that her figure was beautiful.\nIt was a figure that might have appealed more to the sculptor\nthan to the costumier.  Her hair, brown and abundant, was\nplainly done, her face was very pale, and her features were\ngood without being distinguished.  She had quiet gray eyes.\nShe just missed being beautiful, and in missing it was not\neven pretty.  But when Stroeve spoke of Chardin it was not\nwithout reason, and she reminded me curiously of that pleasant\nhousewife in her mob-cap and apron whom the great painter has\nimmortalised.  I could imagine her sedately busy among her\npots and pans, making a ritual of her household duties, so\nthat they acquired a moral significance; I did not suppose\nthat she was clever or could ever be amusing, but there was\nsomething in her grave intentness which excited my interest.\nHer reserve was not without mystery.  I wondered why she had\nmarried Dirk Stroeve.  Though she was English, I could not\nexactly place her, and it was not obvious from what rank in\nsociety she sprang, what had been her upbringing, or how she\nhad lived before her marriage.  She was very silent, but when\nshe spoke it was with a pleasant voice, and her manners\nwere natural.\n\nI asked Stroeve if he was working.\n\n\"Working?  I'm painting better than I've ever painted before.\"\n\nWe sat in the studio, and he waved his hand to an unfinished\npicture on an easel.  I gave a little start.  He was painting\na group of Italian peasants, in the costume of the Campagna,\nlounging on the steps of a Roman church.\n\n\"Is that what you're doing now?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes.  I can get my models here just as well as in Rome.\"\n\n\"Don't you think it's very beautiful?\" said Mrs. Stroeve.\n\n\"This foolish wife of mine thinks I'm a great artist,\" said he.\n\nHis apologetic laugh did not disguise the pleasure that he felt.\nHis eyes lingered on his picture.  It was strange that\nhis critical sense, so accurate and unconventional when he\ndealt with the work of others, should be satisfied in himself\nwith what was hackneyed and vulgar beyond belief.\n\n\"Show him some more of your pictures,\" she said.\n\n\"Shall I?\"\n\nThough he had suffered so much from the ridicule of his friends,\nDirk Stroeve, eager for praise and naively self-satisfied,\ncould never resist displaying his work.  He brought out\na picture of two curly-headed Italian urchins playing marbles.\n\n\"Aren't they sweet?\" said Mrs. Stroeve.\n\nAnd then he showed me more.  I discovered that in Paris he had\nbeen painting just the same stale, obviously picturesque\nthings that he had painted for years in Rome.  It was all\nfalse, insincere, shoddy; and yet no one was more honest,\nsincere, and frank than Dirk Stroeve.  Who could resolve\nthe contradiction?\n\nI do not know what put it into my head to ask:\n\n\"I say, have you by any chance run across a painter called\nCharles Strickland?\"\n\n\"You don't mean to say you know him?\" cried Stroeve.\n\n\"Beast,\" said his wife.\n\nStroeve laughed.\n\n<i \"Ma pauvre cherie.\">  He went over to her and kissed both\nher hands.  \"She doesn't like him.  How strange that you\nshould know Strickland!\"\n\n\"I don't like bad manners,\" said Mrs. Stroeve.\n\nDirk, laughing still, turned to me to explain.\n\n\"You see, I asked him to come here one day and look at my\npictures.  Well, he came, and I showed him everything I had.\"\nStroeve hesitated a moment with embarrassment.  I do not know\nwhy he had begun the story against himself; he felt an\nawkwardness at finishing it.  \"He looked at -- at my pictures,\nand he didn't say anything.  I thought he was reserving his\njudgment till the end.  And at last I said:  'There, that's\nthe lot!' He said:  'I came to ask you to lend me twenty francs.'\"\n\n\"And Dirk actually gave it him,\" said his wife indignantly.\n\n\"I was so taken aback.  I didn't like to refuse.  He put the\nmoney in his pocket, just nodded, said 'Thanks,' and walked out.\"\n\nDirk Stroeve, telling the story, had such a look of blank\nastonishment on his round, foolish face that it was almost\nimpossible not to laugh.\n\n\"I shouldn't have minded if he'd said my pictures were bad,\nbut he said nothing -- nothing.\"\n\n\"And you <i will> tell the story, Dirk,\" Said his wife.\n\nIt was lamentable that one was more amused by the ridiculous\nfigure cut by the Dutchman than outraged by Strickland's\nbrutal treatment of him.\n\n\"I hope I shall never see him again,\" said Mrs. Stroeve.\n\nStroeve smiled and shrugged his shoulders.  He had already\nrecovered his good-humour.\n\n\"The fact remains that he's a great artist, a very great artist.\"\n\n\"Strickland?\" I exclaimed.  \"It can't be the same man.\"\n\n\"A big fellow with a red beard.  Charles Strickland.\nAn Englishman.\"\n\n\"He had no beard when I knew him, but if he has grown one it\nmight well be red.  The man I'm thinking of only began\npainting five years ago.\"\n\n\"That's it.  He's a great artist.\"\n\n\"Impossible.\"\n\n\"Have I ever been mistaken?\" Dirk asked me.  \"I tell you he\nhas genius.  I'm convinced of it.  In a hundred years, if you\nand I are remembered at all, it will be because we knew\nCharles Strickland.\"\n\nI was astonished, and at the same time I was very much excited.\nI remembered suddenly my last talk with him.\n\n\"Where can one see his work?\" I asked.  \"Is he having any success?\nWhere is he living?\"\n\n\"No; he has no success.  I don't think he's ever sold a picture.\nWhen you speak to men about him they only laugh.\nBut I <i know> he's a great artist.  After all, they laughed\nat Manet.  Corot never sold a picture.  I don't know where he\nlives, but I can take you to see him.  He goes to a cafe in\nthe Avenue de Clichy at seven o'clock every evening.  If you\nlike we'll go there to-morrow.\"\n\n\"I'm not sure if he'll wish to see me.  I think I may remind\nhim of a time he prefers to forget.  But I'll come all the same.\nIs there any chance of seeing any of his pictures?\"\n\n\"Not from him.  He won't show you a thing.  There's a little\ndealer I know who has two or three.  But you mustn't go without me;\nyou wouldn't understand.  I must show them to you myself.\"\n\n\"Dirk, you make me impatient,\" said Mrs. Stroeve.  \"How can\nyou talk like that about his pictures when he treated you as\nhe did?\" She turned to me.  \"Do you know, when some Dutch\npeople came here to buy Dirk's pictures he tried to persuade\nthem to buy Strickland's?  He insisted on bringing them here\nto show.\"\n\n\"What did <i you> think of them?\" I asked her, smiling.\n\n\"They were awful.\"\n\n\"Ah, sweetheart, you don't understand.\"\n\n\"Well, your Dutch people were furious with you.  They thought\nyou were having a joke with them.\"\n\nDirk Stroeve took off his spectacles and wiped them.  His\nflushed face was shining with excitement.\n\n\"Why should you think that beauty, which is the most precious\nthing in the world, lies like a stone on the beach for the\ncareless passer-by to pick up idly?  Beauty is something\nwonderful and strange that the artist fashions out of the\nchaos of the world in the torment of his soul.  And when he\nhas made it, it is not given to all to know it.  To recognize\nit you must repeat the adventure of the artist.  It is a\nmelody that he sings to you, and to hear it again in your own\nheart you want knowledge and sensitiveness and imagination.\"\n\n\"Why did I always think your pictures beautiful, Dirk?\nI admired them the very first time I saw them.\"\n\nStroeve's lips trembled a little.\n\n\"Go to bed, my precious.  I will walk a few steps with our\nfriend, and then I will come back.\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter XX\n\n\nDirk Stroeve agreed to fetch me on the following evening and\ntake me to the cafe at which Strickland was most likely to be found.\nI was interested to learn that it was the same as that\nat which Strickland and I had drunk absinthe when I had gone\nover to Paris to see him.  The fact that he had never changed\nsuggested a sluggishness of habit which seemed to me characteristic.\n\n\"There he is,\" said Stroeve, as we reached the cafe.\n\nThough it was October, the evening was warm, and the tables on\nthe pavement were crowded.  I ran my eyes over them, but did\nnot see Strickland.\n\n\"Look.  Over there, in the corner.  He's playing chess.\"\n\nI noticed a man bending over a chess-board, but could see only\na large felt hat and a red beard.  We threaded our way among\nthe tables till we came to him.\n\n\"Strickland.\"\n\nHe looked up.\n\n\"Hulloa, fatty.  What do you want?\"\n\n\"I've brought an old friend to see you.\"\n\nStrickland gave me a glance, and evidently did not recognise me.\nHe resumed his scrutiny of the chess-board.\n\n\"Sit down, and don't make a noise,\" he said.\n\nHe moved a piece and straightway became absorbed in the game.\nPoor Stroeve gave me a troubled look, but I was not\ndisconcerted by so little.  I ordered something to drink,\nand waited quietly till Strickland had finished.  I welcomed the\nopportunity to examine him at my ease.  I certainly should\nnever have known him.  In the first place his red beard,\nragged and untrimmed, hid much of his face, and his hair was long;\nbut the most surprising change in him was his extreme thinness.\nIt made his great nose protrude more arrogantly;\nit emphasized his cheekbones; it made his eyes seem larger.\nThere were deep hollows at his temples.  His body was cadaverous.\nHe wore the same suit that I had seen him in five years\nbefore; it was torn and stained, threadbare, and it hung\nupon him loosely, as though it had been made for someone else.\nI noticed his hands, dirty, with long nails; they were merely\nbone and sinew, large and strong; but I had forgotten that\nthey were so shapely.  He gave me an extraordinary impression\nas he sat there, his attention riveted on his game -- an\nimpression of great strength; and I could not understand why\nit was that his emaciation somehow made it more striking.\n\nPresently, after moving, he leaned back and gazed with a\ncurious abstraction at his antagonist.  This was a fat,\nbearded Frenchman.  The Frenchman considered the position,\nthen broke suddenly into jovial expletives, and with an\nimpatient gesture, gathering up the pieces, flung them into\ntheir box.  He cursed Strickland freely, then, calling for the\nwaiter, paid for the drinks, and left.  Stroeve drew his chair\ncloser to the table.\n\n\"Now I suppose we can talk,\" he said.\n\nStrickland's eyes rested on him, and there was in them a\nmalicious expression.  I felt sure he was seeking for some gibe,\ncould think of none, and so was forced to silence.\n\n\"I've brought an old friend to see you,\" repeated Stroeve,\nbeaming cheerfully.\n\nStrickland looked at me thoughtfully for nearly a minute.\nI did not speak.\n\n\"I've never seen him in my life,\" he said.\n\nI do not know why he said this, for I felt certain I had\ncaught a gleam of recognition in his eyes.  I was not so\neasily abashed as I had been some years earlier.\n\n\"I saw your wife the other day,\" I said.  \"I felt sure you'd\nlike to have the latest news of her.\"\n\nHe gave a short laugh.  His eyes twinkled.\n\n\"We had a jolly evening together,\" he said.  \"How long ago is it?\"\n\n\"Five years.\"\n\nHe called for another absinthe.  Stroeve, with voluble tongue,\nexplained how he and I had met, and by what an accident we\ndiscovered that we both knew Strickland.  I do not know if\nStrickland listened.  He glanced at me once or twice\nreflectively, but for the most part seemed occupied with his\nown thoughts; and certainly without Stroeve's babble the\nconversation would have been difficult.  In half an hour the\nDutchman, looking at his watch, announced that he must go.\nHe asked whether I would come too.  I thought, alone, I might get\nsomething out of Strickland, and so answered that I would stay.\n\nWhen the fat man had left I said:\n\n\"Dirk Stroeve thinks you're a great artist.\"\n\n\"What the hell do you suppose I care?\"\n\n\"Will you let me see your pictures?\"\n\n\"Why should I?\"\n\n\"I might feel inclined to buy one.\"\n\n\"I might not feel inclined to sell one.\"\n\n\"Are you making a good living?\" I asked, smiling.\n\nHe chuckled.\n\n\"Do I look it?\"\n\n\"You look half starved.\"\n\n\"I am half starved.\"\n\n\"Then come and let's have a bit of dinner.\"\n\n\"Why do you ask me?\"\n\n\"Not out of charity,\" I answered coolly.  \"I don't really care\na twopenny damn if you starve or not.\"\n\nHis eyes lit up again.\n\n\"Come on, then,\" he said, getting up.  \"I'd like a decent meal.\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXI\n\n\nI let him take me to a restaurant of his choice, but on the\nway I bought a paper.  When we had ordered our dinner,\nI propped it against a bottle of St. Galmier and began to read.\nWe ate in silence.  I felt him looking at me now and again,\nbut I took no notice.  I meant to force him to conversation.\n\n\"Is there anything in the paper?\" he said, as we approached\nthe end of our silent meal.\n\nI fancied there was in his tone a slight note of exasperation.\n\n\"I always like to read the <i feuilleton> on the drama,\" I said.\n\nI folded the paper and put it down beside me.\n\n\"I've enjoyed my dinner,\" he remarked.\n\n\"I think we might have our coffee here, don't you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nWe lit our cigars.  I smoked in silence.  I noticed that now\nand then his eyes rested on me with a faint smile of amusement.\nI waited patiently.\n\n\"What have you been up to since I saw you last?\" he asked at\nlength.\n\nI had not very much to say.  It was a record of hard work and of\nlittle adventure; of experiments in this direction and in that;\nof the gradual acquisition of the knowledge of books and of men.\nI took care to ask Strickland nothing about his own doings.\nI showed not the least interest in him, and at last I\nwas rewarded.  He began to talk of himself.  But with his poor\ngift of expression he gave but indications of what he had gone\nthrough, and I had to fill up the gaps with my own imagination.\nIt was tantalising to get no more than hints\ninto a character that interested me so much.  It was like\nmaking one's way through a mutilated manuscript.  I received\nthe impression of a life which was a bitter struggle against\nevery sort of difficulty; but I realised that much which would\nhave seemed horrible to most people did not in the least\naffect him.  Strickland was distinguished from most Englishmen\nby his perfect indifference to comfort; it did not irk him to\nlive always in one shabby room; he had no need to be\nsurrounded by beautiful things.  I do not suppose he had ever\nnoticed how dingy was the paper on the wall of the room in\nwhich on my first visit I found him.  He did not want arm-chairs\nto sit in; he really felt more at his ease on a kitchen chair.\nHe ate with appetite, but was indifferent to what he ate;\nto him it was only food that he devoured to still the\npangs of hunger; and when no food was to be had he seemed\ncapable of doing without.  I learned that for six months he\nhad lived on a loaf of bread and a bottle of milk a day.\nHe was a sensual man, and yet was indifferent to sensual things.\nHe looked upon privation as no hardship.  There was something\nimpressive in the manner in which he lived a life wholly of\nthe spirit.\n\nWhen the small sum of money which he brought with him from\nLondon came to an end he suffered from no dismay.  He sold no\npictures; I think he made little attempt to sell any; he set\nabout finding some way to make a bit of money.  He told me\nwith grim humour of the time he had spent acting as guide to\nCockneys who wanted to see the night side of life in Paris;\nit was an occupation that appealed to his sardonic temper and\nsomehow or other he had acquired a wide acquaintance with the\nmore disreputable quarters of the city.  He told me of the\nlong hours he spent walking about the Boulevard de la\nMadeleine on the look-out for Englishmen, preferably the worse\nfor liquor, who desired to see things which the law forbade.\nWhen in luck he was able to make a tidy sum; but the\nshabbiness of his clothes at last frightened the sight-seers,\nand he could not find people adventurous enough to trust\nthemselves to him.  Then he happened on a job to translate the\nadvertisements of patent medicines which were sent broadcast\nto the medical profession in England.  During a strike he had\nbeen employed as a house-painter.\n\nMeanwhile he had never ceased to work at his art; but, soon\ntiring of the studios, entirely by himself.  He had never been\nso poor that he could not buy canvas and paint, and really he\nneeded nothing else.  So far as I could make out, he painted\nwith great difficulty, and in his unwillingness to accept help\nfrom anyone lost much time in finding out for himself the\nsolution of technical problems which preceding generations had\nalready worked out one by one.  He was aiming at something,\nI knew not what, and perhaps he hardly knew himself; and I got\nagain more strongly the impression of a man possessed.  He did\nnot seem quite sane.  It seemed to me that he would not show\nhis pictures because he was really not interested in them.\nHe lived in a dream, and the reality meant nothing to him.\nI had the feeling that he worked on a canvas with all the force\nof his violent personality, oblivious of everything in his effort\nto get what he saw with the mind's eye; and then, having\nfinished, not the picture perhaps, for I had an idea that he\nseldom brought anything to completion, but the passion that\nfired him, he lost all care for it.  He was never satisfied\nwith what he had done; it seemed to him of no consequence\ncompared with the vision that obsessed his mind.\n\n\"Why don't you ever send your work to exhibitions?\" I asked.\n\"I should have thought you'd like to know what people thought\nabout it.\"\n\n\"Would you?\"\n\nI cannot describe the unmeasurable contempt he put into the\ntwo words.\n\n\"Don't you want fame?  It's something that most artists\nhaven't been indifferent to.\"\n\n\"Children.  How can you care for the opinion of the crowd,\nwhen you don't care twopence for the opinion of the individual?\"\n\n\"We're not all reasonable beings,\" I laughed.\n\n\"Who makes fame?  Critics, writers, stockbrokers, women.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't it give you a rather pleasing sensation to think of\npeople you didn't know and had never seen receiving emotions,\nsubtle and passionate, from the work of your hands?  Everyone\nlikes power.  I can't imagine a more wonderful exercise of it\nthan to move the souls of men to pity or terror.\"\n\n\"Melodrama.\"\n\n\"Why do you mind if you paint well or badly?\"\n\n\"I don't.  I only want to paint what I see.\"\n\n\"I wonder if I could write on a desert island, with the\ncertainty that no eyes but mine would ever see what I had\nwritten.\"\n\nStrickland did not speak for a long time, but his eyes shone\nstrangely, as though he saw something that kindled his soul to\necstasy.\n\n\"Sometimes I've thought of an island lost in a boundless sea,\nwhere I could live in some hidden valley, among strange trees,\nin silence.  There I think I could find what I want.\"\n\nHe did not express himself quite like this.  He used gestures\ninstead of adjectives, and he halted.  I have put into my own\nwords what I think he wanted to say.\n\n\"Looking back on the last five years, do you think it was\nworth it?\" I asked.\n\nHe looked at me, and I saw that he did not know what I meant.\nI explained.\n\n\"You gave up a comfortable home and a life as happy as the\naverage.  You were fairly prosperous.  You seem to have had a\nrotten time in Paris.  If you had your time over again would\nyou do what you did?\"\n\n\"Rather.\"\n\n\"Do you know that you haven't asked anything about your wife\nand children?  Do you never think of them?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"I wish you weren't so damned monosyllabic.  Have you never\nhad a moment's regret for all the unhappiness you caused them?\"\n\nHis lips broke into a smile, and he shook his head.\n\n\"I should have thought sometimes you couldn't help thinking of\nthe past.  I don't mean the past of seven or eight years ago,\nbut further back still, when you first met your wife, and\nloved her, and married her.  Don't you remember the joy with\nwhich you first took her in your arms?\"\n\n\"I don't think of the past.  The only thing that matters is\nthe everlasting present.\"\n\nI thought for a moment over this reply.  It was obscure,\nperhaps, but I thought that I saw dimly his meaning.\n\n\"Are you happy?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nI was silent.  I looked at him reflectively.  He held my\nstare, and presently a sardonic twinkle lit up his eyes.\n\n\"I'm afraid you disapprove of me?\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" I answered promptly; \"I don't disapprove of the\nboa-constrictor; on the contrary, I'm interested in his mental\nprocesses.\"\n\n\"It's a purely professional interest you take in me?\"\n\n\"Purely.\"\n\n\"It's only right that you shouldn't disapprove of me.\nYou have a despicable character.\"\n\n\"Perhaps that's why you feel at home with me,\" I retorted.\n\nHe smiled dryly, but said nothing.  I wish I knew how to\ndescribe his smile.  I do not know that it was attractive,\nbut it lit up his face, changing the expression, which was\ngenerally sombre, and gave it a look of not ill-natured malice.\nIt was a slow smile, starting and sometimes ending in\nthe eyes; it was very sensual, neither cruel nor kindly,\nbut suggested rather the inhuman glee of the satyr.  It was his\nsmile that made me ask him:\n\n\"Haven't you been in love since you came to Paris?\"\n\n\"I haven't got time for that sort of nonsense.  Life isn't\nlong enough for love and art.\"\n\n\"Your appearance doesn't suggest the anchorite.\"\n\n\"All that business fills me with disgust.\"\n\n\"Human nature is a nuisance, isn't it?\" I said.\n\n\"Why are you sniggering at me?\"\n\n\"Because I don't believe you.\"\n\n\"Then you're a damned fool.\"\n\nI paused, and I looked at him searchingly.\n\n\"What's the good of trying to humbug me?\" I said.\n\n\"I don't know what you mean.\"\n\nI smiled.\n\n\"Let me tell you.  I imagine that for months the matter never\ncomes into your head, and you're able to persuade yourself\nthat you've finished with it for good and all.  You rejoice in\nyour freedom, and you feel that at last you can call your soul\nyour own.  You seem to walk with your head among the stars.\nAnd then, all of a sudden you can't stand it any more, and you\nnotice that all the time your feet have been walking in the mud.\nAnd you want to roll yourself in it.  And you find some\nwoman, coarse and low and vulgar, some beastly creature in\nwhom all the horror of sex is blatant, and you fall upon her\nlike a wild animal.  You drink till you're blind with rage.\"\n\nHe stared at me without the slightest movement.  I held his\neyes with mine.  I spoke very slowly.\n\n\"I'll tell you what must seem strange, that when it's over you\nfeel so extraordinarily pure.  You feel like a disembodied\nspirit, immaterial; and you seem to be able to touch beauty as\nthough it were a palpable thing; and you feel an intimate\ncommunion with the breeze, and with the trees breaking into leaf,\nand with the iridescence of the river.  You feel like God.\nCan you explain that to me?\"\n\nHe kept his eyes fixed on mine till I had finished, and then\nhe turned away.  There was on his face a strange look, and\nI thought that so might a man look when he had died under\nthe torture.  He was silent.  I knew that our conversation\nwas ended.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXII\n\n\nI settled down in Paris and began to write a play.  I led a\nvery regular life, working in the morning, and in the\nafternoon lounging about the gardens of the Luxembourg or\nsauntering through the streets.  I spent long hours in the\nLouvre, the most friendly of all galleries and the most\nconvenient for meditation; or idled on the quays, fingering\nsecond-hand books that I never meant to buy.  I read a page\nhere and there, and made acquaintance with a great many\nauthors whom I was content to know thus desultorily.  In the\nevenings I went to see my friends.  I looked in often on the\nStroeves, and sometimes shared their modest fare.  Dirk\nStroeve flattered himself on his skill in cooking Italian\ndishes, and I confess that his <i spaghetti> were very much\nbetter than his pictures.  It was a dinner for a King when he\nbrought in a huge dish of it, succulent with tomatoes, and we\nate it together with the good household bread and a bottle of\nred wine.  I grew more intimate with Blanche Stroeve, and I\nthink, because I was English and she knew few English people,\nshe was glad to see me.  She was pleasant and simple, but she\nremained always rather silent, and I knew not why, gave me the\nimpression that she was concealing something.  But I thought that\nwas perhaps no more than a natural reserve accentuated by the\nverbose frankness of her husband.  Dirk never concealed anything.\nHe discussed the most intimate matters with a complete\nlack of self-consciousness.  Sometimes he embarrassed\nhis wife, and the only time I saw her put out of countenance\nwas when he insisted on telling me that he had taken a purge,\nand went into somewhat realistic details on the subject.\nThe perfect seriousness with which he narrated his\nmisfortunes convulsed me with laughter, and this added to\nMrs. Stroeve's irritation.\n\n\"You seem to like making a fool of yourself,\" she said.\n\nHis round eyes grew rounder still, and his brow puckered in\ndismay as he saw that she was angry.\n\n\"Sweetheart, have I vexed you? I'll never take another.\nIt was only because I was bilious.  I lead a sedentary life.\nI don't take enough exercise.  For three days I hadn't ...\"\n\n\"For goodness sake, hold your tongue,\" she interrupted, tears\nof annoyance in her eyes.\n\nHis face fell, and he pouted his lips like a scolded child.\nHe gave me a look of appeal, so that I might put things right,\nbut, unable to control myself, I shook with helpless laughter.\n\nWe went one day to the picture-dealer in whose shop Stroeve\nthought he could show me at least two or three of Strickland's\npictures, but when we arrived were told that Strickland\nhimself had taken them away.  The dealer did not know why.\n\n\"But don't imagine to yourself that I make myself bad blood on\nthat account.  I took them to oblige Monsieur Stroeve, and I\nsaid I would sell them if I could.  But really --\"  He\nshrugged his shoulders.  \"I'm interested in the young men, but\n<i voyons>, you yourself, Monsieur Stroeve, you don't think\nthere's any talent there.\"\n\n\"I give you my word of honour, there's no one painting to-day\nin whose talent I am more convinced.  Take my word for it,\nyou are missing a good affair.  Some day those pictures will be\nworth more than all you have in your shop.  Remember Monet,\nwho could not get anyone to buy his pictures for a hundred francs.\nWhat are they worth now?\"\n\n\"True.  But there were a hundred as good painters as Monet who\ncouldn't sell their pictures at that time, and their pictures\nare worth nothing still.  How can one tell? Is merit enough to\nbring success?  Don't believe it.  <i Du reste>, it has still\nto be proved that this friend of yours has merit.  No one\nclaims it for him but Monsieur Stroeve.\"\n\n\"And how, then, will you recognise merit?\" asked Dirk, red in\nthe face with anger.\n\n\"There is only one way -- by success.\"\n\n\"Philistine,\" cried Dirk.\n\n\"But think of the great artists of the past -- Raphael,\nMichael Angelo, Ingres, Delacroix -- they were all successful.\"\n\n\"Let us go,\" said Stroeve to me, \"or I shall kill this man.\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIII\n\n\nI saw Strickland not infrequently, and now and then played\nchess with him.  He was of uncertain temper.  Sometimes he\nwould sit silent and abstracted, taking no notice of anyone;\nand at others, when he was in a good humour, he would talk in\nhis own halting way.  He never said a clever thing, but he had\na vein of brutal sarcasm which was not ineffective, and he\nalways said exactly what he thought.  He was indifferent to\nthe susceptibilities of others, and when he wounded them was amused.\nHe was constantly offending Dirk Stroeve so bitterly\nthat he flung away, vowing he would never speak to him again;\nbut there was a solid force in Strickland that attracted the\nfat Dutchman against his will, so that he came back, fawning\nlike a clumsy dog, though he knew that his only greeting would\nbe the blow he dreaded.\n\nI do not know why Strickland put up with me.  Our relations\nwere peculiar.  One day he asked me to lend him fifty francs.\n\n\"I wouldn't dream of it,\" I replied.\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"It wouldn't amuse me.\"\n\n\"I'm frightfully hard up, you know.\"\n\n\"I don't care.\"\n\n\"You don't care if I starve?\"\n\n\"Why on earth should I?\" I asked in my turn.\n\nHe looked at me for a minute or two, pulling his untidy beard.\nI smiled at him.\n\n\"What are you amused at?\" he said, with a gleam of anger in\nhis eyes.\n\n\"You're so simple.  You recognise no obligations.  No one is\nunder any obligation to you.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't it make you uncomfortable if I went and hanged\nmyself because I'd been turned out of my room as I couldn't\npay the rent?\"\n\n\"Not a bit.\"\n\nHe chuckled.\n\n\"You're bragging.  If I really did you'd be overwhelmed with\nremorse.\"\n\n\"Try it, and we'll see,\" I retorted.\n\nA smile flickered in his eyes, and he stirred his absinthe in\nsilence.\n\n\"Would you like to play chess?\" I asked.\n\n\"I don't mind.\"\n\nWe set up the pieces, and when the board was ready he\nconsidered it with a comfortable eye.  There is a sense of\nsatisfaction in looking at your men all ready for the fray.\n\n\"Did you really think I'd lend you money?\" I asked.\n\n\"I didn't see why you shouldn't.\"\n\n\"You surprise me.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"It's disappointing to find that at heart you are sentimental.\nI should have liked you better if you hadn't made that\ningenuous appeal to my sympathies.\"\n\n\"I should have despised you if you'd been moved by it,\" he answered.\n\n\"That's better,\" I laughed.\n\nWe began to play.  We were both absorbed in the game.  When it\nwas finished I said to him:\n\n\"Look here, if you're hard up, let me see your pictures.\nIf there's anything I like I'll buy it.\"\n\n\"Go to hell,\" he answered.\n\nHe got up and was about to go away.  I stopped him.\n\n\"You haven't paid for your absinthe,\" I said, smiling.\n\nHe cursed me, flung down the money and left.\n\nI did not see him for several days after that, but one\nevening, when I was sitting in the cafe, reading a paper,\nhe came up and sat beside me.\n\n\"You haven't hanged yourself after all,\" I remarked.\n\n\"No.  I've got a commission.  I'm painting the portrait of a\nretired plumber for two hundred francs.\"[5]\n\n\n[5] This picture, formerly in the possession of a wealthy\nmanufacturer at Lille, who fled from that city on the approach\nof the Germans, is now in the National Gallery at Stockholm.\nThe Swede is adept at the gentle pastime of fishing in\ntroubled waters.\n\n\n\"How did you manage that?\"\n\n\"The woman where I get my bread recommended me.  He'd told her\nhe was looking out for someone to paint him.  I've got to give\nher twenty francs.\"\n\n\"What's he like?\"\n\n\"Splendid.  He's got a great red face like a leg of mutton,\nand on his right cheek there's an enormous mole with long\nhairs growing out of it.\"\n\nStrickland was in a good humour, and when Dirk  Stroeve came\nup and sat down with us he attacked him with ferocious banter.\nHe showed a skill I should never have credited him with in\nfinding the places where the unhappy Dutchman was most\nsensitive.  Strickland employed not the rapier of sarcasm but\nthe bludgeon of invective.  The attack was so unprovoked that\nStroeve, taken unawares, was defenceless.  He reminded you of\na frightened sheep running aimlessly hither and thither.\nHe was startled and amazed.  At last the tears ran from his eyes.\nAnd the worst of it was that, though you hated Strickland,\nand the exhibition was horrible, it was impossible not to laugh.\nDirk Stroeve was one of those unlucky persons whose most\nsincere emotions are ridiculous.\n\nBut after all when I look back upon that winter in Paris,\nmy pleasantest recollection is of Dirk Stroeve.  There was\nsomething very charming in his little household.  He and his\nwife made a picture which the imagination gratefully dwelt\nupon, and the simplicity of his love for her had a deliberate grace.\nHe remained absurd, but the sincerity of his passion\nexcited one's sympathy.  I could understand how his wife must\nfeel for him, and I was glad that her affection was so tender.\nIf she had any sense of humour, it must amuse her that he\nshould place her on a pedestal and worship her with such an\nhonest idolatry, but even while she laughed she must have been\npleased and touched.  He was the constant lover, and though\nshe grew old, losing her rounded lines and her fair\ncomeliness, to him she would certainly never alter.\nTo him she would always be the loveliest woman in the world.\nThere was a pleasing grace in the orderliness of their lives.\nThey had but the studio, a bedroom, and a tiny kitchen.\nMrs. Stroeve did all the housework herself; and while Dirk painted\nbad pictures, she went marketing, cooked the luncheon, sewed,\noccupied herself like a busy ant all the day; and in the\nevening sat in the studio, sewing again, while Dirk played\nmusic which I am sure was far beyond her comprehension.\nHe played with taste, but with more feeling than was always\njustified, and into his music poured all his honest,\nsentimental, exuberant soul.\n\nTheir life in its own way was an idyl, and it managed to\nachieve a singular beauty.  The absurdity that clung to\neverything connected with Dirk Stroeve gave it a curious note,\nlike an unresolved discord, but made it somehow more modern,\nmore human; like a rough joke thrown into a serious scene,\nit heightened the poignancy which all beauty has.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIV\n\n\nShortly before Christmas Dirk Stroeve came to ask me to spend\nthe holiday with him.  He had a characteristic sentimentality\nabout the day and wanted to pass it among his friends with\nsuitable ceremonies.  Neither of us had seen Strickland for\ntwo or three weeks -- I because I had been busy with friends\nwho were spending a little while in Paris, and Stroeve\nbecause, having quarreled with him more violently than usual,\nhe had made up his mind to have nothing more to do with him.\nStrickland was impossible, and he swore never to speak to him again.\nBut the season touched him with gentle feeling, and he hated\nthe thought of Strickland spending Christmas Day by himself;\nhe ascribed his own emotions to him, and could not\nbear that on an occasion given up to good-fellowship the\nlonely painter should be abandoned to his own melancholy.\nStroeve had set up a Christmas-tree in his studio, and I\nsuspected that we should both find absurd little presents\nhanging on its festive branches; but he was shy about seeing\nStrickland again; it was a little humiliating to forgive so\neasily insults so outrageous, and he wished me to be present\nat the reconciliation on which he was determined.\n\nWe walked together down the Avenue de Clichy, but Strickland\nwas not in the cafe.  It was too cold to sit outside, and we\ntook our places on leather benches within.  It was hot and\nstuffy, and the air was gray with smoke.  Strickland did not come,\nbut presently we saw the French painter who occasionally\nplayed chess with him.  I had formed a casual acquaintance\nwith him, and he sat down at our table.  Stroeve asked him if\nhe had seen Strickland.\n\n\"He's ill,\" he said.  \"Didn't you know?\"\n\n\"Seriously?\"\n\n\"Very, I understand.\"\n\nStroeve's face grew white.\n\n\"Why didn't he write and tell me? How stupid of me to quarrel\nwith him. We must go to him at once.  He can have no one to\nlook after him.  Where does he live?\"\n\n\"I have no idea,\" said the Frenchman.\n\nWe discovered that none of us knew how to find him.\nStroeve grew more and more distressed.\n\n\"He might die, and not a soul would know anything about it.\nIt's dreadful.  I can't bear the thought.  We must find him at once.\"\n\nI tried to make Stroeve understand that it was absurd to hunt\nvaguely about Paris.  We must first think of some plan.\n\n\"Yes; but all this time he may be dying, and when we get there\nit may be too late to do anything.\"\n\n\"Sit still and let us think,\" I said impatiently.\n\nThe only address I knew was the Hotel des Belges, but\nStrickland had long left that, and they would have no\nrecollection of him.  With that queer idea of his to keep his\nwhereabouts secret, it was unlikely that, on leaving, he had\nsaid where he was going.  Besides, it was more than five years ago.\nI felt pretty sure that he had not moved far.  If he\ncontinued to frequent the same cafe as when he had stayed at\nthe hotel, it was probably because it was the most convenient.\nSuddenly I remembered that he had got his commission to paint\na portrait through the baker from whom he bought his bread,\nand it struck me that there one might find his address.\nI called for a directory and looked out the bakers.  There were\nfive in the immediate neighbourhood, and the only thing was to\ngo to all of them.  Stroeve accompanied me unwillingly.\nHis own plan was to run up and down the streets that led out\nof the Avenue de Clichy and ask at every house if Strickland\nlived there.  My commonplace scheme was, after all, effective,\nfor in the second shop we asked at the woman behind the\ncounter acknowledged that she knew him.  She was not certain\nwhere he lived, but it was in one of the three houses\nopposite.  Luck favoured us, and in the first we tried the\nconcierge told us that we should find him on the top floor.\n\n\"It appears that he's ill,\" said Stroeve.\n\n\"It may be,\" answered the concierge indifferently.  \"<i En\neffet>, I have not seen him for several days.\"\n\nStroeve ran up the stairs ahead of me, and when I reached the\ntop floor I found him talking to a workman in his shirt-sleeves\nwho had opened a door at which Stroeve had knocked. He pointed\nto another door.  He believed that the person who lived there\nwas a painter.  He had not seen him for a week. Stroeve made\nas though he were about to knock, and then turned to me with\na gesture of helplessness.  I saw that he was panic-stricken.\n\n\"Supposing he's dead?\"\n\n\"Not he,\" I said.\n\nI knocked.  There was no answer.  I tried the handle, and\nfound the door unlocked.  I walked in, and Stroeve followed me.\nThe room was in darkness.  I could only see that it was\nan attic, with a sloping roof;  and a faint glimmer, no more\nthan a less profound obscurity, came from a skylight.\n\n\"Strickland,\" I called.\n\nThere was no answer.  It was really rather mysterious, and it\nseemed to me that Stroeve, standing just behind, was trembling\nin his shoes.  For a moment I hesitated to strike a light.\nI dimly perceived a bed in the corner, and I wondered whether\nthe light would disclose lying on it a dead body.\n\n\"Haven't you got a match, you fool?\"\n\nStrickland's voice, coming out of the darkness, harshly,\nmade me start.\n\nStroeve cried out.\n\n\"Oh, my God, I thought you were dead.\"\n\nI struck a match, and looked about for a candle.  I had a\nrapid glimpse of a tiny apartment, half room, half studio, in\nwhich was nothing but a bed, canvases with their faces to the\nwall, an easel, a table, and a chair.  There was no carpet on\nthe floor.  There was no fireplace.  On the table, crowded\nwith paints, palette-knives, and litter of all kinds, was the\nend of a candle.  I lit it.  Strickland was lying in the bed,\nuncomfortably because it was too small for him, and he had put\nall his clothes over him for warmth.  It was obvious at a\nglance that he was in a high fever.  Stroeve, his voice\ncracking with emotion, went up to him.\n\n\"Oh, my poor friend, what is the matter with you? I had no\nidea you were ill.  Why didn't you let me know? You must know\nI'd have done anything in the world for you.  Were you\nthinking of what I said? I didn't mean it.  I was wrong.\nIt was stupid of me to take offence.\"\n\n\"Go to hell,\" said Strickland.\n\n\"Now, be reasonable.  Let me make you comfortable.\nHaven't you anyone to look after you?\"\n\nHe looked round the squalid attic in dismay.  He tried to\narrange the bed-clothes.  Strickland, breathing laboriously,\nkept an angry silence.  He gave me a resentful glance.\nI stood quite quietly, looking at him.\n\n\"If you want to do something for me, you can get me some\nmilk,\" he said at last.  \"I haven't been able to get out for\ntwo days.\"  There was an empty bottle by the side of the bed,\nwhich had contained milk, and in a piece of newspaper a few crumbs.\n\n\"What have you been having?\" I asked.\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"For how long?\" cried Stroeve.  \"Do you mean to say you've had\nnothing to eat or drink for two days?  It's horrible.\"\n\n\"I've had water.\"\n\nHis eyes dwelt for a moment on a large can within reach of an\noutstretched arm.\n\n\"I'll go immediately,\" said Stroeve.  \"Is there anything you fancy?\"\n\nI suggested that he should get a thermometer, and a few\ngrapes, and some bread.  Stroeve, glad to make himself useful,\nclattered down the stairs.\n\n\"Damned fool,\" muttered Strickland.\n\nI felt his pulse.  It was beating quickly and feebly.  I asked\nhim one or two questions, but he would not answer, and when I\npressed him he turned his face irritably to the wall.\nThe only thing was to wait in silence.  In ten minutes Stroeve,\npanting, came back.  Besides what I had suggested, he brought\ncandles, and meat-juice, and a spirit-lamp.  He was a\npractical little fellow, and without delay set about making\nbread-and-milk.  I took Strickland's temperature.  It was a\nhundred and four.  He was obviously very ill.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXV\n\n\nPresently we left him.  Dirk was going home to dinner, and I\nproposed to find a doctor and bring him to see Strickland;\nbut when we got down into the street, fresh after the stuffy\nattic, the Dutchman begged me to go immediately to his studio.\nHe had something in mind which he would not tell me, but he\ninsisted that it was very necessary for me to accompany him.\nSince I did not think a doctor could at the moment do any more\nthan we had done, I consented.  We found Blanche Stroeve\nlaying the table for dinner.  Dirk went up to her, and took\nboth her hands.\n\n\"Dear one, I want you to do something for me,\" he said.\n\nShe looked at him with the grave cheerfulness which was one of\nher charms.  His red face was shining with sweat, and he had a\nlook of comic agitation, but there was in his round, surprised\neyes an eager light.\n\n\"Strickland is very ill.  He may be dying.  He is alone in a\nfilthy attic, and there is not a soul to look after him.\nI want you to let me bring him here.\"\n\nShe withdrew her hands quickly, I had never seen her make so\nrapid a movement; and her cheeks flushed.\n\n\"Oh no.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear one, don't refuse.  I couldn't bear to leave him\nwhere he is.  I shouldn't sleep a wink for thinking of him.\"\n\n\"I have no objection to your nursing him.\"\n\nHer voice was cold and distant.\n\n\"But he'll die.\"\n\n\"Let him.\"\n\nStroeve gave a little gasp.  He wiped his face.  He turned to\nme for support, but I did not know what to say.\n\n\"He's a great artist.\"\n\n\"What do I care? I hate him.\"\n\n\"Oh, my love, my precious, you don't mean that.  I beseech you\nto let me bring him here.  We can make him comfortable.\nPerhaps we can save him.  He shall be no trouble to you.\nI will do everything.  We'll make him up a bed in the studio.\nWe can't let him die like a dog.  It would be inhuman.\"\n\n\"Why can't he go to a hospital?\"\n\n\"A hospital! He needs the care of loving hands.  He must be\ntreated with infinite tact.\"\n\nI was surprised to see how moved she was.  She went on laying\nthe table, but her hands trembled.\n\n\"I have no patience with you.  Do you think if you were ill he\nwould stir a finger to help you?\"\n\n\"But what does that matter? I should have you to nurse me.\nIt wouldn't be necessary.  And besides, I'm different;\nI'm not of any importance.\"\n\n\"You have no more spirit than a mongrel cur.  You lie down on\nthe ground and ask people to trample on you.\"\n\nStroeve gave a little laugh.  He thought he understood the\nreason of his wife's attitude.\n\n\"Oh, my poor dear, you're thinking of that day he came here to\nlook at my pictures.  What does it matter if he didn't think\nthem any good? It was stupid of me to show them to him.\nI dare say they're not very good.\"\n\nHe looked round the studio ruefully.  On the easel was a\nhalf-finished picture of a smiling Italian peasant, holding a\nbunch of grapes over the head of a dark-eyed girl.\n\n\"Even if he didn't like them he should have been civil.\nHe needn't have insulted you.  He showed that he despised you,\nand you lick his hand.  Oh, I hate him.\"\n\n\"Dear child, he has genius.  You don't think I believe that I\nhave it.  I wish I had; but I know it when I see it, and I\nhonour it with all my heart.  It's the most wonderful thing in\nthe world.  It's a great burden to its possessors.  We should\nbe very tolerant with them, and very patient.\"\n\nI stood apart, somewhat embarrassed by the domestic scene,\nand wondered why Stroeve had insisted on my coming with him.\nI saw that his wife was on the verge of tears.\n\n\"But it's not only because he's a genius that I ask you to let\nme bring him here; it's because he's a human being, and he is\nill and poor.\"\n\n\"I will never have him in my house -- never.\"\n\nStroeve turned to me.\n\n\"Tell her that it's a matter of life and death.\nIt's impossible to leave him in that wretched hole.\"\n\n\"It's quite obvious that it would be much easier to nurse him\nhere,\" I said, \"but of course it would be very inconvenient.\nI have an idea that someone will have to be with him day and night.\"\n\n\"My love, it's not you who would shirk a little trouble.\"\n\n\"If he comes here, I shall go,\" said Mrs. Stroeve violently.\n\n\"I don't recognize you.  You're so good and kind.\"\n\n\"Oh, for goodness sake, let me be.  You drive me to distraction.\"\n\nThen at last the tears came.  She sank into a chair,\nand buried her face in her hands.  Her shoulders shook\nconvulsively.  In a moment Dirk was on his knees beside her,\nwith his arms round her, kissing her, calling her all sorts of\npet names, and the facile tears ran down his own cheeks.\nPresently she released herself and dried her eyes.\n\n\"Leave me alone,\" she said, not unkindly; and then to me,\ntrying to smile:  \"What must you think of me?\"\n\nStroeve, looking at her with perplexity, hesitated.\nHis forehead was all puckered, and his red mouth set in a pout.\nHe reminded me oddly of an agitated guinea-pig.\n\n\"Then it's No, darling?\" he said at last.\n\nShe gave a gesture of lassitude.  She was exhausted.\n\n\"The studio is yours.  Everything belongs to you.  If you want\nto bring him here, how can I prevent you?\"\n\nA sudden smile flashed across his round face.\n\n\"Then you consent?  I knew you would.  Oh, my precious.\"\n\nSuddenly she pulled herself together.  She looked at him with\nhaggard eyes.  She clasped her hands over her heart as though\nits beating were intolerable.\n\n\"Oh, Dirk, I've never since we met asked you to do anything for me.\"\n\n\"You know there's nothing in the world that I wouldn't do for\nyou.\"\n\n\"I beg you not to let Strickland come here.  Anyone else you like.\nBring a thief, a drunkard, any outcast off the streets,\nand I promise you I'll do everything I can for them gladly.\nBut I beseech you not to bring Strickland here.\"\n\n\"But why?\"\n\n\"I'm frightened of him.  I don't know why, but there's something\nin him that terrifies me.  He'll do us some great harm.\nI know it.  I feel it.  If you bring him here it can only end badly.\"\n\n\"But how unreasonable!\"\n\n\"No, no.  I know I'm right.  Something terrible will happen to us.\"\n\n\"Because we do a good action?\"\n\nShe was panting now, and in her face was a terror which was\ninexplicable.  I do not know what she thought.  I felt that\nshe was possessed by some shapeless dread which robbed her of\nall self-control.  As a rule she was so calm; her agitation\nnow was amazing.  Stroeve looked at her for a while with\npuzzled consternation.\n\n\"You are my wife; you are dearer to me than anyone in the world.\nNo one shall come here without your entire consent.\"\n\nShe closed her eyes for a moment, and I thought she was going\nto faint.  I was a little impatient with her; I had not\nsuspected that she was so neurotic a woman.  Then I heard\nStroeve's voice again.  It seemed to break oddly on the\nsilence.\n\n\"Haven't you been in bitter distress once when a helping hand\nwas held out to you? You know how much it means.  Couldn't you\nlike to do someone a good turn when you have the chance?\"\n\nThe words were ordinary enough, and to my mind there was in\nthem something so hortatory that I almost smiled.  I was\nastonished at the effect they had on Blanche Stroeve.\nShe started a little, and gave her husband a long look.\nHis eyes were fixed on the ground.  I did not know why he\nseemed embarrassed.  A faint colour came into her cheeks,\nand then her face became white -- more than white, ghastly;\nyou felt that the blood had shrunk away from the whole surface\nof her body; and even her hands were pale.  A shiver passed\nthrough her.  The silence of the studio seemed to gather body,\nso that it became an almost palpable presence.  I was bewildered.\n\n\"Bring Strickland here, Dirk.  I'll do my best for him.\"\n\n\"My precious,\" he smiled.\n\nHe wanted to take her in his arms, but she avoided him.\n\n\"Don't be affectionate before strangers, Dirk,\" she said.\n\"It makes me feel such a fool.\"\n\nHer manner was quite normal again, and no one could have told\nthat so shortly before she had been shaken by such a great\nemotion.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVI\n\n\nNext day we moved Strickland.  It needed a good deal of\nfirmness and still more patience to induce him to come, but he\nwas really too ill to offer any effective resistance to\nStroeve's entreaties and to my determination.  We dressed him,\nwhile he feebly cursed us, got him downstairs, into a cab, and\neventually to Stroeve's studio.  He was so exhausted by the\ntime we arrived that he allowed us to put him to bed without a word.\nHe was ill for six weeks.  At one time it looked as\nthough he could not live more than a few hours, and I am\nconvinced that it was only through the Dutchman's doggedness\nthat he pulled through.  I have never known a more difficult\npatient.  It was not that he was exacting and querulous;\non the contrary, he never complained, he asked for nothing,\nhe was perfectly silent; but he seemed to resent the care that\nwas taken of him; he received all inquiries about his feelings\nor his needs with a jibe, a sneer, or an oath.  I found him\ndetestable, and as soon as he was out of danger I had no\nhesitation in telling him so.\n\n\"Go to hell,\" he answered briefly.\n\nDirk Stroeve, giving up his work entirely, nursed Strickland\nwith tenderness and sympathy.  He was dexterous to make him\ncomfortable, and he exercised a cunning of which I should\nnever have thought him capable to induce him to take the\nmedicines prescribed by the doctor.  Nothing was too much\ntrouble for him.  Though his means were adequate to the needs\nof himself and his wife, he certainly had no money to waste;\nbut now he was wantonly extravagant in the purchase of\ndelicacies, out of season and dear, which might tempt\nStrickland's capricious appetite.  I shall never forget the\ntactful patience with which he persuaded him to take nourishment.\nHe was never put out by Strickland's rudeness;\nif it was merely sullen, he appeared not to notice it; if it\nwas aggressive, he only chuckled.  When Strickland, recovering\nsomewhat, was in a good humour and amused himself by laughing\nat him, he deliberately did absurd things to excite his ridicule.\nThen he would give me little happy glances, so that\nI might notice in how much better form the patient was.\nStroeve was sublime.\n\nBut it was Blanche who most surprised me.  She proved herself\nnot only a capable, but a devoted nurse.  There was nothing in\nher to remind you that she had so vehemently struggled against\nher husband's wish to bring Strickland to the studio.\nShe insisted on doing her share of the offices needful to the sick.\nShe arranged his bed so that it was possible to change the\nsheet without disturbing him.  She washed him.  When I\nremarked on her competence, she told me with that pleasant\nlittle smile of hers that for a while she had worked in a hospital.\nShe gave no sign that she hated Strickland so desperately.\nShe did not speak to him much, but she was quick to\nforestall his wants.  For a fortnight it was necessary that\nsomeone should stay with him all night, and she took turns at\nwatching with her husband.  I wondered what she thought during\nthe long darkness as she sat by the bedside.  Strickland was a\nweird figure as he lay there, thinner than ever, with his\nragged red beard and his eyes staring feverishly into vacancy;\nhis illness seemed to have made them larger, and they had an\nunnatural brightness.\n\n\"Does he ever talk to you in the night?\" I asked her once.\n\n\"Never.\"\n\n\"Do you dislike him as much as you did?\"\n\n\"More, if anything.\"\n\nShe looked at me with her calm gray eyes.  Her expression was\nso placid, it was hard to believe that she was capable of the\nviolent emotion I had witnessed.\n\n\"Has he ever thanked you for what you do for him?\"\n\n\"No,\" she smiled.\n\n\"He's inhuman.\"\n\n\"He's abominable.\"\n\nStroeve was, of course, delighted with her.  He could not do\nenough to show his gratitude for the whole-hearted devotion\nwith which she had accepted the burden he laid on her.\nBut he was a little puzzled by the behaviour of Blanche and\nStrickland towards one another.\n\n\"Do you know, I've seen them sit there for hours together\nwithout saying a word?\"\n\nOn one occasion, when Strickland was so much better that in a\nday or two he was to get up, I sat with them in the studio.\nDirk and I were talking.  Mrs. Stroeve sewed, and I thought I\nrecognised the shirt she was mending as Strickland's.  He lay\non his back; he did not speak.  Once I saw that his eyes were\nfixed on Blanche Stroeve, and there was in them a curious irony.\nFeeling their gaze, she raised her own, and for a moment\nthey stared at one another.  I could not quite understand\nher expression.  Her eyes had in them a strange perplexity,\nand perhaps -- but why? -- alarm.  In a moment Strickland\nlooked away and idly surveyed the ceiling, but she continued\nto stare at him, and now her look was quite inexplicable.\n\nIn a few days Strickland began to get up.  He was nothing but\nskin and bone.  His clothes hung upon him like rags on a\nscarecrow.  With his untidy beard and long hair, his features,\nalways a little larger than life, now emphasised by illness,\nhe had an extraordinary aspect; but it was so odd that it was\nnot quite ugly.  There was something monumental in his\nungainliness.  I do not know how to express precisely the\nimpression he made upon me.  It was not exactly spirituality\nthat was obvious, though the screen of the flesh seemed almost\ntransparent, because there was in his face an outrageous\nsensuality; but, though it sounds nonsense, it seemed as\nthough his sensuality were curiously spiritual.  There was in\nhim something primitive.  He seemed to partake of those\nobscure forces of nature which the Greeks personified in\nshapes part human and part beast, the satyr and the faun.\nI thought of Marsyas, whom the god flayed because he had dared\nto rival him in song.  Strickland seemed to bear in his heart\nstrange harmonies and unadventured patterns, and I foresaw for\nhim an end of torture and despair.  I had again the feeling\nthat he was possessed of a devil; but you could not say that\nit was a devil of evil, for it was a primitive force that\nexisted before good and ill.\n\nHe was still too weak to paint, and he sat in the studio,\nsilent, occupied with God knows what dreams, or reading.\nThe books he liked were queer; sometimes I would find him poring\nover the poems of Mallarme, and he read them as a child reads,\nforming the words with his lips, and I wondered what strange\nemotion he got from those subtle cadences and obscure phrases;\nand again I found him absorbed in the detective novels of Gaboriau.\nI amused myself by thinking that in his choice of books\nhe showed pleasantly the irreconcilable sides of his\nfantastic nature.  It was singular to notice that even in the\nweak state of his body he had no thought for its comfort.\nStroeve liked his ease, and in his studio were a couple of\nheavily upholstered arm-chairs and a large divan.\nStrickland would not go near them, not from any affectation\nof stoicism, for I found him seated on a three-legged stool\nwhen I went into the studio one day and he was alone,\nbut because he did not like them.  For choice he sat on a\nkitchen chair without arms. It often exasperated me to see him.\nI never knew a man so entirely indifferent to his surroundings.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVII\n\n\nTwo or three weeks passed.  One morning, having come to a\npause in my work, I thought I would give myself a holiday,\nand I went to the Louvre.  I wandered about looking at the\npictures I knew so well, and let my fancy play idly with the\nemotions they suggested.  I sauntered into the long gallery,\nand there suddenly saw Stroeve.  I smiled, for his appearance,\nso rotund and yet so startled, could never fail to excite a\nsmile, and then as I came nearer I noticed that he seemed\nsingularly disconsolate.  He looked woebegone and yet\nridiculous, like a man who has fallen into the water with all\nhis clothes on, and, being rescued from death, frightened still,\nfeels that he only looks a fool.  Turning round, he\nstared at me, but I perceived that he did not see me.  His\nround blue eyes looked harassed behind his glasses.\n\n\"Stroeve,\" I said.\n\nHe gave a little start, and then smiled, but his smile was rueful.\n\n\"Why are you idling in this disgraceful fashion?\" I asked gaily.\n\n\"It's a long time since I was at the Louvre.  I thought I'd\ncome and see if they had anything new.\"\n\n\"But you told me you had to get a picture finished this week.\"\n\n\"Strickland's painting in my studio.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"I suggested it myself.  He's not strong enough to go back to\nhis own place yet.  I thought we could both paint there.\nLots of fellows in the Quarter share a studio.  I thought it\nwould be fun.  I've always thought it would be jolly to have\nsomeone to talk to when one was tired of work.\"\n\nHe said all this slowly, detaching statement from statement\nwith a little awkward silence, and he kept his kind, foolish\neyes fixed on mine.  They were full of tears.\n\n\"I don't think I understand,\" I said.\n\n\"Strickland can't work with anyone else in the studio.\"\n\n\"Damn it all, it's your studio.  That's his lookout.\"\n\nHe looked at me pitifully.  His lips were trembling.\n\n\"What happened?\" I asked, rather sharply.\n\nHe hesitated and flushed.  He glanced unhappily at one of the\npictures on the wall.\n\n\"He wouldn't let me go on painting.  He told me to get out.\"\n\n\"But why didn't you tell him to go to hell?\"\n\n\"He turned me out.  I couldn't very well struggle with him.\nHe threw my hat after me, and locked the door.\"\n\nI was furious with Strickland, and was indignant with myself,\nbecause Dirk Stroeve cut such an absurd figure that I felt\ninclined to laugh.\n\n\"But what did your wife say?\"\n\n\"She'd gone out to do the marketing.\"\n\n\"Is he going to let her in?\"\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\nI gazed at Stroeve with perplexity.  He stood like a schoolboy\nwith whom a master is finding fault.\n\n\"Shall I get rid of Strickland for you?\" I asked.\n\nHe gave a little start, and his shining face grew very red.\n\n\"No.  You'd better not do anything.\"\n\nHe nodded to me and walked away.  It was clear that for some\nreason he did not want to discuss the matter.  I did not understand.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXVIII\n\n\nThe explanation came a week later.  It was about ten o' clock\nat night; I had been dining by myself at a restaurant, and\nhaving returned to my small apartment, was sitting in my\nparlour, reading I heard the cracked tinkling of the bell,\nand, going into the corridor, opened the door.  Stroeve stood\nbefore me.\n\n\"Can I come in?\"  he asked.\n\nIn the dimness of the landing I could not see him very well,\nbut there was something in his voice that surprised me.  I\nknew he was of abstemious habit or I should have thought he\nhad been drinking.  I led the way into my sitting room and\nasked him to sit down.\n\n\"Thank God I've found you,\" he said.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" I asked in astonishment at his vehemence.\n\nI was able now to see him well.  As a rule he was neat in his\nperson, but now his clothes were in disorder.  He looked\nsuddenly bedraggled.  I was convinced he had been drinking,\nand I smiled.  I was on the point of chaffing him on his state.\n\n\"I didn't know where to go,\" he burst out.  \"I came here\nearlier, but you weren't in.\"\n\n\"I dined late,\" I said.\n\nI changed my mind: it was not liquor that had driven him to\nthis obvious desperation.  His face, usually so rosy, was now\nstrangely mottled.  His hands trembled.\n\n\"Has anything happened?\" I asked.\n\n\"My wife has left me.\"\n\nHe could hardly get the words out.  He gave a little gasp, and\nthe tears began to trickle down his round cheeks.  I did not\nknow what to say.  My first thought was that she had come to\nthe end of her forbearance with his infatuation for\nStrickland, and, goaded by the latter's cynical behaviour, had\ninsisted that he should be turned out.  I knew her capable of\ntemper, for all the calmness of her manner; and if Stroeve\nstill refused, she might easily have flung out of the studio\nwith vows never to return.  But the little man was so\ndistressed that I could not smile.\n\n\"My dear fellow, don't be unhappy.  She'll come back.\nYou mustn't take very seriously what women say when they're\nin a passion.\"\n\n\"You don't understand.  She's in love with Strickland.\"\n\n\"What!\" I was startled at this, but the idea had no sooner\ntaken possession of me than I saw it was absurd.  \"How can you\nbe so silly? You don't mean to say you're jealous of Strickland?\"\nI almost laughed.  \"You know very well that she\ncan't bear the sight of him.\"\n\n\"You don't understand,\" he moaned.\n\n\"You're an hysterical ass,\" I said a little impatiently.\n\"Let me give you a whisky-and-soda, and you'll feel better.\"\n\nI supposed that for some reason or other -- and Heaven knows\nwhat ingenuity men exercise to torment themselves -- Dirk had\ngot it into his head that his wife cared for Strickland, and\nwith his genius for blundering he might quite well have\noffended her so that, to anger him, perhaps, she had taken\npains to foster his suspicion.\n\n\"Look here,\" I said, \"let's go back to your studio.  If you've\nmade a fool of yourself you must eat humble pie.  Your wife\ndoesn't strike me as the sort of woman to bear malice.\"\n\n\"How can I go back to the studio?\" he said wearily.\n\"They're there.  I've left it to them.\"\n\n\"Then it's not your wife who's left you; it's you who've left\nyour wife.\"\n\n\"For God's sake don't talk to me like that.\"\n\nStill I could not take him seriously.  I did not for a moment\nbelieve what he had told me.  But he was in very real distress.\n\n\"Well, you've come here to talk to me about it.  You'd better\ntell me the whole story.\"\n\n\"This afternoon I couldn't stand it any more.  I went to\nStrickland and told him I thought he was quite well enough to\ngo back to his own place.  I wanted the studio myself.\"\n\n\"No one but Strickland would have needed telling,\" I said.\n\"What did he say?\"\n\n\"He laughed a little; you know how he laughs, not as though he\nwere amused, but as though you were a damned fool, and said\nhe'd go at once.  He began to put his things together.\nYou remember I fetched from his room what I thought he needed,\nand he asked Blanche for a piece of paper and some string to\nmake a parcel.\"\n\nStroeve stopped, gasping, and I thought he was going to faint.\nThis was not at all the story I had expected him to tell me.\n\n\"She was very pale, but she brought the paper and the string.\nHe didn't say anything.  He made the parcel and he whistled a tune.\nHe took no notice of either of us.  His eyes had an\nironic smile in them.  My heart was like lead.  I was afraid\nsomething was going to happen, and I wished I hadn't spoken.\nHe looked round for his hat.  Then she spoke:\n\n\"'I'm going with Strickland, Dirk,' she said.  'I can't live\nwith you any more.'\n\n\"I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come.  Strickland\ndidn't say anything.  He went on whistling as though it had\nnothing to do with him.\"\n\nStroeve stopped again and mopped his face.  I kept quite\nstill.  I believed him now, and I was astounded.  But all the\nsame I could not understand.\n\nThen he told me, in a trembling voice, with the tears pouring\ndown his cheeks, how he had gone up to her, trying to take her\nin his arms, but she had drawn away and begged him not to\ntouch her.  He implored her not to leave him.  He told her how\npassionately he loved her, and reminded her of all the\ndevotion he had lavished upon her.  He spoke to her of the\nhappiness of their life.  He was not angry with her.  He did\nnot reproach her.\n\n\"Please let me go quietly, Dirk,\" she said at last.  \"Don't\nyou understand that I love Strickland?  Where he goes I shall go.\"\n\n\"But you must know that he'll never make you happy.  For your\nown sake don't go.  You don't know what you've got to look\nforward to.\"\n\n\"It's your fault.  You insisted on his coming here.\"\n\nHe turned to Strickland.\n\n\"Have mercy on her,\" he implored him.  \"You can't let her do\nanything so mad.\"\n\n\"She can do as she chooses,\" said Strickland.  \"She's not\nforced to come.\"\n\n\"My choice is made,\" she said, in a dull voice.\n\nStrickland's injurious calm robbed Stroeve of the rest of his\nself-control.  Blind rage seized him, and without knowing what\nhe was doing he flung himself on Strickland.  Strickland was\ntaken by surprise and he staggered, but he was very strong,\neven after his illness, and in a moment, he did not exactly\nknow how, Stroeve found himself on the floor.\n\n\"You funny little man,\" said Strickland.\n\nStroeve picked himself up.  He noticed that his wife had\nremained perfectly still, and to be made ridiculous before her\nincreased his humiliation.  His spectacles had tumbled off in\nthe struggle, and he could not immediately see them.\nShe picked them up and silently handed them to him.  He seemed\nsuddenly to realise his unhappiness, and though he knew he was\nmaking himself still more absurd, he began to cry.  He hid his\nface in his hands.  The others watched him without a word.\nThey did not move from where they stood.\n\n\"Oh, my dear,\" he groaned at last, \"how can you be so cruel?\"\n\n\"I can't help myself, Dirk,\" she answered.\n\n\"I've worshipped you as no woman was ever worshipped before.\nIf in anything I did I displeased you, why didn't you tell me,\nand I'd have changed.  I've done everything I could for you.\"\n\nShe did not answer.  Her face was set, and he saw that he was\nonly boring her.  She put on a coat and her hat.  She moved\ntowards the door, and he saw that in a moment she would be\ngone.  He went up to her quickly and fell on his knees before\nher, seizing her hands:  he abandoned all self-respect.\n\n\"Oh, don't go, my darling.  I can't live without you; I shall\nkill myself.  If I've done anything to offend you I beg you to\nforgive me.  Give me another chance.  I'll try harder still to\nmake you happy.\"\n\n\"Get up, Dirk.  You're making yourself a perfect fool.\"\n\nHe staggered to his feet, but still he would not let her go.\n\n\"Where are you going?\" he said hastily.  \"You don't know what\nStrickland's place is like.  You can't live there.  It would\nbe awful.\"\n\n\"If I don't care, I don't see why you should.\"\n\n\"Stay a minute longer.  I must speak.  After all, you can't\ngrudge me that.\"\n\n\"What is the good? I've made up my mind.  Nothing that you can\nsay will make me alter it.\"\n\nHe gulped, and put his hand to his heart to ease its painful beating.\n\n\"I'm not going to ask you to change your mind, but I want you\nto listen to me for a minute.  It's the last thing I shall\never ask you.  Don't refuse me that.\"\n\nShe paused, looking at him with those reflective eyes of hers,\nwhich now were so different to him.  She came back into the\nstudio and leaned against the table.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\nStroeve made a great effort to collect himself.\n\n\"You must be a little reasonable.  You can't live on air,\nyou know.  Strickland hasn't got a penny.\"\n\n\"I know.\"\n\n\"You'll suffer the most awful privations.  You know why he\ntook so long to get well.  He was half starved.\"\n\n\"I can earn money for him.\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"I don't know.  I shall find a way.\"\n\nA horrible thought passed through the Dutchman's mind,\nand he shuddered.\n\n\"I think you must be mad.  I don't know what has come over you.\"\n\nShe shrugged her shoulders.\n\n\"Now may I go?\"\n\n\"Wait one second longer.\"\n\nHe looked round his studio wearily; he had loved it because\nher presence had made it gay and homelike; he shut his eyes\nfor an instant; then he gave her a long look as though to\nimpress on his mind the picture of her.  He got up and took\nhis hat.\n\n\"No; I'll go.\"\n\n\"You?\"\n\nShe was startled.  She did not know what he meant.\n\n\"I can't bear to think of you living in that horrible, filthy\nattic.  After all, this is your home just as much as mine.\nYou'll be comfortable here.  You'll be spared at least the\nworst privations.\"\n\nHe went to the drawer in which he kept his money and took out\nseveral bank-notes.\n\n\"I would like to give you half what I've got here.\"\n\nHe put them on the table.  Neither Strickland nor his wife spoke.\n\nThen he recollected something else.\n\n\"Will you pack up my clothes and leave them with the concierge? I'll\ncome and fetch them to-morrow.\" He tried to smile. \"Good-bye, my dear.\nI'm grateful for all the happiness you gave me in the past.\"\n\nHe walked out and closed the door behind him.  With my mind's\neye I saw Strickland throw his hat on a table, and, sitting down,\nbegin to smoke a cigarette.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXIX\n\n\nI kept silence for a little while, thinking of what Stroeve\nhad told me.  I could not stomach his weakness, and he saw\nmy disapproval.  \"You know as well as I do how Strickland lived,\"\nhe said tremulously.  \"I couldn't let her live in those\ncircumstances -- I simply couldn't.\"\n\n\"That's your business,\" I answered.\n\n\"What would <i you> have done?\" he asked.\n\n\"She went with her eyes open.  If she had to put up with\ncertain inconveniences it was her own lookout.\"\n\n\"Yes; but, you see, you don't love her.\"\n\n\"Do you love her still?\"\n\n\"Oh, more than ever.  Strickland isn't the man to make a woman happy.\nIt can't last.  I want her to know that I shall never fail her.\"\n\n\"Does that mean that you're prepared to take her back?\"\n\n\"I shouldn't hesitate.  Why, she'll want me more than ever then.\nWhen she's alone and humiliated and broken it would be\ndreadful if she had nowhere to go.\"\n\nHe seemed to bear no resentment.  I suppose it was commonplace\nin me that I felt slightly outraged at his lack of spirit.\nPerhaps he guessed what was in my mind, for he said:\n\n\"I couldn't expect her to love me as I loved her.\nI'm a buffoon.  I'm not the sort of man that women love.\nI've always known that.  I can't blame her if she's fallen\nin love with Strickland.\"\n\n\"You certainly have less vanity than any man I've ever known,\"\nI said.\n\n\"I love her so much better than myself.  It seems to me that\nwhen vanity comes into love it can only be because really you\nlove yourself best.  After all, it constantly happens that a\nman when he's married falls in love with somebody else;\nwhen he gets over it he returns to his wife, and she takes him\nback, and everyone thinks it very natural.  Why should it be\ndifferent with women?\"\n\n\"I dare say that's logical,\" I smiled, \"but most men are made\ndifferently, and they can't.\"\n\nBut while I talked to Stroeve I was puzzling over the\nsuddenness of the whole affair.  I could not imagine that he\nhad had no warning.  I remembered the curious look I had seen\nin Blanche Stroeve's eyes; perhaps its explanation was that\nshe was growing dimly conscious of a feeling in her heart that\nsurprised and alarmed her.\n\n\"Did you have no suspicion before to-day that there was\nanything between them?\" I asked.\n\nHe did not answer for a while.  There was a pencil on the table,\nand unconsciously he drew a head on the blotting-paper.\n\n\"Please say so, if you hate my asking you questions,\" I said.\n\n\"It eases me to talk.  Oh, if you knew the frightful anguish\nin my heart.\"  He threw the pencil down.  \"Yes, I've known it\nfor a fortnight.  I knew it before she did.\"\n\n\"Why on earth didn't you send Strickland packing?\"\n\n\"I couldn't believe it.  It seemed so improbable.\nShe couldn't bear the sight of him.  It was more than improbable;\nit was incredible.  I thought it was merely jealousy.\nYou see, I've always been jealous, but I trained myself never\nto show it; I was jealous of every man she knew; I was\njealous of you.  I knew she didn't love me as I loved her.\nThat was only natural, wasn't it?  But she allowed me to\nlove her, and that was enough to make me happy.  I forced\nmyself to go out for hours together in order to leave them\nby themselves; I wanted to punish myself for suspicions\nwhich were unworthy of me; and when I came back I found they\ndidn't want me -- not Strickland, he didn't care if I was\nthere or not, but Blanche. She shuddered when I went to kiss her.\nWhen at last I was certain I didn't know what to do;\nI knew they'd only laugh at me if I made a scene.\nI thought if I held my tongue and pretended not to see,\neverything would come right.  I made up my mind to get\nhim away quietly, without quarrelling.  Oh, if you only\nknew what I've suffered!\"\n\nThen he told me again of his asking Strickland to go.\nHe chose his moment carefully, and tried to make his request\nsound casual; but he could not master the trembling of his voice;\nand he felt himself that into words that he wished to\nseem jovial and friendly there crept the bitterness of his\njealousy.  He had not expected Strickland to take him up on\nthe spot and make his preparations to go there and then;\nabove all, he had not expected his wife's decision to go with him.\nI saw that now he wished with all his heart that he had held\nhis tongue.  He preferred the anguish of jealousy to the\nanguish of separation.\n\n\"I wanted to kill him, and I only made a fool of myself.\"\n\nHe was silent for a long time, and then he said what I knew\nwas in his mind.\n\n\"If I'd only waited, perhaps it would have gone all right.\nI shouldn't have been so impatient.  Oh, poor child,\nwhat have I driven her to?\"\n\nI shrugged my shoulders, but did not speak.  I had no sympathy\nfor Blanche Stroeve, but knew that it would only pain poor\nDirk if I told him exactly what I thought of her.\n\nHe had reached that stage of exhaustion when he could not stop\ntalking.  He went over again every word of the scene.\nNow something occurred to him that he had not told me before;\nnow he discussed what he ought to have said instead of what he\ndid say; then he lamented his blindness.  He regretted that he had\ndone this, and blamed himself that he had omitted the other.\nIt grew later and later, and at last I was as tired as he.\n\n\"What are you going to do now?\" I said finally.\n\n\"What can I do? I shall wait till she sends for me.\"\n\n\"Why don't you go away for a bit?\"\n\n\"No, no; I must be at hand when she wants me.\"\n\nFor the present he seemed quite lost.  He had made no plans.\nWhen I suggested that he should go to bed he said he could not\nsleep; he wanted to go out and walk about the streets till day.\nHe was evidently in no state to be left alone.\nI persuaded him to stay the night with me, and I put him into my\nown bed.  I had a divan in my sitting-room, and could very\nwell sleep on that.  He was by now so worn out that he could\nnot resist my firmness.  I gave him a sufficient dose of\nveronal to insure his unconsciousness for several hours.\nI thought that was the best service I could render him.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXX\n\n\nBut the bed I made up for myself was sufficiently\nuncomfortable to give me a wakeful night, and I thought a good\ndeal of what the unlucky Dutchman had told me.  I was not so\nmuch puzzled by Blanche Stroeve's action, for I saw in that\nmerely the result of a physical appeal.  I do not suppose she\nhad ever really cared for her husband, and what I had taken\nfor love was no more than the feminine response to caresses\nand comfort which in the minds of most women passes for it.\nIt is a passive feeling capable of being roused for any object,\nas the vine can grow on any tree; and the wisdom of\nthe world recognises its strength when it urges a girl to\nmarry the man who wants her with the assurance that love will follow.\nIt is an emotion made up of the satisfaction in security,\npride of property, the pleasure of being desired,\nthe gratification of a household, and it is only by an amiable\nvanity that women ascribe to it spiritual value.  It is an\nemotion which is defenceless against passion. I suspected\nthat Blanche Stroeve's violent dislike of Strickland had in it\nfrom the beginning a vague element of sexual attraction.\nWho am I that I should seek to unravel the mysterious intricacies\nof sex?  Perhaps Stroeve's passion excited without satisfying\nthat part of her nature, and she hated Strickland because she\nfelt in him the power to give her what she needed.  I think\nshe was quite sincere when she struggled against her husband's\ndesire to bring him into the studio; I think she was\nfrightened of him, though she knew not why; and I remembered\nhow she had foreseen disaster.  I think in some curious way\nthe horror which she felt for him was a transference of the\nhorror which she felt for herself because he so strangely\ntroubled her.  His appearance was wild and uncouth; there was\naloofness in his eyes and sensuality in his mouth; he was big\nand strong; he gave the impression of untamed passion; and\nperhaps she felt in him, too, that sinister element which had\nmade me think of those wild beings of the world's early\nhistory when matter, retaining its early connection with the\nearth, seemed to possess yet a spirit of its own.  If he\naffected her at all, it was inevitable that she should love or\nhate him.  She hated him.\n\nAnd then I fancy that the daily intimacy with the sick man\nmoved her strangely.  She raised his head to give him food,\nand it was heavy against her hand; when she had fed him she\nwiped his sensual mouth and his red beard.  She washed his limbs;\nthey were covered with thick hair; and when she dried\nhis hands, even in his weakness they were strong and sinewy.\nHis fingers were long; they were the capable, fashioning\nfingers of the artist; and I know not what troubling thoughts\nthey excited in her.  He slept very quietly, without a\nmovement, so that he might have been dead, and he was like\nsome wild creature of the woods, resting after a long chase;\nand she wondered what fancies passed through his dreams.\nDid he dream of the nymph flying through the woods of Greece with\nthe satyr in hot pursuit? She fled, swift of foot and\ndesperate, but he gained on her step by step, till she felt\nhis hot breath on her neck; and still she fled silently, and\nsilently he pursued, and when at last he seized her was it\nterror that thrilled her heart or was it ecstasy?\n\nBlanche Stroeve was in the cruel grip of appetite.\nPerhaps she hated Strickland still, but she hungered for him,\nand everything that had made up her life till then became of\nno account.  She ceased to be a woman, complex, kind and\npetulant, considerate and thoughtless; she was a Maenad.\nShe was desire.\n\nBut perhaps this is very fanciful; and it may be that she was\nmerely bored with her husband and went to Strickland out of a\ncallous curiosity.  She may have had no particular feeling for\nhim, but succumbed to his wish from propinquity or idleness,\nto find then that she was powerless in a snare of her own\ncontriving.  How did I know what were the thoughts and\nemotions behind that placid brow and those cool gray eyes?\n\nBut if one could be certain of nothing in dealing with\ncreatures so incalculable as human beings, there were\nexplanations of Blanche Stroeve's behaviour which were at all\nevents plausible.  On the other hand, I did not understand\nStrickland at all.  I racked my brain, but could in no way\naccount for an action so contrary to my conception of him.\nIt was not strange that he should so heartlessly have betrayed\nhis friends' confidence, nor that he hesitated not at all to\ngratify a whim at the cost of another's misery.  That was in\nhis character.  He was a man without any conception of\ngratitude.  He had no compassion.  The emotions common to most\nof us simply did not exist in him, and it was as absurd to\nblame him for not feeling them as for blaming the tiger\nbecause he is fierce and cruel.  But it was the whim I could\nnot understand.\n\nI could not believe that Strickland had fallen in love with\nBlanche Stroeve.  I did not believe him capable of love.\nThat is an emotion in which tenderness is an essential part,\nbut Strickland had no tenderness either for himself or for others;\nthere is in love a sense of weakness, a desire to protect,\nan eagerness to do good and to give pleasure -- if not\nunselfishness, at all events a selfishness which marvellously\nconceals itself; it has in it a certain diffidence.\nThese were not traits which I could imagine in Strickland.\nLove is absorbing; it takes the lover out of himself; the most\nclear-sighted, though he may know, cannot realise that his love\nwill cease; it gives body to what he knows is illusion, and,\nknowing it is nothing else, he loves it better than reality.\nIt makes a man a little more than himself, and at the same\ntime a little less.  He ceases to be himself.  He is no longer\nan individual, but a thing, an instrument to some purpose\nforeign to his ego.  Love is never quite devoid of\nsentimentality, and Strickland was the least inclined to that\ninfirmity of any man I have known.  I could not believe that\nhe would ever suffer that possession of himself which love is;\nhe could never endure a foreign yoke.  I believed him capable\nof uprooting from his heart, though it might be with agony, so\nthat he was left battered and ensanguined, anything that came\nbetween himself and that uncomprehended craving that urged him\nconstantly to he knew not what.  If I have succeeded at all in\ngiving the complicated impression that Strickland made on me,\nit will not seem outrageous to say that I felt he was at once\ntoo great and too small for love.\n\nBut I suppose that everyone's conception of the passion is\nformed on his own idiosyncrasies, and it is different with\nevery different person.  A man like Strickland would love in a\nmanner peculiar to himself.  It was vain to seek the analysis\nof his emotion.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXI\n\n\nNext day, though I pressed him to remain, Stroeve left me.\nI offered to fetch his things from the studio, but he insisted\non going himself; I think he hoped they had not thought of\ngetting them together, so that he would have an opportunity of\nseeing his wife again and perhaps inducing her to come back to him.\nBut he found his traps waiting for him in the porter's\nlodge, and the concierge told him that Blanche had gone out.\nI do not think he resisted the temptation of giving her an\naccount of his troubles.  I found that he was telling them to\neveryone he knew; he expected sympathy, but only excited\nridicule.\n\nHe bore himself most unbecomingly.  Knowing at what time his\nwife did her shopping, one day, unable any longer to bear not\nseeing her, he waylaid her in the street.  She would not speak\nto him, but he insisted on speaking to her.  He spluttered out\nwords of apology for any wrong he had committed towards her;\nhe told her he loved her devotedly and begged her to return to him.\nShe would not answer; she walked hurriedly, with averted\nface.  I imagined him with his fat little legs trying to keep\nup with her.  Panting a little in his haste, he told her how\nmiserable he was; he besought her to have mercy on him;\nhe promised, if she would forgive him, to do everything she\nwanted.  He offered to take her for a journey.  He told her\nthat Strickland would soon tire of her.  When he repeated to\nme the whole sordid little scene I was outraged.  He had shown\nneither sense nor dignity.  He had omitted nothing that could\nmake his wife despise him.  There is no cruelty greater than a\nwoman's to a man who loves her and whom she does not love;\nshe has no kindness then, no tolerance even, she has only an\ninsane irritation.  Blanche Stroeve stopped suddenly, and as\nhard as she could slapped her husband's face.  She took\nadvantage of his confusion to escape, and ran up the stairs to\nthe studio.  No word had passed her lips.\n\nWhen he told me this he put his hand to his cheek as though he\nstill felt the smart of the blow, and in his eyes was a pain\nthat was heartrending and an amazement that was ludicrous.\nHe looked like an overblown schoolboy, and though I felt so sorry\nfor him, I could hardly help laughing.\n\nThen he took to walking along the street which she must pass\nthrough to get to the shops, and he would stand at the corner,\non the other side, as she went along.  He dared not speak to\nher again, but sought to put into his round eyes the appeal\nthat was in his heart.  I suppose he had some idea that the\nsight of his misery would touch her.  She never made the\nsmallest sign that she saw him.  She never even changed the\nhour of her errands or sought an alternative route.  I have an\nidea that there was some cruelty in her indifference.  Perhaps\nshe got enjoyment out of the torture she inflicted.\nI wondered why she hated him so much.\n\nI begged Stroeve to behave more wisely.  His want of spirit\nwas exasperating.\n\n\"You're doing no good at all by going on like this,\" I said.\n\"I think you'd have been wiser if you'd hit her over the head\nwith a stick.  She wouldn't have despised you as she does now.\"\n\nI suggested that he should go home for a while.  He had often\nspoken to me of the silent town, somewhere up in the north of\nHolland, where his parents still lived.  They were poor\npeople.  His father was a carpenter, and they dwelt in a\nlittle old red-brick house, neat and clean, by the side of a\nsluggish canal.  The streets were wide and empty; for two\nhundred years the place had been dying, but the houses had the\nhomely stateliness of their time.  Rich merchants, sending\ntheir wares to the distant Indies, had lived in them calm and\nprosperous lives, and in their decent decay they kept still an\naroma of their splendid past.  You could wander along the\ncanal till you came to broad green fields, with windmills here\nand there, in which cattle, black and white, grazed lazily.\nI thought that among those surroundings, with their\nrecollections of his boyhood, Dirk Stroeve would forget his\nunhappiness.  But he would not go.\n\n\"I must be here when she needs me,\" he repeated.  \"It would be\ndreadful if something terrible happened and I were not at hand.\"\n\n\"What do you think is going to happen?\" I asked.\n\n\"I don't know.  But I'm afraid.\"\n\nI shrugged my shoulders.\n\nFor all his pain, Dirk Stroeve remained a ridiculous object.\nHe might have excited sympathy if he had grown worn and thin.\nHe did nothing of the kind.  He remained fat, and his round,\nred cheeks shone like ripe apples.  He had great neatness of\nperson, and he continued to wear his spruce black coat and his\nbowler hat, always a little too small for him, in a dapper,\njaunty manner.  He was getting something of a paunch, and\nsorrow had no effect on it.  He looked more than ever like a\nprosperous bagman.  It is hard that a man's exterior should\ntally so little sometimes with his soul.  Dirk Stroeve had the\npassion of Romeo in the body of Sir Toby Belch.  He had a\nsweet and generous nature, and yet was always blundering;\na real feeling for what was beautiful and the capacity to create\nonly what was commonplace; a peculiar delicacy of sentiment\nand gross manners.  He could exercise tact when dealing with\nthe affairs of others, but none when dealing with his own.\nWhat a cruel practical joke old Nature played when she flung\nso many contradictory elements together, and left the man face\nto face with the perplexing callousness of the universe.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXII\n\n\nI did not see Strickland for several weeks.  I was disgusted\nwith him, and if I had had an opportunity should have been\nglad to tell him so, but I saw no object in seeking him out\nfor the purpose.  I am a little shy of any assumption of moral\nindignation; there is always in it an element of self-satisfaction\nwhich makes it awkward to anyone who has a sense of humour.\nIt requires a very lively passion to steel me to\nmy own ridicule.  There was a sardonic sincerity in Strickland\nwhich made me sensitive to anything that might suggest a pose.\n\nBut one evening when I was passing along the Avenue de Clichy\nin front of the cafe which Strickland frequented and which I\nnow avoided, I ran straight into him.  He was accompanied by\nBlanche Stroeve, and they were just going to Strickland's\nfavourite corner.\n\n\"Where the devil have you been all this time?\" said he.\n\"I thought you must be away.\"\n\nHis cordiality was proof that he knew I had no wish to speak\nto him.  He was not a man with whom it was worth while wasting\npoliteness.\n\n\"No,\" I said; \"I haven't been away.\"\n\n\"Why haven't you been here?\"\n\n\"There are more cafes in Paris than one, at which to trifle\naway an idle hour.\"\n\nBlanche then held out her hand and bade me good-evening.\nI do not know why I had expected her to be somehow changed;\nshe wore the same gray dress that she wore so often, neat and\nbecoming, and her brow was as candid, her eyes as untroubled,\nas when I had been used to see her occupied with her household\nduties in the studio.\n\n\"Come and have a game of chess,\" said Strickland.\n\nI do not know why at the moment I could think of no excuse.\nI followed them rather sulkily to the table at which Strickland\nalways sat, and he called for the board and the chessmen.\nThey both took the situation so much as a matter of course\nthat I felt it absurd to do otherwise.  Mrs. Stroeve watched\nthe game with inscrutable face.  She was silent, but she had\nalways been silent.  I looked at her mouth for an expression\nthat could give me a clue to what she felt; I watched her eyes\nfor some tell-tale flash, some hint of dismay or bitterness;\nI scanned her brow for any passing line that might indicate a\nsettling emotion.  Her face was a mask that told nothing.\nHer hands lay on her lap motionless, one in the other loosely clasped.\nI knew from what I had heard that she was a woman of\nviolent passions; and that injurious blow that she had given\nDirk, the man who had loved her so devotedly, betrayed a\nsudden temper and a horrid cruelty.  She had abandoned the\nsafe shelter of her husband's protection and the comfortable\nease of a well-provided establishment for what she could not\nbut see was an extreme hazard.  It showed an eagerness for\nadventure, a readiness for the hand-to-mouth, which the care\nshe took of her home and her love of good housewifery made not\na little remarkable.  She must be a woman of complicated\ncharacter, and there was something dramatic in the contrast of\nthat with her demure appearance.\n\nI was excited by the encounter, and my fancy worked busily\nwhile I sought to concentrate myself on the game I was playing.\nI always tried my best to beat Strickland, because\nhe was a player who despised the opponent he vanquished;\nhis exultation in victory made defeat more difficult to bear.\nOn the other hand, if he was beaten he took it with complete\ngood-humour.  He was a bad winner and a good loser.  Those who\nthink that a man betrays his character nowhere more clearly\nthan when he is playing a game might on this draw subtle\ninferences.\n\nWhen he had finished I called the waiter to pay for the\ndrinks, and left them.  The meeting had been devoid of\nincident.  No word had been said to give me anything to think\nabout, and any surmises I might make were unwarranted.\nI was intrigued.  I could not tell how they were getting on.\nI would have given much to be a disembodied spirit so that I\ncould see them in the privacy of the studio and hear what they\ntalked about.  I had not the smallest indication on which to\nlet my imagination work.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIII\n\n\nTwo or three days later Dirk Stroeve called on me.\n\n\"I hear you've seen Blanche,\" he said.\n\n\"How on earth did you find out?\"\n\n\"I was told by someone who saw you sitting with them.\nWhy didn't you tell me?\"\n\n\"I thought it would only pain you.\"\n\n\"What do I care if it does?  You must know that I want to hear\nthe smallest thing about her.\"\n\nI waited for him to ask me questions.\n\n\"What does she look like?\" he said.\n\n\"Absolutely unchanged.\"\n\n\"Does she seem happy?\"\n\nI shrugged my shoulders.\n\n\"How can I tell? We were in a cafe; we were playing chess;\nI had no opportunity to speak to her.\"\n\n\"Oh, but couldn't you tell by her face?\"\n\nI shook my head.  I could only repeat that by no word, by no\nhinted gesture, had she given an indication of her feelings.\nHe must know better than I how great were her powers of\nself-control.  He clasped his hands emotionally.\n\n\"Oh, I'm so frightened.  I know something is going to happen,\nsomething terrible, and I can do nothing to stop it.\"\n\n\"What sort of thing?\" I asked.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know,\" he moaned, seizing his head with his\nhands.  \"I foresee some terrible catastrophe.\"\n\nStroeve had always been excitable, but now he was beside\nhimself; there was no reasoning with him.  I thought it\nprobable enough that Blanche Stroeve would not continue to\nfind life with Strickland tolerable, but one of the falsest of\nproverbs is that you must lie on the bed that you have made.\nThe experience of life shows that people are constantly doing\nthings which must lead to disaster, and yet by some chance\nmanage to evade the result of their folly.  When Blanche\nquarrelled with Strickland she had only to leave him, and her\nhusband was waiting humbly to forgive and forget.  I was not\nprepared to feel any great sympathy for her.\n\n\"You see, you don't love her,\" said Stroeve.\n\n\"After all, there's nothing to prove that she is unhappy.\nFor all we know they may have settled down into a most\ndomestic couple.\"\n\nStroeve gave me a look with his woeful eyes.\n\n\"Of course it doesn't much matter to you, but to me it's so\nserious, so intensely serious.\"\n\nI was sorry if I had seemed impatient or flippant.\n\n\"Will you do something for me?\" asked Stroeve.\n\n\"Willingly.\"\n\n\"Will you write to Blanche for me?\"\n\n\"Why can't you write yourself?\"\n\n\"I've written over and over again.  I didn't expect her to answer.\nI don't think she reads the letters.\"\n\n\"You make no account of feminine curiosity.  Do you think she\ncould resist?\"\n\n\"She could -- mine.\"\n\nI looked at him quickly.  He lowered his eyes.  That answer of\nhis seemed to me strangely humiliating.  He was conscious that\nshe regarded him with an indifference so profound that the\nsight of his handwriting would have not the slightest effect\non her.\n\n\"Do you really believe that she'll ever come back to you?\" I asked.\n\n\"I want her to know that if the worst comes to the worst she\ncan count on me.  That's what I want you to tell her.\"\n\nI took a sheet of paper.\n\n\"What is it exactly you wish me to say?\"\n\nThis is what I wrote:\n\n\nDEAR MRS. STROEVE,  <i Dirk wishes me to tell you that if at\nany time you want him he will be grateful for the opportunity\nof being of service to you.  He has no ill-feeling towards you\non account of anything that has happened.  His love for you is\nunaltered.  You will always find him at the following\naddress:>\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIV\n\n\nBut though I was no less convinced than Stroeve that the\nconnection between Strickland and Blanche would end\ndisastrously, I did not expect the issue to take the tragic\nform it did.  The summer came, breathless and sultry, and even\nat night there was no coolness to rest one's jaded nerves.\nThe sun-baked streets seemed to give back the heat that had\nbeat down on them during the day, and the passers-by dragged\ntheir feet along them wearily.  I had not seen Strickland for weeks.\nOccupied with other things, I had ceased to think of\nhim and his affairs.  Dirk, with his vain lamentations, had\nbegun to bore me, and I avoided his society.  It was a sordid\nbusiness, and I was not inclined to trouble myself with it further.\n\nOne morning I was working.  I sat in my Pyjamas.  My thoughts\nwandered, and I thought of the sunny beaches of Brittany and\nthe freshness of the sea.  By my side was the empty bowl in\nwhich the concierge had brought me my <i cafe au lait> and the\nfragment of croissant which I had not had appetite enough to eat.\nI heard the concierge in the next room emptying my bath.\nThere was a tinkle at my bell, and I left her to open the door.\nIn a moment I heard Stroeve's voice asking if I was in.\nWithout moving, I shouted to him to come.  He entered the room\nquickly, and came up to the table at which I sat.\n\n\"She's killed herself,\" he said hoarsely.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" I cried, startled.\n\nHe made movements with his lips as though he were speaking,\nbut no sound issued from them.  He gibbered like an idiot.\nMy heart thumped against my ribs, and, I do not know why,\nI flew into a temper.\n\n\"For God's sake, collect yourself, man,\" I said.  \"What on\nearth are you talking about?\"\n\nHe made despairing gestures with his hands, but still no words\ncame from his mouth.  He might have been struck dumb.  I do\nnot know what came over me; I took him by the shoulders and\nshook him.  Looking back, I am vexed that I made such a fool\nof myself; I suppose the last restless nights had shaken my\nnerves more than I knew.\n\n\"Let me sit down,\" he gasped at length.\n\nI filled a glass with St.  Galmier, and gave it to him\nto drink. I held it to his mouth as though he were a child.\nHe gulped down a mouthful, and some of it was spilt on\nhis shirt-front.\n\n\"Who's killed herself?\"\n\nI do not know why I asked, for I knew whom he meant.  He made\nan effort to collect himself.\n\n\"They had a row last night.  He went away.\"\n\n\"Is she dead?\"\n\n\"No; they've taken her to the hospital.\"\n\n\"Then what are you talking about?\" I cried impatiently.  \"Why\ndid you say she'd killed herself?\"\n\n\"Don't be cross with me.  I can't tell you anything if you\ntalk to me like that.\"\n\nI clenched my hands, seeking to control my irritation.\nI attempted a smile.\n\n\"I'm sorry.  Take your time.  Don't hurry, there's a good\nfellow.\"\n\nHis round blue eyes behind the spectacles were ghastly with\nterror.  The magnifying-glasses he wore distorted them.\n\n\"When the concierge went up this morning to take a letter she\ncould get no answer to her ring.  She heard someone groaning.\nThe door wasn't locked, and she went in.  Blanche was lying on\nthe bed.  She'd been frightfully sick.  There was a bottle of\noxalic acid on the table.\"\n\nStroeve hid his face in his hands and swayed backwards and\nforwards, groaning.\n\n\"Was she conscious?\"\n\n\"Yes.  Oh, if you knew how she's suffering! I can't bear it.\nI can't bear it.\"\n\nHis voice rose to a shriek.\n\n\"Damn it all, you haven't got to bear it,\" I cried impatiently.\n\"She's got to bear it.\"\n\n\"How can you be so cruel?\"\n\n\"What have you done?\"\n\n\"They sent for a doctor and for me, and they told the police.\nI'd given the concierge twenty francs, and told her to send\nfor me if anything happened.\"\n\nHe paused a minute, and I saw that what he had to tell me was\nvery hard to say.\n\n\"When I went she wouldn't speak to me.  She told them to send\nme away.  I swore that I forgave her everything, but she\nwouldn't listen.  She tried to beat her head against the wall.\nThe doctor told me that I mustn't remain with her.  She kept\non saying, 'Send him away!' I went, and waited in the studio.\nAnd when the ambulance came and they put her on a stretcher,\nthey made me go in the kitchen so that she shouldn't know I\nwas there.\"\n\nWhile I dressed -- for Stroeve wished me to go at once with\nhim to the hospital -- he told me that he had arranged for his\nwife to have a private room, so that she might at least be\nspared the sordid promiscuity of a ward.  On our way he\nexplained to me why he desired my presence; if she still\nrefused to see him, perhaps she would see me.  He begged me to\nrepeat to her that he loved her still; he would reproach her\nfor nothing, but desired only to help her; he made no claim on\nher, and on her recovery would not seek to induce her to\nreturn to him; she would be perfectly free.\n\nBut when we arrived at the hospital, a gaunt, cheerless\nbuilding, the mere sight of which was enough to make one's\nheart sick, and after being directed from this official to\nthat, up endless stairs and through long, bare corridors,\nfound the doctor in charge of the case, we were told that the\npatient was too ill to see anyone that day.  The doctor was a\nlittle bearded man in white, with an offhand manner.\nHe evidently looked upon a case as a case, and anxious relatives\nas a nuisance which must be treated with firmness.  Moreover,\nto him the affair was commonplace; it was just an hysterical\nwoman who had quarrelled with her lover and taken poison;\nit was constantly happening.  At first he thought that Dirk was\nthe cause of the disaster, and he was needlessly brusque with him.\nWhen I explained that he was the husband, anxious to\nforgive, the doctor looked at him suddenly, with curious,\nsearching eyes.  I seemed to see in them a hint of mockery;\nit was true that Stroeve had the head of the husband who is deceived.\nThe doctor faintly shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"There is no immediate danger,\" he said, in answer to our\nquestioning.  \"One doesn't know how much she took.  It may be\nthat she will get off with a fright.  Women are constantly\ntrying to commit suicide for love, but generally they take\ncare not to succeed.  It's generally a gesture to arouse pity\nor terror in their lover.\"\n\nThere was in his tone a frigid contempt.  It was obvious that\nto him Blanche Stroeve was only a unit to be added to the\nstatistical list of attempted suicides in the city of Paris\nduring the current year.  He was busy, and could waste no more\ntime on us.  He told us that if we came at a certain hour next\nday, should Blanche be better, it might be possible for her\nhusband to see her.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXV\n\n\nI scarcely know how we got through that day.  Stroeve could\nnot bear to be alone, and I exhausted myself in efforts to\ndistract him.  I took him to the Louvre, and he pretended to\nlook at pictures, but I saw that his thoughts were constantly\nwith his wife.  I forced him to eat, and after luncheon I\ninduced him to lie down, but he could not sleep.  He accepted\nwillingly my invitation to remain for a few days in my apartment.\nI gave him books to read, but after a page or two\nhe would put the book down and stare miserably into space.\nDuring the evening we played innumerable games of piquet,\nand bravely, not to disappoint my efforts, he tried to appear\ninterested.  Finally I gave him a draught, and he sank into\nuneasy slumber.\n\nWhen we went again to the hospital we saw a nursing sister.\nShe told us that Blanche seemed a little better, and she went\nin to ask if she would see her husband.  We heard voices in\nthe room in which she lay, and presently the nurse returned to\nsay that the patient refused to see anyone.  We had told her\nthat if she refused to see Dirk the nurse was to ask if she\nwould see me, but this she refused also.  Dirk's lips\ntrembled.\n\n\"I dare not insist,\" said the nurse.  \"She is too ill.\nPerhaps in a day or two she may change her mind.\"\n\n\"Is there anyone else she wants to see?\" asked Dirk,\nin a voice so low it was almost a whisper.\n\n\"She says she only wants to be left in peace.\"\n\nDirk's hands moved strangely, as though they had nothing to do\nwith his body, with a movement of their own.\n\n\"Will you tell her that if there is anyone else she wishes to\nsee I will bring him? I only want her to be happy.\"\n\nThe nurse looked at him with her calm, kind eyes, which had\nseen all the horror and pain of the world, and yet, filled\nwith the vision of a world without sin, remained serene.\n\n\"I will tell her when she is a little calmer.\"\n\nDirk, filled with compassion, begged her to take the message\nat once.\n\n\"It may cure her.  I beseech you to ask her now.\"\n\nWith a faint smile of pity, the nurse went back into the room.\nWe heard her low voice, and then, in a voice I did not\nrecognise the answer:\n\n\"No.  No.  No.\"\n\nThe nurse came out again and shook her head.\n\n\"Was that she who spoke then?\" I asked.  \"Her voice sounded\nso strange.\"\n\n\"It appears that her vocal cords have been burnt by the acid.\"\n\nDirk gave a low cry of distress.  I asked him to go on and\nwait for me at the entrance, for I wanted to say something to\nthe nurse.  He did not ask what it was, but went silently.  He\nseemed to have lost all power of will; he was like an obedient child.\n\n\"Has she told you why she did it?\" I asked.\n\n\"No.  She won't speak.  She lies on her back quite quietly.\nShe doesn't move for hours at a time.  But she cries always.\nHer pillow is all wet.  She's too weak to use a handkerchief,\nand the tears just run down her face.\"\n\nIt gave me a sudden wrench of the heart-strings.  I could have\nkilled Strickland then, and I knew that my voice was trembling\nwhen I bade the nurse good-bye.\n\nI found Dirk waiting for me on the steps.  He seemed to see\nnothing, and did not notice that I had joined him till I\ntouched him on the arm.  We walked along in silence.  I tried\nto imagine what had happened to drive the poor creature to\nthat dreadful step.  I presumed that Strickland knew what had\nhappened, for someone must have been to see him from the police,\nand he must have made his statement.  I did not know\nwhere he was.  I supposed he had gone back to the shabby attic\nwhich served him as a studio.  It was curious that she should\nnot wish to see him.  Perhaps she refused to have him sent for\nbecause she knew he would refuse to come.  I wondered what an\nabyss of cruelty she must have looked into that in horror she\nrefused to live.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXVI\n\n\nThe next week was dreadful.  Stroeve went twice a day to the\nhospital to enquire after his wife, who still declined to see\nhim; and came away at first relieved and hopeful because he\nwas told that she seemed to be growing better, and then in\ndespair because, the complication which the doctor had feared\nhaving ensued, recovery was impossible.  The nurse was pitiful\nto his distress, but she had little to say that could console\nhim.  The poor woman lay quite still, refusing to speak, with\nher eyes intent, as though she watched for the coming of death.\nIt could now be only the question of a day or two;\nand when, late one evening, Stroeve came to see me I knew it was\nto tell me she was dead.  He was absolutely exhausted.\nHis volubility had left him at last, and he sank down wearily\non my sofa.  I felt that no words of condolence availed, and I\nlet him lie there quietly.  I feared he would think it\nheartless if I read, so I sat by the window, smoking a pipe,\ntill he felt inclined to speak.\n\n\"You've been very kind to me,\" he said at last.  \"Everyone's\nbeen very kind.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" I said, a little embarrassed.\n\n\"At the hospital they told me I might wait.  They gave me a\nchair, and I sat outside the door.  When she became\nunconscious they said I might go in.  Her mouth and chin were\nall burnt by the acid.  It was awful to see her lovely skin\nall wounded.  She died very peacefully, so that I didn't know\nshe was dead till the sister told me.\"\n\nHe was too tired to weep.  He lay on his back limply, as\nthough all the strength had gone out of his limbs, and\npresently I saw that he had fallen asleep.  It was the first\nnatural sleep he had had for a week.  Nature, sometimes so\ncruel, is sometimes merciful.  I covered him and turned down\nthe light.  In the morning when I awoke he was still asleep.\nHe had not moved.  His gold-rimmed spectacles were still on\nhis nose.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXVII\n\n\nThe circumstances of Blanche Stroeve's death necessitated all\nmanner of dreadful formalities, but at last we were allowed to\nbury her.  Dirk and I alone followed the hearse to the cemetery.\nWe went at a foot-pace, but on the way back we trotted,\nand there was something to my mind singularly horrible in\nthe way the driver of the hearse whipped up his horses.\nIt seemed to dismiss the dead with a shrug of the shoulders.\nNow and then I caught sight of the swaying hearse in\nfront of us, and our own driver urged his pair so that we\nmight not remain behind.  I felt in myself, too, the desire to\nget the whole thing out of my mind.  I was beginning to be\nbored with a tragedy that did not really concern me, and\npretending to myself that I spoke in order to distract\nStroeve, I turned with relief to other subjects.\n\n\"Don't you think you'd better go away for a bit?\" I said.\n\"There can be no object in your staying in Paris now.\"\n\nHe did not answer, but I went on ruthlessly:\n\n\"Have you made any plans for the immediate future?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You must try and gather together the threads again.\nWhy don't you go down to Italy and start working?\"\n\nAgain he made no reply, but the driver of our carriage came to\nmy rescue.  Slackening his pace for a moment, he leaned over\nand spoke.  I could not hear what he said, so I put my head\nout of the window.  He wanted to know where we wished to be\nset down.  I told him to wait a minute.\n\n\"You'd better come and have lunch with me,\" I said to Dirk.\n\"I'll tell him to drop us in the Place Pigalle.\"\n\n\"I'd rather not.  I want to go to the studio.\"\n\nI hesitated a moment.\n\n\"Would you like me to come with you?\" I asked then.\n\n\"No; I should prefer to be alone.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nI gave the driver the necessary direction, and in renewed\nsilence we drove on.  Dirk had not been to the studio since\nthe wretched morning on which they had taken Blanche to the hospital.\nI was glad he did not want me to accompany him, and when\nI left him at the door I walked away with relief.  I took\na new pleasure in the streets of Paris, and I looked with\nsmiling eyes at the people who hurried to and fro.  The day\nwas fine and sunny, and I felt in myself a more acute delight\nin life.  I could not help it; I put Stroeve and his sorrows\nout of my mind.  I wanted to enjoy.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXVIII\n\n\nI did not see him again for nearly a week.  Then he fetched me\nsoon after seven one evening and took me out to dinner.\nHe was dressed in the deepest mourning, and on his bowler was a\nbroad black band.  He had even a black border to his handkerchief.\nHis garb of woe suggested that he had lost in one\ncatastrophe every relation he had in the world, even to\ncousins by marriage twice removed.  His plumpness and his red,\nfat cheeks made his mourning not a little incongruous.  It was\ncruel that his extreme unhappiness should have in it something\nof buffoonery.\n\nHe told me he had made up his mind to go away, though not to\nItaly, as I had suggested, but to Holland.\n\n\"I'm starting to-morrow.  This is perhaps the last time we\nshall ever meet.\"\n\nI made an appropriate rejoinder, and he smiled wanly.\n\n\"I haven't been home for five years.  I think I'd forgotten it all;\nI seemed to have come so far away from my father's house\nthat I was shy at the idea of revisiting it; but now I feel\nit's my only refuge.\"\n\nHe was sore and bruised, and his thoughts went back to the\ntenderness of his mother's love.  The ridicule he had endured\nfor years seemed now to weigh him down, and the final blow of\nBlanche's treachery had robbed him of the resiliency which had\nmade him take it so gaily.  He could no longer laugh with\nthose who laughed at him.  He was an outcast.  He told me of\nhis childhood in the tidy brick house, and of his mother's\npassionate orderliness.  Her kitchen was a miracle of clean\nbrightness.  Everything was always in its place, and no where\ncould you see a speck of dust.  Cleanliness, indeed, was a\nmania with her.  I saw a neat little old woman, with cheeks\nlike apples, toiling away from morning to night, through the\nlong years, to keep her house trim and spruce.  His father was\na spare old man, his hands gnarled after the work of a\nlifetime, silent and upright; in the evening he read the paper\naloud, while his wife and daughter (now married to the captain\nof a fishing smack), unwilling to lose a moment, bent over\ntheir sewing.  Nothing ever happened in that little town, left\nbehind by the advance of civilisation, and one year followed\nthe next till death came, like a friend, to give rest to those\nwho had laboured so diligently.\n\n\"My father wished me to become a carpenter like himself.\nFor five generations we've carried on the same trade, from father\nto son.  Perhaps that is the wisdom of life, to tread in your\nfather's steps, and look neither to the right nor to the left.\nWhen I was a little boy I said I would marry the daughter of\nthe harness-maker who lived next door.  She was a little girl\nwith blue eyes and a flaxen pigtail.  She would have kept my\nhouse like a new pin, and I should have had a son to carry on\nthe business after me.\"\n\nStroeve sighed a little and was silent.  His thoughts dwelt\namong pictures of what might have been, and the safety of the\nlife he had refused filled him with longing.\n\n\"The world is hard and cruel.  We are here none knows why,\nand we go none knows whither.  We must be very humble.  We must\nsee the beauty of quietness.  We must go through life so\ninconspicuously that Fate does not notice us.  And let us seek\nthe love of simple, ignorant people.  Their ignorance is\nbetter than all our knowledge.  Let us be silent, content in\nour little corner, meek and gentle like them.  That is the\nwisdom of life.\"\n\nTo me it was his broken spirit that expressed itself, and I\nrebelled against his renunciation.  But I kept my own counsel.\n\n\"What made you think of being a painter?\" I asked.\n\nHe shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"It happened that I had a knack for drawing.  I got prizes for\nit at school.  My poor mother was very proud of my gift,\nand she gave me a box of water-colours as a present.  She showed\nmy sketches to the pastor and the doctor and the judge.\nAnd they sent me to Amsterdam to try for a scholarship, and I won\nit.  Poor soul, she was so proud; and though it nearly broke\nher heart to part from me, she smiled, and would not show me\nher grief.  She was pleased that her son should be an artist.\nThey pinched and saved so that I should have enough to live on,\nand when my first picture was exhibited they came to\nAmsterdam to see it, my father and mother and my sister,\nand my mother cried when she looked at it.\"  His kind eyes glistened.\n\"And now on every wall of the old house there is one of my\npictures in a beautiful gold frame.\"\n\nHe glowed with happy pride.  I thought of those cold scenes of\nhis, with their picturesque peasants and cypresses and olive-trees.\nThey must look queer in their garish frames on the walls of\nthe peasant house.\n\n\"The dear soul thought she was doing a wonderful thing for me\nwhen she made me an artist, but perhaps, after all, it would\nhave been better for me if my father's will had prevailed and\nI were now but an honest carpenter.\"\n\n\"Now that you know what art can offer, would you change your\nlife? Would you have missed all the delight it has given you?\"\n\n\"Art is the greatest thing in the world,\" he answered, after a pause.\n\nHe looked at me for a minute reflectively; he seemed to hesitate;\nthen he said:\n\n\"Did you know that I had been to see Strickland?\"\n\n\"You?\"\n\nI was astonished.  I should have thought he could not bear to\nset eyes on him.  Stroeve smiled faintly.\n\n\"You know already that I have no proper pride.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\"\n\nHe told me a singular story.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XXXIX\n\n\nWhen I left him, after we had buried poor Blanche, Stroeve\nwalked into the house with a heavy heart.  Something impelled\nhim to go to the studio, some obscure desire for self-torture,\nand yet he dreaded the anguish that he foresaw.  He dragged\nhimself up the stairs; his feet seemed unwilling to carry him;\nand outside the door he lingered for a long time, trying to\nsummon up courage to go in.  He felt horribly sick.  He had an\nimpulse to run down the stairs after me and beg me to go in\nwith him; he had a feeling that there was somebody in the\nstudio.  He remembered how often he had waited for a minute or\ntwo on the landing to get his breath after the ascent, and how\nabsurdly his impatience to see Blanche had taken it away again.\nTo see her was a delight that never staled, and even\nthough he had not been out an hour he was as excited at the\nprospect as if they had been parted for a month.  Suddenly he\ncould not believe that she was dead.  What had happened could\nonly be a dream, a frightful dream; and when he turned the key\nand opened the door, he would see her bending slightly over\nthe table in the gracious attitude of the woman in Chardin's\n<i Benedicite>, which always seemed to him so exquisite.\nHurriedly he took the key out of his pocket, opened, and\nwalked in.\n\nThe apartment had no look of desertion.  His wife's tidiness\nwas one of the traits which had so much pleased him; his own\nupbringing had given him a tender sympathy for the delight in\norderliness; and when he had seen her instinctive desire to\nput each thing in its appointed place it had given him a\nlittle warm feeling in his heart.  The bedroom looked as\nthough she had just left it:  the brushes were neatly placed\non the toilet-table, one on each side of the comb; someone had\nsmoothed down the bed on which she had spent her last night in\nthe studio; and her nightdress in a little case lay on the pillow.\nIt was impossible to believe that she would never come into\nthat room again.\n\nBut he felt thirsty, and went into the kitchen to get himself\nsome water.  Here, too, was order.  On a rack were the plates\nthat she had used for dinner on the night of her quarrel with\nStrickland, and they had been carefully washed.  The knives\nand forks were put away in a drawer.  Under a cover were the\nremains of a piece of cheese, and in a tin box was a crust of\nbread.  She had done her marketing from day to day, buying\nonly what was strictly needful, so that nothing was left over\nfrom one day to the next.  Stroeve knew from the enquiries\nmade by the police that Strickland had walked out of the house\nimmediately after dinner, and the fact that Blanche had washed\nup the things as usual gave him a little thrill of horror.\nHer methodicalness made her suicide more deliberate.\nHer self-possession was frightening.  A sudden pang seized him,\nand his knees felt so weak that he almost fell.  He went back\ninto the bedroom and threw himself on the bed.  He cried out\nher name.\n\n\"Blanche.  Blanche.\"\n\nThe thought of her suffering was intolerable.  He had a sudden\nvision of her standing in the kitchen -- it was hardly larger\nthan a cupboard -- washing the plates and glasses, the forks\nand spoons, giving the knives a rapid polish on the knife-board;\nand then putting everything away, giving the sink a scrub,\nand hanging the dish-cloth up to dry -- it was there still,\na gray torn rag; then looking round to see that\neverything was clean and nice.  He saw her roll down her\nsleeves and remove her apron -- the apron hung on a peg behind\nthe door -- and take the bottle of oxalic acid and go with it\ninto the bedroom.\n\nThe agony of it drove him up from the bed and out of the room.\nHe went into the studio.  It was dark, for the curtains had\nbeen drawn over the great window, and he pulled them quickly\nback; but a sob broke from him as with a rapid glance he took\nin the place where he had been so happy.  Nothing was changed\nhere, either.  Strickland was indifferent to his surroundings,\nand he had lived in the other's studio without thinking of\naltering a thing.  It was deliberately artistic.  It represented\nStroeve's idea of the proper environment for an artist.\nThere were bits of old brocade on the walls, and the piano\nwas covered with a piece of silk, beautiful and tarnished;\nin one corner was a copy of the Venus of Milo, and\nin another of the Venus of the Medici.  Here and there was an\nItalian cabinet surmounted with Delft, and here and there a\nbas-relief.  In a handsome gold frame was a copy of Velasquez'\nInnocent X., that Stroeve had made in Rome, and placed so as\nto make the most of their decorative effect were a number of\nStroeve's pictures, all in splendid frames.  Stroeve had\nalways been very proud of his taste.  He had never lost his\nappreciation for the romantic atmosphere of a studio, and\nthough now the sight of it was like a stab in his heart,\nwithout thinking what he was at, he changed slightly the\nposition of a Louis XV. table which was one of his treasures.\nSuddenly he caught sight of a canvas with its face to the wall.\nIt was a much larger one than he himself was in the\nhabit of using, and he wondered what it did there.  He went\nover to it and leaned it towards him so that he could see the\npainting.  It was a nude.  His heart began to beat quickly,\nfor he guessed at once that it was one of Strickland's\npictures.  He flung it back against the wall angrily -- what\ndid he mean by leaving it there? -- but his movement caused it\nto fall, face downwards, on the ground.  No mater whose the\npicture, he could not leave it there in the dust, and he\nraised it; but then curiosity got the better of him.\nHe thought he would like to have a proper look at it, so he\nbrought it along and set it on the easel.  Then he stood back\nin order to see it at his ease.\n\nHe gave a gasp.  It was the picture of a woman lying on a sofa,\nwith one arm beneath her head and the other along her body;\none knee was raised, and the other leg was stretched out.\nThe pose was classic.  Stroeve's head swam.  It was Blanche.\nGrief and jealousy and rage seized him, and he cried\nout hoarsely; he was inarticulate; he clenched his fists and\nraised them threateningly at an invisible enemy.  He screamed\nat the top of his voice.  He was beside himself.  He could not\nbear it.  That was too much.  He looked round wildly for some\ninstrument; he wanted to hack the picture to pieces; it should\nnot exist another minute.  He could see nothing that would\nserve his purpose; he rummaged about his painting things;\nsomehow he could not find a thing; he was frantic.  At last he\ncame upon what he sought, a large scraper, and he pounced on\nit with a cry of triumph.  He seized it as though it were a\ndagger, and ran to the picture.\n\nAs Stroeve told me this he became as excited as when the\nincident occurred, and he took hold of a dinner-knife on the\ntable between us, and brandished it.  He lifted his arm as\nthough to strike, and then, opening his hand, let it fall with\na clatter to the ground.  He looked at me with a tremulous smile.\nHe did not speak.\n\n\"Fire away,\" I said.\n\n\"I don't know what happened to me.  I was just going to make a\ngreat hole in the picture, I had my arm all ready for the\nblow, when suddenly I seemed to see it.\"\n\n\"See what?\"\n\n\"The picture.  It was a work of art.  I couldn't touch it.\nI was afraid.\"\n\nStroeve was silent again, and he stared at me with his mouth\nopen and his round blue eyes starting out of his head.\n\n\"It was a great, a wonderful picture.  I was seized with awe.\nI had nearly committed a dreadful crime.  I moved a little to\nsee it better, and my foot knocked against the scraper.\nI shuddered.\"\n\nI really felt something of the emotion that had caught him.\nI was strangely impressed.  It was as though I were suddenly\ntransported into a world in which the values were changed.\nI stood by, at a loss, like a stranger in a land where the\nreactions of man to familiar things are all different from\nthose he has known.  Stroeve tried to talk to me about the\npicture, but he was incoherent, and I had to guess at what he meant.\nStrickland had burst the bonds that hitherto had held him.\nHe had found, not himself, as the phrase goes, but a new\nsoul with unsuspected powers.  It was not only the bold\nsimplification of the drawing which showed so rich and so\nsingular a personality; it was not only the painting, though\nthe flesh was painted with a passionate sensuality which had\nin it something miraculous; it was not only the solidity, so\nthat you felt extraordinarily the weight of the body; there\nwas also a spirituality, troubling and new, which led the\nimagination along unsuspected ways, and suggested dim empty\nspaces, lit only by the eternal stars, where the soul, all\nnaked, adventured fearful to the discovery of new mysteries.\n\nIf I am rhetorical it is because Stroeve was rhetorical.\n(Do we not know that man in moments of emotion expresses himself\nnaturally in the terms of a novelette?) Stroeve was trying to\nexpress a feeling which he had never known before, and he did\nnot know how to put it into common terms.  He was like the\nmystic seeking to describe the ineffable.  But one fact he\nmade clear to me; people talk of beauty lightly, and having no\nfeeling for words, they use that one carelessly, so that it\nloses its force; and the thing it stands for, sharing its name\nwith a hundred trivial objects, is deprived of dignity.\nThey call beautiful a dress, a dog, a sermon; and when they are\nface to face with Beauty cannot recognise it.  The false\nemphasis with which they try to deck their worthless thoughts\nblunts their susceptibilities.  Like the charlatan who\ncounterfeits a spiritual force he has sometimes felt, they\nlose the power they have abused.  But Stroeve, the\nunconquerable buffoon, had a love and an understanding of\nbeauty which were as honest and sincere as was his own sincere\nand honest soul.  It meant to him what God means to the\nbeliever, and when he saw it he was afraid.\n\n\"What did you say to Strickland when you saw him?\"\n\n\"I asked him to come with me to Holland.\"\n\nI was dumbfounded.  I could only look at Stroeve in stupid amazement.\n\n\"We both loved Blanche.  There would have been room for him in\nmy mother's house.  I think the company of poor, simple people\nwould have done his soul a great good.  I think he might have\nlearnt from them something that would be very useful to him.\"\n\n\"What did he say?\"\n\n\"He smiled a little.  I suppose he thought me very silly.\nHe said he had other fish to fry.\"\n\nI could have wished that Strickland had used some other phrase\nto indicate his refusal.\n\n\"He gave me the picture of Blanche.\"\n\nI wondered why Strickland had done that.  But I made no\nremark, and for some time we kept silence.\n\n\"What have you done with all your things?\" I said at last.\n\n\"I got a Jew in, and he gave me a round sum for the lot.\nI'm taking my pictures home with me.  Beside them I own nothing\nin the world now but a box of clothes and a few books.\"\n\n\"I'm glad you're going home,\" I said.\n\nI felt that his chance was to put all the past behind him.\nI hoped that the grief which now seemed intolerable would be\nsoftened by the lapse of time, and a merciful forgetfulness\nwould help him to take up once more the burden of life.\nHe was young still, and in a few years he would look back on all\nhis misery with a sadness in which there would be something\nnot unpleasurable.  Sooner or later he would marry some honest\nsoul in Holland, and I felt sure he would be happy.  I smiled\nat the thought of the vast number of bad pictures he would\npaint before he died.\n\nNext day I saw him off for Amsterdam.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XL\n\n\nFor the next month, occupied with my own affairs, I saw no one\nconnected with this lamentable business, and my mind ceased to\nbe occupied with it.  But one day, when I was walking along,\nbent on some errand, I passed Charles Strickland.  The sight\nof him brought back to me all the horror which I was not\nunwilling to forget, and I felt in me a sudden repulsion for\nthe cause of it.  Nodding, for it would have been childish to\ncut him, I walked on quickly; but in a minute I felt a hand on\nmy shoulder.\n\n\"You're in a great hurry,\" he said cordially.\n\nIt was characteristic of him to display geniality with anyone\nwho showed a disinclination to meet him, and the coolness of\nmy greeting can have left him in little doubt of that.\n\n\"I am,\" I answered briefly.\n\n\"I'll walk along with you,\" he said.\n\n\"Why?\" I asked.\n\n\"For the pleasure of your society.\"\n\nI did not answer, and he walked by my side silently.\nWe continued thus for perhaps a quarter of a mile.  I began to\nfeel a little ridiculous.  At last we passed a stationer's,\nand it occurred to me that I might as well buy some paper.\nIt would be an excuse to be rid of him.\n\n\"I'm going in here,\" I said.  \"Good-bye.\"\n\n\"I'll wait for you.\"\n\nI shrugged my shoulders, and went into the shop.  I reflected\nthat French paper was bad, and that, foiled of my purpose,\nI need not burden myself with a purchase that I did not need.\nI asked for something I knew could not be provided, and in a\nminute came out into the street.\n\n\"Did you get what you wanted?\" he asked.\n\n\"No.\"\n\nWe walked on in silence, and then came to a place where\nseveral streets met.  I stopped at the curb.\n\n\"Which way do you go?\" I enquired.\n\n\"Your way,\" he smiled.\n\n\"I'm going home.\"\n\n\"I'll come along with you and smoke a pipe.\"\n\n\"You might wait for an invitation,\" I retorted frigidly.\n\n\"I would if I thought there was any chance of getting one.\"\n\n\"Do you see that wall in front of you?\" I said, pointing.\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"In that case I should have thought you could see also that I\ndon't want your company.\"\n\n\"I vaguely suspected it, I confess.\"\n\nI could not help a chuckle.  It is one of the defects of my\ncharacter that I cannot altogether dislike anyone who makes me laugh.\nBut I pulled myself together.\n\n\"I think you're detestable.  You're the most loathsome beast\nthat it's ever been my misfortune to meet.  Why do you seek\nthe society of someone who hates and despises you?\"\n\n\"My dear fellow, what the hell do you suppose I care what you\nthink of me?\"\n\n\"Damn it all,\" I said, more violently because I had an inkling\nmy motive was none too creditable, \"I don't want to know you.\"\n\n\"Are you afraid I shall corrupt you?\"\n\nHis tone made me feel not a little ridiculous.  I knew that he\nwas looking at me sideways, with a sardonic smile.\n\n\"I suppose you are hard up,\" I remarked insolently.\n\n\"I should be a damned fool if I thought I had any chance of\nborrowing money from you.\"\n\n\"You've come down in the world if you can bring yourself to flatter.\"\n\nHe grinned.\n\n\"You'll never really dislike me so long as I give you the\nopportunity to get off a good thing now and then.\"\n\nI had to bite my lip to prevent myself from laughing.  What he\nsaid had a hateful truth in it, and another defect of my\ncharacter is that I enjoy the company of those, however\ndepraved, who can give me a Roland for my Oliver.  I began to\nfeel that my abhorrence for Strickland could only be sustained\nby an effort on my part.  I recognised my moral weakness, but\nsaw that my disapprobation had in it already something of a pose;\nand I knew that if I felt it, his own keen instinct had\ndiscovered it, too.  He was certainly laughing at me up his sleeve.\nI left him the last word, and sought refuge in a shrug of the\nshoulders and taciturnity.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLI\n\n\nWe arrived at the house in which I lived.  I would not ask him\nto come in with me, but walked up the stairs without a word.\nHe followed me, and entered the apartment on my heels.  He had\nnot been in it before, but he never gave a glance at the room\nI had been at pains to make pleasing to the eye.  There was a\ntin of tobacco on the table, and, taking out his pipe, he\nfilled it.  He sat down on the only chair that had no arms and\ntilted himself on the back legs.\n\n\"If you're going to make yourself at home, why don't you sit\nin an arm-chair?\" I asked irritably.\n\n\"Why are you concerned about my comfort?\"\n\n\"I'm not,\" I retorted, \"but only about my own.  It makes me\nuncomfortable to see someone sit on an uncomfortable chair.\"\n\nHe chuckled, but did not move.  He smoked on in silence,\ntaking no further notice of me, and apparently was absorbed in\nthought.  I wondered why he had come.\n\nUntil long habit has blunted the sensibility, there is\nsomething disconcerting to the writer in the instinct which\ncauses him to take an interest in the singularities of human\nnature so absorbing that his moral sense is powerless against it.\nHe recognises in himself an artistic satisfaction in the\ncontemplation of evil which a little startles him;\nbut sincerity forces him to confess that the disapproval he feels\nfor certain actions is not nearly so strong as his curiosity\nin their reasons.  The character of a scoundrel, logical and\ncomplete, has a fascination for his creator which is an\noutrage to law and order.  I expect that Shakespeare devised\nIago with a gusto which he never knew when, weaving moonbeams\nwith his fancy, he imagined Desdemona.  It may be that in his\nrogues the writer gratifies instincts deep-rooted in him, which\nthe manners and customs of a civilised world have forced back\nto the mysterious recesses of the subconscious.  In giving to\nthe character of his invention flesh and bones he is giving\nlife to that part of himself which finds no other means of\nexpression.  His satisfaction is a sense of liberation.\n\nThe writer is more concerned to know than to judge.\n\nThere was in my soul a perfectly genuine horror of Strickland,\nand side by side with it a cold curiosity to discover his motives.\nI was puzzled by him, and I was eager to see how he\nregarded the tragedy he had caused in the lives of people who\nhad used him with so much kindness.  I applied the scalpel\nboldly.\n\n\"Stroeve told me that picture you painted of his wife was the\nbest thing you've ever done.\"\n\nStrickland took his pipe out of his mouth, and a smile lit up\nhis eyes.\n\n\"It was great fun to do.\"\n\n\"Why did you give it him?\"\n\n\"I'd finished it.  It wasn't any good to me.\"\n\n\"Do you know that Stroeve nearly destroyed it?\"\n\n\"It wasn't altogether satisfactory.\"\n\nHe was quiet for a moment or two, then he took his pipe out of\nhis mouth again, and chuckled.\n\n\"Do you know that the little man came to see me?\"\n\n\"Weren't you rather touched by what he had to say?\"\n\n\"No; I thought it damned silly and sentimental.\"\n\n\"I suppose it escaped your memory that you'd ruined his life?\"\nI remarked.\n\nHe rubbed his bearded chin reflectively.\n\n\"He's a very bad painter.\"\n\n\"But a very good man.\"\n\n\"And an excellent cook,\" Strickland added derisively.\n\nHis callousness was inhuman, and in my indignation I was not\ninclined to mince my words.\n\n\"As a mere matter of curiosity I wish you'd tell me, have you\nfelt the smallest twinge of remorse for Blanche Stroeve's death?\"\n\nI watched his face for some change of expression, but it\nremained impassive.\n\n\"Why should I?\" he asked.\n\n\"Let me put the facts before you.  You were dying, and Dirk\nStroeve took you into his own house.  He nursed you like a mother.\nHe sacrificed his time and his comfort and his money for you.\nHe snatched you from the jaws of death.\"\n\nStrickland shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"The absurd little man enjoys doing things for other people.\nThat's his life.\"\n\n\"Granting that you owed him no gratitude, were you obliged to\ngo out of your way to take his wife from him?  Until you came\non the scene they were happy.  Why couldn't you leave them alone?\"\n\n\"What makes you think they were happy?\"\n\n\"It was evident.\"\n\n\"You are a discerning fellow.  Do you think she could ever\nhave forgiven him for what he did for her?\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\"\n\n\"Don't you know why he married her?\"\n\nI shook my head.\n\n\"She was a governess in the family of some Roman prince, and\nthe son of the house seduced her.  She thought he was going to\nmarry her.  They turned her out into the street neck and crop.\nShe was going to have a baby, and she tried to commit suicide.\nStroeve found her and married her.\"\n\n\"It was just like him.  I never knew anyone with so\ncompassionate a heart.\"\n\nI had often wondered why that ill-assorted pair had married,\nbut just that explanation had never occurred to me.  That was\nperhaps the cause of the peculiar quality of Dirk's love for\nhis wife.  I had noticed in it something more than passion.\nI remembered also how I had always fancied that her reserve\nconcealed I knew not what; but now I saw in it more than the\ndesire to hide a shameful secret.  Her tranquillity was like\nthe sullen calm that broods over an island which has been\nswept by a hurricane.  Her cheerfulness was the cheerfulness\nof despair.  Strickland interrupted my reflections with an\nobservation the profound cynicism of which startled me.\n\n\"A woman can forgive a man for the harm he does her,\" he said,\n\"but she can never forgive him for the sacrifices he makes on\nher account.\"\n\n\"It must be reassuring to you to know that you certainly run\nno risk of incurring the resentment of the women you come in\ncontact with,\" I retorted.\n\nA slight smile broke on his lips.\n\n\"You are always prepared to sacrifice your principles for a\nrepartee,\" he answered.\n\n\"What happened to the child?\"\n\n\"Oh, it was still-born, three or four months after they were married.\"\n\nThen I came to the question which had seemed to me most puzzling.\n\n\"Will you tell me why you bothered about Blanche Stroeve at all?\"\n\nHe did not answer for so long that I nearly repeated it.\n\n\"How do I know?\" he said at last.  \"She couldn't bear the\nsight of me.  It amused me.\"\n\n\"I see.\"\n\nHe gave a sudden flash of anger.\n\n\"Damn it all, I wanted her.\"\n\nBut he recovered his temper immediately, and looked at me with\na smile.\n\n\"At first she was horrified.\"\n\n\"Did you tell her?\"\n\n\"There wasn't any need.  She knew.  I never said a word.\nShe was frightened.  At last I took her.\"\n\nI do not know what there was in the way he told me this that\nextraordinarily suggested the violence of his desire.  It was\ndisconcerting and rather horrible.  His life was strangely\ndivorced from material things, and it was as though his body\nat times wreaked a fearful revenge on his spirit.  The satyr\nin him suddenly took possession, and he was powerless in the\ngrip of an instinct which had all the strength of the\nprimitive forces of nature.  It was an obsession so complete\nthat there was no room in his soul for prudence or gratitude.\n\n\"But why did you want to take her away with you?\" I asked.\n\n\"I didn't,\" he answered, frowning.  \"When she said she was\ncoming I was nearly as surprised as Stroeve.  I told her that\nwhen I'd had enough of her she'd have to go, and she said\nshe'd risk that.\"  He paused a little.  \"She had a wonderful\nbody, and I wanted to paint a nude.  When I'd finished my\npicture I took no more interest in her.\"\n\n\"And she loved you with all her heart.\"\n\nHe sprang to his feet and walked up and down the small room.\n\n\"I don't want love.  I haven't time for it.  It's weakness.\nI am a man, and sometimes I want a woman.  When I've satisfied\nmy passion I'm ready for other things.  I can't overcome my\ndesire, but I hate it; it imprisons my spirit; I look forward\nto the time when I shall be free from all desire and can give\nmyself without hindrance to my work.  Because women can do\nnothing except love, they've given it a ridiculous importance.\nThey want to persuade us that it's the whole of life.  It's an\ninsignificant part.  I know lust.  That's normal and healthy.\nLove is a disease.  Women are the instruments of my pleasure;\nI have no patience with their claim to be helpmates, partners,\ncompanions.\"\n\nI had never heard Strickland speak so much at one time.\nHe spoke with a passion of indignation.  But neither here nor\nelsewhere do I pretend to give his exact words; his vocabulary\nwas small, and he had no gift for framing sentences, so that\none had to piece his meaning together out of interjections,\nthe expression of his face, gestures and hackneyed phrases.\n\n\"You should have lived at a time when women were chattels and\nmen the masters of slaves,\" I said.\n\n\"It just happens that I am a completely normal man.\"\n\nI could not help laughing at this remark, made in all seriousness;\nbut he went on, walking up and down the room like\na caged beast, intent on expressing what he felt, but found\nsuch difficulty in putting coherently.\n\n\"When a woman loves you she's not satisfied until she\npossesses your soul.  Because she's weak, she has a rage for\ndomination, and nothing less will satisfy her.  She has a\nsmall mind, and she resents the abstract which she is unable\nto grasp.  She is occupied with material things, and she is\njealous of the ideal.  The soul of man wanders through the\nuttermost regions of the universe, and she seeks to imprison\nit in the circle of her account-book.  Do you remember my wife?\nI saw Blanche little by little trying all her tricks.\nWith infinite patience she prepared to snare me and bind me.\nShe wanted to bring me down to her level; she cared nothing\nfor me, she only wanted me to be hers.  She was willing to do\neverything in the world for me except the one thing I wanted:\nto leave me alone.\"\n\nI was silent for a while.\n\n\"What did you expect her to do when you left her?\"\n\n\"She could have gone back to Stroeve,\" he said irritably.\n\"He was ready to take her.\"\n\n\"You're inhuman,\" I answered.  \"It's as useless to talk to you\nabout these things as to describe colours to a man who was\nborn blind.\"\n\nHe stopped in front of my chair, and stood looking down at me\nwith an expression in which I read a contemptuous amazement.\n\n\"Do you really care a twopenny damn if Blanche Stroeve is\nalive or dead?\"\n\nI thought over his question, for I wanted to answer it\ntruthfully, at all events to my soul.\n\n\"It may be a lack of sympathy in myself if it does not make\nany great difference to me that she is dead.  Life had a great\ndeal to offer her.  I think it's terrible that she should have\nbeen deprived of it in that cruel way, and I am ashamed\nbecause I do not really care.\"\n\n\"You have not the courage of your convictions.  Life has no\nvalue.  Blanche Stroeve didn't commit suicide because I left\nher, but because she was a foolish and unbalanced woman.\nBut we've talked about her quite enough; she was an entirely\nunimportant person.  Come, and I'll show you my pictures.\"\n\nHe spoke as though I were a child that needed to be\ndistracted.  I was sore, but not with him so much as with myself.\nI thought of the happy life that pair had led in the\ncosy studio in Montmartre, Stroeve and his wife, their\nsimplicity, kindness, and hospitality; it seemed to me cruel\nthat it should have been broken to pieces by a ruthless\nchance; but the cruellest thing of all was that in fact it\nmade no great difference.  The world went on, and no one was a\npenny the worse for all that wretchedness.  I had an idea that\nDirk, a man of greater emotional reactions than depth of\nfeeling, would soon forget; and Blanche's life, begun with who\nknows what bright hopes and what dreams, might just as well\nhave never been lived.  It all seemed useless and inane.\n\nStrickland had found his hat, and stood looking at me.\n\n\"Are you coming?\"\n\n\"Why do you seek my acquaintance?\" I asked him.  \"You know\nthat I hate and despise you.\"\n\nHe chuckled good-humouredly.\n\n\"Your only quarrel with me really is that I don't care a\ntwopenny damn what you think about me.\"\n\nI felt my cheeks grow red with sudden anger.  It was\nimpossible to make him understand that one might be outraged\nby his callous selfishness.  I longed to pierce his armour of\ncomplete indifference.  I knew also that in the end there was\ntruth in what he said.  Unconsciously, perhaps, we treasure\nthe power we have over people by their regard for our opinion\nof them, and we hate those upon whom we have no such\ninfluence.  I suppose it is the bitterest wound to human\npride.  But I would not let him see that I was put out.\n\n\"Is it possible for any man to disregard others entirely?\"\nI said, though more to myself than to him.  \"You're dependent on\nothers for everything in existence.  It's a preposterous\nattempt to try to live only for yourself and by yourself.\nSooner or later you'll be ill and tired and old, and then\nyou'll crawl back into the herd.  Won't you be ashamed when\nyou feel in your heart the desire for comfort and sympathy?\nYou're trying an impossible thing.  Sooner or later the human\nbeing in you will yearn for the common bonds of humanity.\"\n\n\"Come and look at my pictures.\"\n\n\"Have you ever thought of death?\"\n\n\"Why should I? It doesn't matter.\"\n\nI stared at him.  He stood before me, motionless, with a\nmocking smile in his eyes; but for all that, for a moment I\nhad an inkling of a fiery, tortured spirit, aiming at\nsomething greater than could be conceived by anything that was\nbound up with the flesh.  I had a fleeting glimpse of a\npursuit of the ineffable.  I looked at the man before me in\nhis shabby clothes, with his great nose and shining eyes, his\nred beard and untidy hair; and I had a strange  sensation that\nit was only an envelope, and I was in the presence of a\ndisembodied spirit.\n\n\"Let us go and look at your pictures,\" I said.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLII\n\n\nI did not know why Strickland had suddenly offered to show\nthem to me.  I welcomed the opportunity.  A man's work reveals him.\nIn social intercourse he gives you the surface that he\nwishes the world to accept, and you can only gain a true\nknowledge of him by inferences from little actions, of which\nhe is unconscious, and from fleeting expressions, which cross\nhis face unknown to him.  Sometimes people carry to such\nperfection the mask they have assumed that in due course they\nactually become the person they seem.  But in his book or his\npicture the real man delivers himself defenceless.\nHis pretentiousness will only expose his vacuity.  The lathe\npainted to look like iron is seen to be but a lathe.\nNo affectation of peculiarity can conceal a commonplace mind.\nTo the acute observer no one can produce the most casual work\nwithout disclosing the innermost secrets of his soul.\n\nAs I walked up the endless stairs of the house in which\nStrickland lived, I confess that I was a little excited.\nIt seemed to me that I was on the threshold of a surprising\nadventure.  I looked about the room with curiosity.  It was\neven smaller and more bare than I remembered it.  I wondered\nwhat those friends of mine would say who demanded vast\nstudios, and vowed they could not work unless all the\nconditions were to their liking.\n\n\"You'd better stand there,\" he said, pointing to a spot from\nwhich, presumably, he fancied I could see to best advantage\nwhat he had to show me.\n\n\"You don't want me to talk, I suppose,\" I said.\n\n\"No, blast you; I want you to hold your tongue.\"\n\nHe placed a picture on the easel, and let me look at it for a\nminute or two; then took it down and put another in its place.\nI think he showed me about thirty canvases.  It was the result\nof the six years during which he had been painting.  He had\nnever sold a picture.  The canvases were of different sizes.\nThe smaller were pictures of still-life and the largest were\nlandscapes.  There were about half a dozen portraits.\n\n\"That is the lot,\" he said at last.\n\nI wish I could say that I recognised at once their beauty and\ntheir great originality.  Now that I have seen many of them\nagain and the rest are familiar to me in reproductions, I am\nastonished that at first sight I was bitterly disappointed.\nI felt nothing of the peculiar thrill which it is the property\nof art to give.  The impression that Strickland's pictures\ngave me was disconcerting; and the fact remains, always to\nreproach me, that I never even thought of buying any.\nI missed a wonderful chance.  Most of them have found their way\ninto museums, and the rest are the treasured possessions of\nwealthy amateurs.  I try to find excuses for myself.  I think\nthat my taste is good, but I am conscious that it has no originality.\nI know very little about painting, and I wander\nalong trails that others have blazed for me.  At that time I\nhad the greatest admiration for the impressionists.  I longed\nto possess a Sisley and a Degas, and I worshipped Manet.\nHis <i Olympia> seemed to me the greatest picture of modern times,\nand <i Le Dejeuner sur l'Herbe> moved me profoundly.\nThese works seemed to me the last word in painting.\n\nI will not describe the pictures that Strickland showed me.\nDescriptions of pictures are always dull, and these, besides,\nare familiar to all who take an interest in such things.  Now\nthat his influence has so enormously affected modern painting,\nnow that others have charted the country which he was among\nthe first to explore, Strickland's pictures, seen for the\nfirst time, would find the mind more prepared for them; but it\nmust be remembered that I had never seen anything of the sort.\nFirst of all I was taken aback by what seemed to me the\nclumsiness of his technique.  Accustomed to the drawing of the\nold masters, and convinced that Ingres was the greatest\ndraughtsman of recent times, I thought that Strickland drew\nvery badly.  I knew nothing of the simplification at which he aimed.\nI remember a still-life of oranges on a plate, and I\nwas bothered because the plate was not round and the oranges\nwere lop-sided.  The portraits were a little larger than\nlife-size, and this gave them an ungainly look.  To my eyes the\nfaces looked like caricatures.  They were painted in a way\nthat was entirely new to me.  The landscapes puzzled me even more.\nThere were two or three pictures of the forest at\nFontainebleau and several of streets in Paris:  my first feeling\nwas that they might have been painted by a drunken cabdriver.\nI was perfectly bewildered.  The colour seemed to\nme extraordinarily crude.  It passed through my mind that the\nwhole thing was a stupendous, incomprehensible farce.\nNow that I look back I am more than ever impressed by\nStroeve's acuteness. He saw from the first that here was a\nrevolution in art, and he recognised in its beginnings the\ngenius which now all the world allows.\n\nBut if I was puzzled and disconcerted, I was not unimpressed.\nEven I, in my colossal ignorance, could not but feel that\nhere, trying to express itself, was real power.  I was excited\nand interested.  I felt that these pictures had something to\nsay to me that was very important for me to know, but I could\nnot tell what it was.  They seemed to me ugly, but they\nsuggested without disclosing a secret of momentous\nsignificance.  They were strangely tantalising.  They gave me\nan emotion that I could not analyse.  They said something that\nwords were powerless to utter.  I fancy that Strickland saw\nvaguely some spiritual meaning in material things that was so\nstrange that he could only suggest it with halting symbols.\nIt was as though he found in the chaos of the universe a new\npattern, and were attempting clumsily, with anguish of soul,\nto set it down.  I saw a tormented spirit striving for the\nrelease of expression.\n\nI turned to him.\n\n\"I wonder if you haven't mistaken your medium,\" I said.\n\n\"What the hell do you mean?\"\n\n\"I think you're trying to say something, I don't quite know\nwhat it is, but I'm not sure that the best way of saying it is\nby means of painting.\"\n\nWhen I imagined that on seeing his pictures I should get a clue to the\nunderstanding of his strange character I was mistaken. They merely\nincreased the astonishment with which he filled me. I was more at sea\nthan ever. The only thing that seemed clear to me -- and perhaps even\nthis was fanciful -- was that he was passionately striving for\nliberation from some power that held him. But what the power was and\nwhat line the liberation would take remained obscure. Each one of us\nis alone in the world. He is shut in a tower of brass, and can\ncommunicate with his fellows only by signs, and the signs have no\ncommon value, so that their sense is vague and uncertain. We seek\npitifully to convey to others the treasures of our heart, but they\nhave not the power to accept them, and so we go lonely, side by side\nbut not together, unable to know our fellows and unknown by them. We\nare like people living in a country whose language they know so little\nthat, with all manner of beautiful and profound things to say, they\nare condemned to the banalities of the conversation manual. Their\nbrain is seething with ideas, and they can only tell you that the\numbrella of the gardener's aunt is in the house.\n\nThe final impression I received was of a prodigious effort to\nexpress some state of the soul, and in this effort, I fancied,\nmust be sought the explanation of what so utterly perplexed me.\nIt was evident that colours and forms had a significance\nfor Strickland that was peculiar to himself.  He was under an\nintolerable necessity to convey something that he felt, and he\ncreated them with that intention alone.  He did not hesitate\nto simplify or to distort if he could get nearer to that\nunknown thing he sought.  Facts were nothing to him, for\nbeneath the mass of irrelevant incidents he looked for\nsomething significant to himself.  It was as though he had\nbecome aware of the soul of the universe and were compelled to\nexpress it.\n\nThough these pictures confused and puzzled me, I could not be\nunmoved by the emotion that was patent in them; and, I knew\nnot why, I felt in myself a feeling that with regard to\nStrickland was the last I had ever expected to experience.\nI felt an overwhelming compassion.\n\n\"I think I know now why you surrendered to your feeling for\nBlanche Stroeve,\" I said to him.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"I think your courage failed.  The weakness of your body\ncommunicated itself to your soul.  I do not know what infinite\nyearning possesses you, so that you are driven to a perilous,\nlonely search for some goal where you expect to find a final\nrelease from the spirit that torments you.  I see you as the\neternal pilgrim to some shrine that perhaps does not exist.\nI do not know to what inscrutable Nirvana you aim.  Do you know\nyourself?  Perhaps it is Truth and Freedom that you seek, and\nfor a moment you thought that you might find release in Love.\nI think your tired soul sought rest in a woman's arms, and\nwhen you found no rest there you hated her.  You had no pity\nfor her, because you have no pity for yourself.  And you\nkilled her out of fear, because you trembled still at the\ndanger you had barely escaped.\"\n\nHe smiled dryly and pulled his beard.\n\n\"You are a dreadful sentimentalist, my poor friend.\"\n\nA week later I heard by chance that Strickland had gone to\nMarseilles.  I never saw him again.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLIII\n\n\nLooking back, I realise that what I have written about Charles\nStrickland must seem very unsatisfactory.  I have given\nincidents that came to my knowledge, but they remain obscure\nbecause I do not know the reasons that led to them.\nThe strangest, Strickland's determination to become a painter,\nseems to be arbitrary; and though it must have had causes in\nthe circumstances of his life, I am ignorant of them.\nFrom his own conversation I was able to glean nothing.  If I were\nwriting a novel, rather than narrating such facts as I know of\na curious personality, I should have invented much to account\nfor this change of heart.  I think I should have shown a\nstrong vocation in boyhood, crushed by the will of his father\nor sacrificed to the necessity of earning a living; I should\nhave pictured him impatient of the restraints of life; and in\nthe struggle between his passion for art and the duties of his\nstation I could have aroused sympathy for him.  I should so\nhave made him a more imposing figure.  Perhaps it would have\nbeen possible to see in him a new Prometheus.  There was here,\nmaybe, the opportunity for a modern version of the hero who for\nthe good of mankind exposes himself to the agonies of the damned.\nIt is always a moving subject.\n\nOn the other hand, I might have found his motives in the\ninfluence of the married relation.  There are a dozen ways in\nwhich this might be managed.  A latent gift might reveal\nitself on acquaintance with the painters and writers whose\nsociety his wife sought; or domestic incompatability might turn\nhim upon himself; a love affair might fan into bright flame\na fire which I could have shown smouldering dimly in his heart.\nI think then I should have drawn Mrs. Strickland quite\ndifferently.  I should have abandoned the facts and made her a\nnagging, tiresome woman, or else a bigoted one with no\nsympathy for the claims of the spirit.  I should have made\nStrickland's marriage a long torment from which escape was the\nonly possible issue.  I think I should have emphasised his\npatience with the unsuitable mate, and the compassion which\nmade him unwilling to throw off the yoke that oppressed him.\nI should certainly have eliminated the children.\n\nAn effective story might also have been made by bringing him\ninto contact with some old painter whom the pressure of want\nor the desire for commercial success had made false to the\ngenius of his youth, and who, seeing in Strickland the\npossibilities which himself had wasted, influenced him to\nforsake all and follow the divine tyranny of art.  I think\nthere would have been something ironic in the picture of the\nsuccessful old man, rich and honoured, living in another the\nlife which he, though knowing it was the better part, had not\nhad the strength to pursue.\n\nThe facts are much duller. Strickland, a boy fresh from school, went\ninto a broker's office without any feeling of distaste. Until he\nmarried he led the ordinary life of his fellows, gambling mildly on\nthe Exchange, interested to the extent of a sovereign or two on the\nresult of the Derby or the Oxford and Cambridge Race. I think he boxed\na little in his spare time. On his chimney-piece he had photographs of\nMrs. Langtry and Mary Anderson. He read <i Punch> and the\n<i Sporting Times>. He went to dances in Hampstead.\n\nIt matters less that for so long I should have lost sight of him.\nThe years during which he was struggling to acquire\nproficiency in a difficult art were monotonous, and I do not\nknow that there was anything significant in the shifts to\nwhich he was put to earn enough money to keep him.  An account\nof them would be an account of the things he had seen happen\nto other people.  I do not think they had any effect on his\nown character.  He must have acquired experiences which would\nform abundant material for a picaresque novel of modern Paris,\nbut he remained aloof, and judging from his conversation there\nwas nothing in those years that had made a particular\nimpression on him.  Perhaps when he went to Paris he was too\nold to fall a victim to the glamour of his environment.\nStrange as it may seem, he always appeared to me not only\npractical, but immensely matter-of-fact.  I suppose his life\nduring this period was romantic, but he certainly saw no\nromance in it.  It may be that in order to realise the romance\nof life you must have something of the actor in you; and,\ncapable of standing outside yourself, you must be able to\nwatch your actions with an interest at once detached and\nabsorbed.  But no one was more single-minded than Strickland.\nI never knew anyone who was less self-conscious.  But it is\nunfortunate that I can give no description of the arduous\nsteps by which he reached such mastery over his art as he ever\nacquired; for if I could show him undaunted by failure, by an\nunceasing effort of courage holding despair at bay, doggedly\npersistent in the face of self-doubt, which is the artist's\nbitterest enemy, I might excite some sympathy for a\npersonality which, I am all too conscious, must appear\nsingularly devoid of charm.  But I have nothing to go on.\nI never once saw Strickland at work, nor do I know that anyone\nelse did.  He kept the secret of his struggles to himself.\nIf in the loneliness of his studio he wrestled desperately with\nthe Angel of the Lord he never allowed a soul to divine his\nanguish.\n\nWhen I come to his connection with Blanche Stroeve I am\nexasperated by the fragmentariness of the facts at my disposal.\nTo give my story coherence I should describe the\nprogress of their tragic union, but I know nothing of the\nthree months during which they lived together.  I do not know\nhow they got on or what they talked about.  After all, there\nare twenty-four hours in the day, and the summits of emotion\ncan only be reached at rare intervals.  I can only imagine how\nthey passed the rest of the time.  While the light lasted and\nso long as Blanche's strength endured, I suppose that\nStrickland painted, and it must have irritated her when she\nsaw him absorbed in his work.  As a mistress she did not then\nexist for him, but only as a model; and then there were long\nhours in which they lived side by side in silence.  It must\nhave frightened her.  When Strickland suggested that in her\nsurrender to him there was a sense of triumph over Dirk Stroeve,\nbecause he had come to her help in her extremity, he opened\nthe door to many a dark conjecture.  I hope it was not true.\nIt seems to me rather horrible.  But who can fathom the\nsubtleties of the human heart? Certainly not those who expect\nfrom it only decorous sentiments and normal emotions.\nWhen Blanche saw that, notwithstanding his moments of passion,\nStrickland remained aloof, she must have been filled with\ndismay, and even in those moments I surmise that she realised\nthat to him she was not an individual, but an instrument of\npleasure; he was a stranger still, and she tried to bind him\nto herself with pathetic arts.  She strove to ensnare him with\ncomfort and would not see that comfort meant nothing to him.\nShe was at pains to get him the things to eat that he liked,\nand would not see that he was indifferent to food.  She was\nafraid to leave him alone.  She pursued him with attentions,\nand when his passion was dormant sought to excite it, for then\nat least she had the illusion of holding him.  Perhaps she\nknew with her intelligence that the chains she forged only\naroused his instinct of destruction, as the plate-glass window\nmakes your fingers itch for half a brick; but her heart,\nincapable of reason, made her continue on a course she knew\nwas fatal.  She must have been very unhappy.  But the\nblindness of love led her to believe what she wanted to be\ntrue, and her love was so great that it seemed impossible to\nher that it should not in return awake an equal love.\n\nBut my study of Strickland's character suffers from a greater\ndefect than my ignorance of many facts.  Because they were\nobvious and striking, I have written of his relations to\nwomen; and yet they were but an insignificant part of his life.\nIt is an irony that they should so tragically have\naffected others.  His real life consisted of dreams and of\ntremendously hard work.\n\nHere lies the unreality of fiction.  For in men, as a rule,\nlove is but an episode which takes its place among the other\naffairs of the day, and the emphasis laid on it in novels\ngives it an importance which is untrue to life.  There are few\nmen to whom it is the most important thing in the world, and\nthey are not very interesting ones; even women, with whom the\nsubject is of paramount interest, have a contempt for them.\nThey are flattered and excited by them, but have an uneasy\nfeeling that they are poor creatures.  But even during the\nbrief intervals in which they are in love, men do other things\nwhich distract their mind; the trades by which they earn their\nliving engage their attention; they are absorbed in sport;\nthey can interest themselves in art.  For the most part, they\nkeep their various activities in various compartments, and\nthey can pursue one to the temporary exclusion of the other.\nThey have a faculty of concentration on that which occupies\nthem at the moment, and it irks them if one encroaches on the\nother.  As lovers, the difference between men and women is\nthat women can love all day long, but men only at times.\n\nWith Strickland the sexual appetite took a very small place.\nIt was unimportant.  It was irksome.  His soul aimed elsewhither.\nHe had violent passions, and on occasion desire seized\nhis body so that he was driven to an orgy of lust, but\nhe hated the instincts that robbed him of his self-possession.\nI think, even, he hated the inevitable partner in his debauchery.\nWhen he had regained command over himself, he\nshuddered at the sight of the woman he had enjoyed.\nHis thoughts floated then serenely in the empyrean, and he felt\ntowards her the horror that perhaps the painted butterfly,\nhovering about the flowers, feels to the filthy chrysalis from\nwhich it has triumphantly emerged.  I suppose that art is a\nmanifestation of the sexual instinct.  It is the same emotion\nwhich is excited in the human heart by the sight of a lovely\nwoman, the Bay of Naples under the yellow moon, and the\n<i Entombment> of Titian.  It is possible that Strickland hated\nthe normal release of sex because it seemed to him brutal by\ncomparison with the satisfaction of artistic creation.\nIt seems strange even to myself, when I have described a man who\nwas cruel, selfish, brutal and sensual, to say that he was a\ngreat idealist.  The fact remains.\n\nHe lived more poorly than an artisan.  He worked harder.\nHe cared nothing for those things which with most people make\nlife gracious and beautiful.  He was indifferent to money.\nHe cared nothing about fame.  You cannot praise him because he\nresisted the temptation to make any of those compromises with\nthe world which most of us yield to.  He had no such temptation.\nIt never entered his head that compromise was possible.\nHe lived in Paris more lonely than an anchorite in the\ndeserts of Thebes.  He asked nothing his fellows except\nthat they should leave him alone.  He was single-hearted in\nhis aim, and to pursue it he was willing to sacrifice not only\nhimself -- many can do that -- but others.  He had a vision.\n\nStrickland was an odious man, but I still think he was a great one.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLIV\n\n\nA certain importance attaches to the views on art of painters,\nand this is the natural place for me to set down what I know\nof Strickland's opinions of the great artists of the past.\nI am afraid I have very little worth noting.  Strickland was not\na conversationalist, and he had no gift for putting what he\nhad to say in the striking phrase that the listener remembers.\nHe had no wit.  His humour, as will be seen if I have in any\nway succeeded in reproducing the manner of his conversation,\nwas sardonic.  His repartee was rude.  He made one laugh\nsometimes by speaking the truth, but this is a form of humour\nwhich gains its force only by its unusualness; it would cease\nto amuse if it were commonly practised.\n\nStrickland was not, I should say, a man of great intelligence,\nand his views on painting were by no means out of the ordinary.\nI never heard him speak of those whose work had a certain\nanalogy with his own -- of Cezanne, for instance, or of Van Gogh;\nand I doubt very much if he had ever seen their pictures.\nHe was not greatly interested in the Impressionists.\nTheir technique impressed him, but I fancy that\nhe thought their attitude commonplace.  When Stroeve was\nholding forth at length on the excellence of Monet, he said:\n\"I prefer Winterhalter.\"  But I dare say he said it to annoy,\nand if he did he certainly succeeded.\n\nI am disappointed that I cannot report any extravagances in\nhis opinions on the old masters.  There is so much in his\ncharacter which is strange that I feel it would complete the\npicture if his views were outrageous.  I feel the need to\nascribe to him fantastic theories about his predecessors, and\nit is with a certain sense of disillusion that I confess he\nthought about them pretty much as does everybody else.\nI do not believe he knew El Greco.  He had a great but somewhat\nimpatient admiration for Velasquez.  Chardin delighted him,\nand Rembrandt moved him to ecstasy.  He described the\nimpression that Rembrandt made on him with a coarseness I\ncannot repeat.  The only painter that interested him who was\nat all unexpected was Brueghel the Elder.  I knew very little\nabout him at that time, and Strickland had no power to explain\nhimself.  I remember what he said about him because it was so\nunsatisfactory.\n\n\"He's all right,\" said Strickland.  \"I bet he found it hell to paint.\"\n\nWhen later, in Vienna, I saw several of Peter Brueghel's\npictures, I thought I understood why he had attracted\nStrickland's attention.  Here, too, was a man with a vision of\nthe world peculiar to himself.  I made somewhat copious notes\nat the time, intending to write something about him, but I\nhave lost them, and have now only the recollection of an emotion.\nHe seemed to see his fellow-creatures grotesquely,\nand he was angry with them because they were grotesque;\nlife was a confusion of ridiculous, sordid happenings, a fit\nsubject for laughter, and yet it made him sorrowful to laugh.\nBrueghel gave me the impression of a man striving to express\nin one medium feelings more appropriate to expression in another,\nand it may be that it was the obscure consciousness of this\nthat excited Strickland's sympathy.  Perhaps both were trying\nto put down in paint ideas which were more suitable to literature.\n\nStrickland at this time must have been nearly forty-seven.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLV\n\n\nI have said already that but for the hazard of a journey to\nTahiti I should doubtless never have written this book.  It is\nthither that after many wanderings Charles Strickland came,\nand it is there that he painted the pictures on which his fame\nmost securely rests.  I suppose no artist achieves completely\nthe realisation of the dream that obsesses him, and Strickland,\nharassed incessantly by his struggle with technique,\nmanaged, perhaps, less than others to express the vision\nthat he saw with his mind's eye; but in Tahiti the\ncircumstances were favourable to him; he found in his\nsurroundings the accidents necessary for his inspiration to\nbecome effective, and his later pictures give at least a\nsuggestion of what he sought.  They offer the imagination\nsomething new and strange.  It is as though in this far\ncountry his spirit, that had wandered disembodied, seeking a\ntenement, at last was able to clothe itself in flesh.  To use\nthe hackneyed phrase, here he found himself.\n\nIt would seem that my visit to this remote island should\nimmediately revive my interest in Strickland, but the work I\nwas engaged in occupied my attention to the exclusion of\nsomething that was irrelevant, and it was not till I had been\nthere some days that I even remembered his connection with it.\nAfter all, I had not seen him for fifteen years, and it was\nnine since he died.  But I think my arrival at Tahiti would\nhave driven out of my head matters of much more immediate\nimportance to me, and even after a week I found it not easy to\norder myself soberly.  I remember that on my first morning I\nawoke early, and when I came on to the terrace of the hotel no\none was stirring.  I wandered round to the kitchen, but it was\nlocked, and on a bench outside it a native boy was sleeping.\nThere seemed no chance of breakfast for some time, so I\nsauntered down to the water-front.  The Chinamen were already\nbusy in their shops.  The sky had still the pallor of dawn,\nand there was a ghostly silence on the lagoon.  Ten miles away\nthe island of Murea, like some high fastness of the Holy\nGrail, guarded its mystery.\n\nI did not altogether believe my eyes.  The days that had\npassed since I left Wellington seemed extraordinary and\nunusual.  Wellington is trim and neat and English; it reminds\nyou of a seaport town on the South Coast.  And for three days\nafterwards the sea was stormy.  Gray clouds chased one another\nacross the sky.  Then the wind dropped, and the sea was calm\nand blue.  The Pacific is more desolate than other seas; its\nspaces seem more vast, and the most ordinary journey upon it\nhas somehow the feeling of an adventure.  The air you breathe\nis an elixir which prepares you for the unexpected. Nor is it\nvouchsafed to man in the flesh to know aught that more nearly\nsuggests the approach to the golden realms of fancy than the\napproach to Tahiti.  Murea, the sister isle, comes into view\nin rocky splendour, rising from the desert sea mysteriously,\nlike the unsubstantial fabric of a magic wand.  With its\njagged outline it is like a Monseratt of the Pacific, and you\nmay imagine that there Polynesian knights guard with strange\nrites mysteries unholy for men to know.  The beauty of the\nisland is unveiled as diminishing distance shows you in\ndistincter shape its lovely peaks, but it keeps its secret as\nyou sail by, and, darkly inviolable, seems to fold itself\ntogether in a stony, inaccessible grimness.  It would not\nsurprise you if, as you came near seeking for an opening in\nthe reef, it vanished suddenly from your view, and nothing met\nyour gaze but the blue loneliness of the Pacific.\n\nTahiti is a lofty green island, with deep folds of a darker\ngreen, in which you divine silent valleys; there is mystery in\ntheir sombre depths, down which murmur and plash cool streams,\nand you feel that in those umbrageous places life from\nimmemorial times has been led according to immemorial ways.\nEven here is something sad and terrible.  But the impression\nis fleeting, and serves only to give a greater acuteness to\nthe enjoyment of the moment.  It is like the sadness which you\nmay see in the jester's eyes when a merry company is laughing\nat his sallies; his lips smile and his jokes are gayer because in\nthe communion of laughter he finds himself more intolerably alone.\nFor Tahiti is smiling and friendly; it is like a\nlovely woman graciously prodigal of her charm and beauty;\nand nothing can be more conciliatory than the entrance into the\nharbour at Papeete.  The schooners moored to the quay are trim\nand neat, the little town along the bay is white and urbane,\nand the flamboyants, scarlet against the blue sky, flaunt\ntheir colour like a cry of passion.  They are sensual with an\nunashamed violence that leaves you breathless.  And the crowd\nthat throngs the wharf as the steamer draws alongside is gay\nand debonair; it is a noisy, cheerful, gesticulating crowd.\nIt is a sea of brown faces.  You have an impression of\ncoloured movement against the flaming blue of the sky.\nEverything is done with a great deal of bustle, the unloading\nof the baggage, the examination of the customs; and everyone\nseems to smile at you.  It is very hot.  The colour dazzles you.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLVI\n\n\nHAD not been in Tahiti long before I met Captain Nichols.\nHe came in one morning when I was having breakfast on the terrace\nof the hotel and introduced himself.  He had heard that I was\ninterested in Charles Strickland, and announced that he was\ncome to have a talk about him.  They are as fond of gossip in\nTahiti as in an English village, and one or two enquiries I\nhad made for pictures by Strickland had been quickly spread.\nI asked the stranger if he had breakfasted.\n\n\"Yes; I have my coffee early,\" he answered, \"but I don't mind\nhaving a drop of whisky.\"\n\nI called the Chinese boy.\n\n\"You don't think it's too early?\" said the Captain.\n\n\"You and your liver must decide that between you,\" I replied.\n\n\"I'm practically a teetotaller,\" he said, as he poured himself\nout a good half-tumbler of Canadian Club.\n\nWhen he smiled he showed broken and discoloured teeth.  He was\na very lean man, of no more than average height, with gray\nhair cut short and a stubbly gray moustache.  He had not\nshaved for a couple of days.  His face was deeply lined,\nburned brown by long exposure to the sun, and he had a pair of\nsmall blue eyes which were astonishingly shifty.  They moved\nquickly, following my smallest gesture, and they gave him the\nlook of a very thorough rogue.  But at the moment he was all\nheartiness and good-fellowship.  He was dressed in a\nbedraggled suit of khaki, and his hands would have been all\nthe better for a wash.\n\n\"I knew Strickland well,\" he said, as he leaned back in his\nchair and lit the cigar I had offered him.  \"It's through me\nhe came out to the islands.\"\n\n\"Where did you meet him?\" I asked.\n\n\"In Marseilles.\"\n\n\"What were you doing there?\"\n\nHe gave me an ingratiating smile.\n\n\"Well, I guess I was on the beach.\"\n\nMy friend's appearance suggested that he was now in the\nsame predicament, and I prepared myself to cultivate an\nagreeable acquaintance. The society of beach-combers always\nrepays the small pains you need be at to enjoy it.  They are\neasy of approach and affable in conversation.  They seldom put\non airs, and the offer of a drink is a sure way to their hearts.\nYou need no laborious steps to enter upon familiarity with\nthem, and you can earn not only their confidence, but their\ngratitude, by turning an attentive ear to their discourse.\nThey look upon conversation as the great pleasure of life,\nthereby proving the excellence of their civilisation, and for\nthe most part they are entertaining talkers.  The extent of\ntheir experience is pleasantly balanced by the fertility of\ntheir imagination.  It cannot be said that they are without guile,\nbut they have a tolerant respect for the law, when the\nlaw is supported by strength.  It is hazardous to play poker\nwith them, but their ingenuity adds a peculiar excitement to\nthe best game in the world.  I came to know Captain Nichols\nvery well before I left Tahiti, and I am the richer for his\nacquaintance.  I do not consider that the cigars and whisky he\nconsumed at my expense (he always refused cocktails, since he\nwas practically a teetotaller), and the few dollars, borrowed\nwith a civil air of conferring a favour upon me, that passed\nfrom my pocket to his, were in any way equivalent to the\nentertainment he afforded me.  I remained his debtor.\nI should be sorry if my conscience, insisting on a rigid\nattention to the matter in hand, forced me to dismiss him in a\ncouple of lines.\n\nI do not know why Captain Nichols first left England.  It was\na matter upon which he was reticent, and with persons of his\nkind a direct question is never very discreet.  He hinted at\nundeserved misfortune, and there is no doubt that he looked\nupon himself as the victim of injustice.  My fancy played with\nthe various forms of fraud and violence, and I agreed with him\nsympathetically when he remarked that the authorities in the\nold country were so damned technical.  But it was nice to see\nthat any unpleasantness he had endured in his native land had\nnot impaired his ardent patriotism.  He frequently declared\nthat England was the finest country in the world, sir, and he\nfelt a lively superiority over Americans, Colonials, Dagos,\nDutchmen, and Kanakas.\n\nBut I do not think he was a happy man.  He suffered from\ndyspepsia, and he might often be seen sucking a tablet of\npepsin; in the morning his appetite was poor; but this\naffliction alone would hardly have impaired his spirits.\nHe had a greater cause of discontent with life than this.\nEight years before he had rashly married a wife.  There are men\nwhom a merciful Providence has undoubtedly ordained to a single\nlife, but who from wilfulness or through circumstances they\ncould not cope with have flown in the face of its decrees.\nThere is no object more deserving of pity than the married bachelor.\nOf such was Captain Nichols.  I met his wife.  She was\na woman of twenty-eight, I should think, though of a type\nwhose age is always doubtful; for she cannot have looked\ndifferent when she was twenty, and at forty would look no\nolder.  She gave me an impression of extraordinary tightness.\nHer plain face with its narrow lips was tight, her skin was\nstretched tightly over her bones, her smile was tight, her\nhair was tight, her clothes were tight, and the white drill\nshe wore had all the effect of black bombazine.  I could not\nimagine why Captain Nichols had married her, and having\nmarried her why he had not deserted her.  Perhaps he had,\noften, and his melancholy arose from the fact that he could\nnever succeed.  However far he went and in howsoever secret a\nplace he hid himself, I felt sure that Mrs. Nichols,\ninexorable as fate and remorseless as conscience, would\npresently rejoin him.  He could as little escape her as the\ncause can escape the effect.\n\nThe rogue, like the artist and perhaps the gentleman, belongs\nto no class.  He is not embarrassed by the <i sans gene> of\nthe hobo, nor put out of countenance by the etiquette of the\nprince.  But Mrs. Nichols belonged to the well-defined class,\nof late become vocal, which is known as the lower-middle.\nHer father, in fact, was a policeman.  I am certain that he was\nan efficient one.  I do not know what her hold was on the\nCaptain, but I do not think it was love.  I never heard her speak,\nbut it may be that in private she had a copious conversation.\nAt any rate, Captain Nichols was frightened to death of her.\nSometimes, sitting with me on the terrace of the hotel,\nhe would become conscious that she was walking in the road outside.\nShe did not call him; she gave no sign that she was aware\nof his existence; she merely walked up and down composedly.\nThen a strange uneasiness would seize the Captain;\nhe would look at his watch and sigh.\n\n\"Well, I must be off,\" he said.\n\nNeither wit nor whisky could detain him then.  Yet he was a\nman who had faced undaunted hurricane and typhoon, and would\nnot have hesitated to fight a dozen unarmed niggers with\nnothing but a revolver to help him.  Sometimes Mrs. Nichols\nwould send her daughter, a pale-faced, sullen child of seven,\nto the hotel.\n\n\"Mother wants you,\" she said, in a whining tone.\n\n\"Very well, my dear,\" said Captain Nichols.\n\nHe rose to his feet at once, and accompanied his daughter\nalong the road.  I suppose it was a very pretty example of the\ntriumph of spirit over matter, and so my digression has at\nleast the advantage of a moral.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLVII\n\n\nI have tried to put some connection into the various things\nCaptain Nichols told me about Strickland, and I here set them\ndown in the best order I can.  They made one another's\nacquaintance during the latter part of the winter following my\nlast meeting with Strickland in Paris.  How he had passed the\nintervening months I do not know, but life must have been very\nhard, for Captain Nichols saw him first in the Asile de Nuit.\nThere was a strike at Marseilles at the time, and Strickland,\nhaving come to the end of his resources, had apparently found\nit impossible to earn the small sum he needed to keep body and\nsoul together.\n\nThe Asile de Nuit is a large stone building where pauper and\nvagabond may get a bed for a week, provided their papers are\nin order and they can persuade the friars in charge that they\nare workingmen.  Captain Nichols noticed Strickland for his\nsize and his singular appearance among the crowd that waited\nfor the doors to open; they waited listlessly, some walking to\nand fro, some leaning against the wall, and others seated on\nthe curb with their feet in the gutter; and when they filed\ninto the office he heard the monk who read his papers address\nhim in English.  But he did not have a chance to speak to him,\nsince, as he entered the common-room, a monk came in with a\nhuge Bible in his arms, mounted a pulpit which was at the end\nof the room, and began the service which the wretched outcasts\nhad to endure as the price of their lodging.  He and\nStrickland were assigned to different rooms, and when, thrown\nout of bed at five in the morning by a stalwart monk, he had made\nhis bed and washed his face, Strickland had already disappeared.\nCaptain Nichols wandered about the streets for an hour of\nbitter cold, and then made his way to the Place Victor Gelu,\nwhere the sailor-men are wont to congregate. Dozing against\nthe pedestal of a statue, he saw Strickland again.\nHe gave him a kick to awaken him.\n\n\"Come and have breakfast, mate,\" he said.\n\n\"Go to hell,\" answered Strickland.\n\nI recognised my friend's limited vocabulary, and I prepared to\nregard Captain Nichols as a trustworthy witness.\n\n\"Busted?\" asked the Captain.\n\n\"Blast you,\" answered Strickland.\n\n\"Come along with me.  I'll get you some breakfast.\"\n\nAfter a moment's hesitation, Strickland scrambled to his feet,\nand together they went to the Bouchee de Pain, where the\nhungry are given a wedge of bread, which they must eat there\nand then, for it is forbidden to take it away; and then to the\nCuillere de Soupe, where for a week, at eleven and four,\nyou may get a bowl of thin, salt soup.  The two buildings are\nplaced far apart, so that only the starving should be tempted\nto make use of them.  So they had breakfast, and so began the\nqueer companionship of Charles Strickland and Captain Nichols.\n\nThey must have spent something like four months at Marseilles\nin one another's society.  Their career was devoid of adventure,\nif by adventure you mean unexpected or thrilling incident,\nfor their days were occupied in the pursuit of enough\nmoney to get a night's lodging and such food as would stay\nthe pangs of hunger.  But I wish I could give here the pictures,\ncoloured and racy, which Captain Nichols' vivid narrative\noffered to the imagination.  His account of their discoveries\nin the low life of a seaport town would have made a\ncharming book, and in the various characters that came their\nway the student might easily have found matter for a very\ncomplete dictionary of rogues.  But I must content myself with\na few paragraphs.  I received the impression of a life intense\nand brutal, savage, multicoloured, and vivacious.  It made the\nMarseilles that I knew, gesticulating and sunny, with its\ncomfortable hotels and its restaurants crowded with the well-to-do,\ntame and commonplace.  I envied men who had seen with their\nown eyes the sights that Captain Nichols described.\n\nWhen the doors of the Asile de Nuit were closed to them,\nStrickland and Captain Nichols sought the hospitality of Tough Bill.\nThis was the master of a sailors' boarding-house, a huge\nmulatto with a heavy fist, who gave the stranded mariner\nfood and shelter till he found him a berth.  They lived with\nhim a month, sleeping with a dozen others, Swedes, negroes,\nBrazilians, on the floor of the two bare rooms in his house\nwhich he assigned to his charges; and every day they went with\nhim to the Place Victor Gelu, whither came ships' captains in\nsearch of a man.  He was married to an American woman, obese\nand slatternly, fallen to this pass by Heaven knows what\nprocess of degradation, and every day the boarders took it in\nturns to help her with the housework.  Captain Nichols looked\nupon it as a smart piece of work on Strickland's part that he\nhad got out of this by painting a portrait of Tough Bill.\nTough Bill not only paid for the canvas, colours, and brushes,\nbut gave Strickland a pound of smuggled tobacco into the\nbargain.  For all I know, this picture may still adorn the\nparlour of the tumbledown little house somewhere near the\nQuai de la Joliette, and I suppose it could now be sold for\nfifteen hundred pounds.  Strickland's idea was to ship on some\nvessel bound for Australia or New Zealand, and from there make his\nway to Samoa or Tahiti.  I do not know how he had come upon\nthe notion of going to the South Seas, though I remember that\nhis imagination had long been haunted by an island, all green\nand sunny, encircled by a sea more blue than is found in\nNorthern latitudes.  I suppose that he clung to Captain\nNichols because he was acquainted with those parts, and it was\nCaptain Nichols who persuaded him that he would be more\ncomfortable in Tahiti.\n\n\"You see, Tahiti's French,\" he explained to me.  \"And the\nFrench aren't so damned technical.\"\n\nI thought I saw his point.\n\nStrickland had no papers, but that was not a matter to\ndisconcert Tough Bill when he saw a profit (he took the first\nmonth's wages of the sailor for whom he found a berth), and he\nprovided Strickland with those of an English stoker who had\nprovidentially died on his hands.  But both Captain Nichols\nand Strickland were bound East, and it chanced that the only\nopportunities for signing on were with ships sailing West.\nTwice Strickland refused a berth on tramps sailing for the\nUnited States, and once on a collier going to Newcastle.\nTough Bill had no patience with an obstinacy which could only\nresult in loss to himself, and on the last occasion he flung\nboth Strickland and Captain Nichols out of his house without\nmore ado.  They found themselves once more adrift.\n\nTough Bill's fare was seldom extravagant, and you rose from\nhis table almost as hungry as you sat down, but for some days\nthey had good reason to regret it.  They learned what hunger was.\nThe Cuillere de Soupe and the Asile de Nuit were both\nclosed to them, and their only sustenance was the wedge of\nbread which the Bouchee de Pain provided.  They slept where\nthey could, sometimes in an empty truck on a siding near the\nstation, sometimes in a cart behind a warehouse; but it was\nbitterly cold, and after an hour or two of uneasy dozing they\nwould tramp the streets again.  What they felt the lack of\nmost bitterly was tobacco, and Captain Nichols, for his part,\ncould not do without it; he took to hunting the \"Can o' Beer,\"\nfor cigarette-ends and the butt-end of cigars which the\npromenaders of the night before had thrown away.\n\n\"I've tasted worse smoking mixtures in a pipe,\" he added,\nwith a philosophic shrug of his shoulders, as he took a couple\nof cigars from the case I offered him, putting one in his mouth\nand the other in his pocket.\n\nNow and then they made a bit of money.  Sometimes a mail\nsteamer would come in, and Captain Nichols, having scraped\nacquaintance with the timekeeper, would succeed in getting the\npair of them a job as stevedores.  When it was an English boat,\nthey would dodge into the forecastle and get a hearty\nbreakfast from the crew.  They took the risk of running\nagainst one of the ship's officers and being hustled down the\ngangway with the toe of a boot to speed their going.\n\n\"There's no harm in a kick in the hindquarters when your\nbelly's full,\" said Captain Nichols, \"and personally I never\ntake it in bad part.  An officer's got to think about discipline.\"\n\nI had a lively picture of Captain Nichols flying headlong down\na narrow gangway before the uplifted foot of an angry mate,\nand, like a true Englishman, rejoicing in the spirit of the\nMercantile Marine.\n\nThere were often odd jobs to be got about the fish-market.\nOnce they each of them earned a franc by loading trucks with\ninnumerable boxes of oranges that had been dumped down on the quay.\nOne day they had a stroke of luck:  one of the boarding-masters\ngot a contract to paint a tramp that had come in\nfrom Madagascar round the Cape of Good Hope, and they spent\nseveral days on a plank hanging over the side, covering the\nrusty hull with paint.  It was a situation that must have\nappealed to Strickland's sardonic humour.  I asked Captain\nNichols how he bore himself during these hardships.\n\n\"Never knew him say a cross word,\" answered the Captain.\n\"He'd be a bit surly sometimes, but when we hadn't had a bite\nsince morning, and we hadn't even got the price of a lie down\nat the Chink's, he'd be as lively as a cricket.\"\n\nI was not surprised at this.  Strickland was just the man to\nrise superior to circumstances, when they were such as to\noccasion despondency in most; but whether this was due to\nequanimity of soul or to contradictoriness it would be\ndifficult to say.\n\nThe Chink's Head was a name the beach-combers gave to a\nwretched inn off the Rue Bouterie, kept by a one-eyed Chinaman,\nwhere for six sous you could sleep in a cot and for\nthree on the floor.  Here they made friends with others in as\ndesperate condition as themselves, and when they were\npenniless and the night was bitter cold, they were glad to\nborrow from anyone who had earned a stray franc during the day\nthe price of a roof over their heads.  They were not niggardly,\nthese tramps, and he who had money did not hesitate\nto share it among the rest.  They belonged to all the\ncountries in the world, but this was no bar to good-fellowship;\nfor they felt themselves freemen of a country whose\nfrontiers include them all, the great country of Cockaine.\n\n\"But I guess Strickland was an ugly customer when he was roused,\"\nsaid Captain Nichols, reflectively.  \"One day we ran\ninto Tough Bill in the Place, and he asked Charlie for the\npapers he'd given him.\"\n\n\"'You'd better come and take them if you want them,' says Charlie.\n\n\"He was a powerful fellow, Tough Bill, but he didn't quite\nlike the look of Charlie, so he began cursing him.  He called\nhim pretty near every name he could lay hands on, and when\nTough Bill began cursing it was worth listening to him.\nWell, Charlie stuck it for a bit, then he stepped forward and he\njust said:  'Get out, you bloody swine.' It wasn't so much\nwhat he said, but the way he said it.  Tough Bill never spoke\nanother word; you could see him go yellow, and he walked away\nas if he'd remembered he had a date.\"\n\nStrickland, according to Captain Nichols, did not use exactly\nthe words I have given, but since this book is meant for\nfamily reading I have thought it better, at the expense of\ntruth, to put into his mouth expressions familiar to the\ndomestic circle.\n\nNow, Tough Bill was not the man to put up with humiliation at\nthe hands of a common sailor.  His power depended on his prestige,\nand first one, then another, of the sailors who lived in\nhis house told them that he had sworn to do Strickland in.\n\nOne night Captain Nichols and Strickland were sitting in one\nof the bars of the Rue Bouterie.  The Rue Bouterie is a narrow\nstreet of one-storeyed houses, each house consisting of but\none room; they are like the booths in a crowded fair or the\ncages of animals in a circus.  At every door you see a woman.\nSome lean lazily against the side-posts, humming to themselves\nor calling to the passer-by in a raucous voice, and some\nlistlessly read.  They are French.  Italian, Spanish,\nJapanese, coloured; some are fat and some are thin; and under\nthe thick paint on their faces, the heavy smears on their\neyebrows, and the scarlet of their lips, you see the lines of\nage and the scars of dissipation.  Some wear black shifts and\nflesh-coloured stockings; some with curly hair, dyed yellow,\nare dressed like little girls in short muslin frocks.\nThrough the open door you see a red-tiled floor, a large wooden bed,\nand on a deal table a ewer and a basin.  A motley crowd\nsaunters along the streets -- Lascars off a P. and O., blond\nNorthmen from a Swedish barque, Japanese from a man-of-war,\nEnglish sailors, Spaniards, pleasant-looking fellows from a\nFrench cruiser, negroes off an American tramp.  By day it is\nmerely sordid, but at night, lit only by the lamps in the\nlittle huts, the street has a sinister beauty.  The hideous\nlust that pervades the air is oppressive and horrible, and yet\nthere is something mysterious in the sight which haunts and\ntroubles you.  You feel I know not what primitive force which\nrepels and yet fascinates you.  Here all the decencies of\ncivilisation are swept away, and you feel that men are face to\nface with a sombre reality.  There is an atmosphere that is at\nonce intense and tragic.\n\nIn the bar in which Strickland and Nichols sat a mechanical\npiano was loudly grinding out dance music.  Round the room\npeople were sitting at table, here half a dozen sailors\nuproariously drunk, there a group of soldiers; and in the\nmiddle, crowded together, couples were dancing.  Bearded\nsailors with brown faces and large horny hands clasped their\npartners in a tight embrace.  The women wore nothing but a shift.\nNow and then two sailors would get up and dance together.\nThe noise was deafening.  People were singing, shouting,\nlaughing; and when a man gave a long kiss to the\ngirl sitting on his knees, cat-calls from the English sailors\nincreased the din.  The air was heavy with the dust beaten up\nby the heavy boots of the men, and gray with smoke.  It was\nvery hot.  Behind the bar was seated a woman nursing her baby.\nThe waiter, an undersized youth with a flat, spotty face,\nhurried to and fro carrying a tray laden with glasses of beer.\n\nIn a little while Tough Bill, accompanied by two huge negroes,\ncame in, and it was easy to see that he was already three\nparts drunk.  He was looking for trouble.  He lurched against\na table at which three soldiers were sitting and knocked over\na glass of beer.  There was an angry altercation, and the\nowner of the bar stepped forward and ordered Tough Bill to go.\nHe was a hefty fellow, in the habit of standing no nonsense\nfrom his customers, and Tough Bill hesitated.  The landlord\nwas not a man he cared to tackle, for the police were on his side,\nand with an oath he turned on his heel.  Suddenly he\ncaught sight of Strickland.  He rolled up to him.  He did not speak.\nHe gathered the spittle in his mouth and spat full in\nStrickland's face.  Strickland seized his glass and flung it\nat him.  The dancers stopped suddenly still.  There was an\ninstant of complete silence, but when Tough Bill threw himself\non Strickland the lust of battle seized them all, and in a\nmoment there was a confused scrimmage.  Tables were\noverturned, glasses crashed to the ground.  There was a\nhellish row.  The women scattered to the door and behind the bar.\nPassers-by surged in from the street.  You heard curses\nin every tongue the sound of blows, cries; and in the middle\nof the room a dozen men were fighting with all their might.\nOn a sudden the police rushed in, and everyone who could made\nfor the door.  When the bar was more or less cleared, Tough\nBill was lying insensible on the floor with a great gash in\nhis head.  Captain Nichols dragged Strickland, bleeding from a\nwound in his arm, his clothes in rags, into the street.\nHis own face was covered with blood from a blow on the nose.\n\n\"I guess you'd better get out of Marseilles before Tough Bill\ncomes out of hospital,\" he said to Strickland, when they had\ngot back to the Chink's Head and were cleaning themselves.\n\n\"This beats cock-fighting,\" said Strickland.\n\nI could see his sardonic smile.\n\nCaptain Nichols was anxious.  He knew Tough Bill's vindictiveness.\nStrickland had downed the mulatto twice, and the mulatto,\nsober, was a man to be reckoned with.  He would bide\nhis time stealthily.  He would be in no hurry, but one\nnight Strickland would get a knife-thrust in his back, and in\na day or two the corpse of a nameless beach-comber would be\nfished out of the dirty water of the harbour.  Nichols went\nnext evening to Tough Bill's house and made enquiries.  He was\nin hospital still, but his wife, who had been to see him, said\nhe was swearing hard to kill Strickland when they let him out.\n\nA week passed.\n\n\"That's what I always say,\" reflected Captain Nichols,\n\"when you hurt a man, hurt him bad.  It gives you a bit of\ntime to look about and think what you'll do next.\"\n\nThen Strickland had a bit of luck.  A ship bound for Australia\nhad sent to the Sailors' Home for a stoker in place of one who\nhad thrown himself overboard off Gibraltar in an attack of\ndelirium tremens.\n\n\"You double down to the harbour, my lad,\" said the Captain to\nStrickland, \"and sign on.  You've got your papers.\"\n\nStrickland set off at once, and that was the last Captain\nNichols saw of him.  The ship was only in port for six hours,\nand in the evening Captain Nichols watched the vanishing smoke\nfrom her funnels as she ploughed East through the wintry sea.\n\nI have narrated all this as best I could, because I like the\ncontrast of these episodes with the life that I had seen\nStrickland live in Ashley Gardens when he was occupied with\nstocks and shares; but I am aware that Captain Nichols was an\noutrageous liar, and I dare say there is not a word of truth\nin anything he told me.  I should not be surprised to learn\nthat he had never seen Strickland in his life, and owed his\nknowledge of Marseilles to the pages of a magazine.\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLVIII\n\n\nIt is here that I purposed to end my book.  My first idea was\nto begin it with the account of Strickland's last years in\nTahiti and with his horrible death, and then to go back and\nrelate what I knew of his beginnings.  This I meant to do,\nnot from wilfulness, but because I wished to leave Strickland\nsetting out with I know not what fancies in his lonely soul\nfor the unknown islands which fired his imagination.  I liked\nthe picture of him starting at the age of forty-seven,\nwhen most men have already settled comfortably in a groove,\nfor a new world.  I saw him, the sea gray under the mistral and\nfoam-flecked, watching the vanishing coast of France, which he\nwas destined never to see again; and I thought there was\nsomething gallant in his bearing and dauntless in his soul.\nI wished so to end on a note of hope.  It seemed to emphasise\nthe unconquerable spirit of man.  But I could not manage it.\nSomehow I could not get into my story, and after trying once\nor twice I had to give it up; I started from the beginning in\nthe usual way, and made up my mind I could only tell what I\nknew of Strickland's life in the order in which I learnt the facts.\n\nThose that I have now are fragmentary.  I am in the position\nof a biologist who from a single bone must reconstruct not\nonly the appearance of an extinct animal, but its habits.\nStrickland made no particular impression on the people who\ncame in contact with him in Tahiti.  To them he was no more\nthan a beach-comber in constant need of money, remarkable only\nfor the peculiarity that he painted pictures which seemed to\nthem absurd; and it was not till he had been dead for some\nyears and agents came from the dealers in Paris and Berlin to\nlook for any pictures which might still remain on the island,\nthat they had any idea that among them had dwelt a man of consequence.\nThey remembered then that they could have bought for\na song canvases which now were worth large sums, and they\ncould not forgive themselves for the opportunity which had\nescaped them.  There was a Jewish trader called Cohen, who had\ncome by one of Strickland's pictures in a singular way.\nHe was a little old Frenchman, with soft kind eyes and a pleasant\nsmile, half trader and half seaman, who owned a cutter in\nwhich he wandered boldly among the Paumotus and the Marquesas,\ntaking out trade goods and bringing back copra, shell, and pearls.\nI went to see him because I was told he had a large black\npearl which he was willing to sell cheaply, and when I\ndiscovered that it was beyond my means I began to talk to him\nabout Strickland.  He had known him well.\n\n\"You see, I was interested in him because he was a painter,\"\nhe told me.  \"We don't get many painters in the islands, and I\nwas sorry for him because he was such a bad one.  I gave him\nhis first job.  I had a plantation on the peninsula, and I\nwanted a white overseer.  You never get any work out of the\nnatives unless you have a white man over them.  I said to him:\n'You'll have plenty of time for painting, and you can earn a\nbit of money.' I knew he was starving, but I offered him good wages.\"\n\n\"I can't imagine that he was a very satisfactory overseer,\"\nI said, smiling.\n\n\"I made allowances.  I have always had a sympathy for artists.\nIt is in our blood, you know.  But he only remained a few\nmonths.  When he had enough money to buy paints and canvases\nhe left me.  The place had got hold of him by then, and he\nwanted to get away into the bush.  But I continued to see him\nnow and then.  He would turn up in Papeete every few months\nand stay a little while; he'd get money out of someone or\nother and then disappear again.  It was on one of these visits\nthat he came to me and asked for the loan of two hundred\nfrancs.  He looked as if he hadn't had a meal for a week, and\nI hadn't the heart to refuse him.  Of course, I never expected\nto see my money again.  Well, a year later he came to see me\nonce more, and he brought a picture with him.  He did not\nmention the money he owed me, but he said:  'Here is a picture\nof your plantation that I've painted for you.' I looked at it.\nI did not know what to say, but of course I thanked him, and\nwhen he had gone away I showed it to my wife.\"\n\n\"What was it like?\" I asked.\n\n\"Do not ask me.  I could not make head or tail of it.  I never\nsaw such a thing in my life.  'What shall we do with it?'\nI said to my wife.  'We can never hang it up,' she said.\n'People would laugh at us.'  So she took it into an attic and\nput it away with all sorts of rubbish, for my wife can never\nthrow anything away.  It is her mania.  Then, imagine to\nyourself, just before the war my brother wrote to me from\nParis, and said:  'Do you know anything about an English\npainter who lived in Tahiti? It appears that he was a genius,\nand his pictures fetch large prices.  See if you can lay your\nhands on anything and send it to me.  There's money to be\nmade.' So I said to my wife.  'What about that picture that\nStrickland gave me?' Is it possible that it is still in the\nattic?' 'Without doubt,' she answered, 'for you know that I\nnever throw anything away.  It is my mania.' We went up to the\nattic, and there, among I know not what rubbish that had been\ngathered during the thirty years we have inhabited that house,\nwas the picture.  I looked at it again, and I said:\n'Who would have thought that the overseer of my plantation on\nthe peninsula, to whom I lent two hundred francs, had genius?\nDo you see anything in the picture?' 'No,' she said, 'it does not\nresemble the plantation and I have never seen cocoa-nuts with\nblue leaves; but they are mad in Paris, and it may be that\nyour brother will be able to sell it for the two hundred\nfrancs you lent Strickland.' Well, we packed it up and we sent\nit to my brother.  And at last I received a letter from him.\nWhat do you think he said? 'I received your picture,' he said,\n'and I confess I thought it was a joke that you had played on me.\nI would not have given the cost of postage for the picture.\nI was half afraid to show it to the gentleman who\nhad spoken to me about it.  Imagine my surprise when he said\nit was a masterpiece, and offered me thirty thousand francs.\nI dare say he would have paid more, but frankly I was so taken\naback that I lost my head; I accepted the offer before I was\nable to collect myself.'\"\n\nThen Monsieur Cohen said an admirable thing.\n\n\"I wish that poor Strickland had been still alive.  I wonder\nwhat he would have said when I gave him twenty-nine thousand\neight hundred francs for his picture.\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter XLIX\n\n\nI lived at the Hotel de la Fleur, and Mrs. Johnson, the\nproprietress, had a sad story to tell of lost opportunity.\nAfter Strickland's death certain of his effects were sold by\nauction in the market-place at Papeete, and she went to it\nherself because there was among the truck an American stove\nshe wanted.  She paid twenty-seven francs for it.\n\n\"There were a dozen pictures,\" she told me, \"but they were\nunframed, and nobody wanted them.  Some of them sold for as\nmuch as ten francs, but mostly they went for five or six.\nJust think, if I had bought them I should be a rich woman now.\"\n\nBut Tiare Johnson would never under any circumstances have\nbeen rich.  She could not keep money.  The daughter of a\nnative and an English sea-captain settled in Tahiti, when I\nknew her she was a woman of fifty, who looked older, and of\nenormous proportions.  Tall and extremely stout, she would\nhave been of imposing presence if the great good-nature of her\nface had not made it impossible for her to express anything\nbut kindliness.  Her arms were like legs of mutton, her\nbreasts like giant cabbages; her face, broad and fleshy, gave\nyou an impression of almost indecent nakedness, and vast chin\nsucceeded to vast chin.  I do not know how many of them there were.\nThey fell away voluminously into the capaciousness of her bosom.\nShe was dressed usually in a pink Mother Hubbard,\nand she wore all day long a large straw hat.  But when she let\ndown her hair, which she did now and then, for she was vain of\nit, you saw that it was long and dark and curly; and her eyes\nhad remained young and vivacious.  Her laughter was the most\ncatching I ever heard; it would begin, a low peal in her throat,\nand would grow louder and louder till her whole vast\nbody shook.  She loved three things -- a joke, a glass of\nwine, and a handsome man.  To have known her is a privilege.\n\nShe was the best cook on the island, and she adored good food.\nFrom morning till night you saw her sitting on a low chair in\nthe kitchen, surrounded by a Chinese cook and two or three\nnative girls, giving her orders, chatting sociably with all\nand sundry, and tasting the savoury messes she devised.  When\nshe wished to do honour to a friend she cooked the dinner with\nher own hands.  Hospitality was a passion with her, and there\nwas no one on the island who need go without a dinner when\nthere was anything to eat at the Hotel de la Fleur.  She never\nturned her customers out of her house because they did not pay\ntheir bills.  She always hoped they would pay when they could.\nThere was one man there who had fallen on adversity, and to\nhim she had given board and lodging for several months.\nWhen the Chinese laundryman refused to wash for him without\npayment she had sent his things to be washed with hers.  She could\nnot allow the poor fellow to go about in a dirty shirt, she said,\nand since he was a man, and men must smoke, she gave him a\nfranc a day for cigarettes.  She used him with the same\naffability as those of her clients who paid their bills once a week.\n\nAge and obesity had made her inapt for love, but she took a\nkeen interest in the amatory affairs of the young.  She looked\nupon venery as the natural occupation for men and women, and\nwas ever ready with precept and example from her own wide experience.\n\n\"I was not fifteen when my father found that I had a lover,\"\nshe said.  \"He was third mate on the <i Tropic Bird>.\nA good-looking boy.\"\n\nShe sighed a little.  They say a woman always remembers her\nfirst lover with affection; but perhaps she does not always\nremember him.\n\n\"My father was a sensible man.\"\n\n\"What did he do?\" I asked.\n\n\"He thrashed me within an inch of my life, and then he made me\nmarry Captain Johnson.  I did not mind.  He was older,\nof course, but he was good-looking too.\"\n\nTiare -- her father had called her by the name of the white,\nscented flower which, they tell you, if you have once smelt,\nwill always draw you back to Tahiti in the end, however far\nyou may have roamed -- Tiare remembered Strickland very well.\n\n\"He used to come here sometimes, and I used to see him walking\nabout Papeete.  I was sorry for him, he was so thin, and he\nnever had any money.  When I heard he was in town, I used to\nsend a boy to find him and make him come to dinner with me.\nI got him a job once or twice, but he couldn't stick to\nanything.  After a little while he wanted to get back to the\nbush, and one morning he would be gone.\"\n\nStrickland reached Tahiti about six months after he left\nMarseilles.  He worked his passage on a sailing vessel that\nwas making the trip from Auckland to San Francisco, and he\narrived with a box of paints, an easel, and a dozen canvases.\nHe had a few pounds in his pocket, for he had found work in\nSydney, and he took a small room in a native house outside the town.\nI think the moment he reached Tahiti he felt himself at home.\nTiare told me that he said to her once:\n\n\"I'd been scrubbing the deck, and all at once a chap said to me:\n'Why, there it is.' And I looked up and I saw the outline\nof the island.  I knew right away that there was the place I'd\nbeen looking for all my life.  Then we came near, and I seemed\nto recognise it.  Sometimes when I walk about it all seems familiar.\nI could swear I've lived here before.\"\n\n\"Sometimes it takes them like that,\" said Tiare.  \"I've known\nmen come on shore for a few hours while their ship was taking\nin cargo, and never go back.  And I've known men who came here\nto be in an office for a year, and they cursed the place, and\nwhen they went away they took their dying oath they'd hang\nthemselves before they came back again, and in six months\nyou'd see them land once more, and they'd tell you they\ncouldn't live anywhere else.\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter L\n\n\nI have an idea that some men are born out of their due place.\nAccident has cast them amid certain surroundings, but they\nhave always a nostalgia for a home they know not.  They are\nstrangers in their birthplace, and the leafy lanes they have\nknown from childhood or the populous streets in which they\nhave played, remain but a place of passage.  They may spend\ntheir whole lives aliens among their kindred and remain aloof\namong the only scenes they have ever known.  Perhaps it is\nthis sense of strangeness that sends men far and wide in the\nsearch for something permanent, to which they may attach\nthemselves.  Perhaps some deep-rooted atavism urges the\nwanderer back to lands which his ancestors left in the dim\nbeginnings of history.  Sometimes a man hits upon a place to\nwhich he mysteriously feels that he belongs.  Here is the home\nhe sought, and he will settle amid scenes that he has never\nseen before, among men he has never known, as though they were\nfamiliar to him from his birth.  Here at last he finds rest.\n\nI told Tiare the story of a man I had known at St. Thomas's\nHospital.  He was a Jew named Abraham, a blond, rather stout\nyoung man, shy and very unassuming; but he had remarkable gifts.\nHe entered the hospital with a scholarship, and during\nthe five years of the curriculum gained every prize that was\nopen to him.  He was made house-physician and house-surgeon.\nHis brilliance was allowed by all.  Finally he was elected to\na position on the staff, and his career was assured.  So far\nas human things can be predicted, it was certain that he would\nrise to the greatest heights of his profession.  Honours and\nwealth awaited him.  Before he entered upon his new duties he\nwished to take a holiday, and, having no private means,\nhe went as surgeon on a tramp steamer to the Levant.\nIt did not generally carry a doctor, but one of the senior\nsurgeons at the hospital knew a director of the line,\nand Abraham was taken as a favour.\n\nIn a few weeks the authorities received his resignation of the\ncoveted position on the staff.  It created profound\nastonishment, and wild rumours were current.  Whenever a man\ndoes anything unexpected, his fellows ascribe it to the most\ndiscreditable motives.  But there was a man ready to step into\nAbraham's shoes, and Abraham was forgotten.  Nothing more was\nheard of him.  He vanished.\n\nIt was perhaps ten years later that one morning on board ship,\nabout to land at Alexandria, I was bidden to line up with the\nother passengers for the doctor's examination.  The doctor was\na stout man in shabby clothes, and when he took off his hat I\nnoticed that he was very bald.  I had an idea that I had seen\nhim before.  Suddenly I remembered.\n\n\"Abraham,\" I said.\n\nHe turned to me with a puzzled look, and then, recognizing me,\nseized my hand.  After expressions of surprise on either side,\nhearing that I meant to spend the night in Alexandria, he\nasked me to dine with him at the English Club.  When we met\nagain I declared my astonishment at finding him there.  It was\na very modest position that he occupied, and there was about\nhim an air of straitened circumstance.  Then he told me his story.\nWhen he set out on his holiday in the Mediterranean he\nhad every intention of returning to London and his appointment\nat St. Thomas's.  One morning the tramp docked at Alexandria,\nand from the deck he looked at the city, white in the\nsunlight, and the crowd on the wharf; he saw the natives in\ntheir shabby gabardines, the blacks from the Soudan, the noisy\nthrong of Greeks and Italians, the grave Turks in tarbooshes,\nthe sunshine and the blue sky; and something happened to him.\nHe could not describe it.  It was like a thunder-clap, he\nsaid, and then, dissatisfied with this, he said it was like a\nrevelation.  Something seemed to twist his heart, and suddenly\nhe felt an exultation, a sense of wonderful freedom.  He felt\nhimself at home, and he made up his mind there and then, in a\nminute, that he would live the rest of his life in Alexandria.\nHe had no great difficulty in leaving the ship, and in twenty-four\nhours, with all his belongings, he was on shore.\n\n\"The Captain must have thought you as mad as a hatter,\" I smiled.\n\n\"I didn't care what anybody thought.  It wasn't I that acted,\nbut something stronger within me.  I thought I would go to a\nlittle Greek hotel, while I looked about, and I felt I knew\nwhere to find one.  And do you know, I walked straight there,\nand when I saw it, I recognised it at once.\"\n\n\"Had you been to Alexandria before?\"\n\n\"No; I'd never been out of England in my life.\"\n\nPresently he entered the Government service, and there he had\nbeen ever since.\n\n\"Have you never regretted it?\"\n\n\"Never, not for a minute.  I earn just enough to live upon,\nand I'm satisfied.  I ask nothing more than to remain as I am\ntill I die.  I've had a wonderful life.\"\n\nI left Alexandria next day, and I forgot about Abraham till a\nlittle while ago, when I was dining with another old friend in\nthe profession, Alec Carmichael, who was in England on short leave.\nI ran across him in the street and congratulated him on\nthe knighthood with which his eminent services during the\nwar had been rewarded.  We arranged to spend an evening\ntogether for old time's sake, and when I agreed to dine with\nhim, he proposed that he should ask nobody else, so that we\ncould chat without interruption.  He had a beautiful old house\nin Queen Anne Street, and being a man of taste he had\nfurnished it admirably.  On the walls of the dining-room I saw\na charming Bellotto, and there was a pair of Zoffanys that I envied.\nWhen his wife, a tall, lovely creature in cloth of gold,\nhad left us, I remarked laughingly on the change in his\npresent circumstances from those when we had both been medical\nstudents.  We had looked upon it then as an extravagance to\ndine in a shabby Italian restaurant in the Westminster Bridge Road.\nNow Alec Carmichael was on the staff of half a dozen hospitals.\nI should think he earned ten thousand a year, and his\nknighthood was but the first of the honours which must\ninevitably fall to his lot.\n\n\"I've done pretty well,\" he said, \"but the strange thing is\nthat I owe it all to one piece of luck.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\"\n\n\"Well, do you remember Abraham?  He was the man who had the future.\nWhen we were students he beat me all along the line.\nHe got the prizes and the scholarships that I went in for.\nI always played second fiddle to him.  If he'd kept on he'd be\nin the position I'm in now.  That man had a genius for surgery.\nNo one had a look in with him.  When he was\nappointed Registrar at Thomas's I hadn't a chance of getting\non the staff.  I should have had to become a G.P., and you\nknow what likelihood there is for a G.P. ever to get out of\nthe common rut.  But Abraham fell out, and I got the job.\nThat gave me my opportunity.\"\n\n\"I dare say that's true.\"\n\n\"It was just luck. I suppose there was some kink in Abraham. Poor\ndevil, he's gone to the dogs altogether. He's got some\ntwopenny-halfpenny job in the medical at Alexandria -- sanitary\nofficer or something like that. I'm told he lives with an ugly old\nGreek woman and has half a dozen scrofulous kids. The fact is, I\nsuppose, that it's not enough to have brains. The thing that counts is\ncharacter. Abraham hadn't got character.\"\n\nCharacter?  I should have thought it needed a good deal of\ncharacter to throw up a career after half an hour's\nmeditation, because you saw in another way of living a more\nintense significance.  And it required still more character\nnever to regret the sudden step.  But I said nothing, and Alec\nCarmichael proceeded reflectively:\n\n\"Of course it would be hypocritical for me to pretend that I\nregret what Abraham did.  After all, I've scored by it.\"\nHe puffed luxuriously at the long Corona he was smoking.\n\"But if I weren't personally concerned I should be sorry at the waste.\nIt seems a rotten thing that a man should make such a hash of life.\"\n\nI wondered if Abraham really had made a hash of life.\nIs to do what you most want, to live under the conditions that\nplease you, in peace with yourself, to make a hash of life;\nand is it success to be an eminent surgeon with ten thousand a\nyear and a beautiful wife? I suppose it depends on what\nmeaning you attach to life, the claim which you acknowledge to\nsociety, and the claim of the individual.  But again I held my\ntongue, for who am I to argue with a knight?\n\n\n\n\nChapter LI\n\n\nTiare, when I told her this story, praised my prudence, and\nfor a few minutes we worked in silence, for we were shelling\npeas.  Then her eyes, always alert for the affairs of her\nkitchen, fell on some action of the Chinese cook which aroused\nher violent disapproval.  She turned on him with a torrent of abuse.\nThe Chink was not backward to defend himself, and a\nvery lively quarrel ensued.  They spoke in the native language,\nof which I had learnt but half a dozen words, and it sounded\nas though the world would shortly come to an end;\nbut presently peace was restored and Tiare gave the cook a\ncigarette.  They both smoked comfortably.\n\n\"Do you know, it was I who found him his wife?\" said Tiare\nsuddenly, with a smile that spread all over her immense face.\n\n\"The cook?\"\n\n\"No, Strickland.\"\n\n\"But he had one already.\"\n\n\"That is what he said, but I told him she was in England,\nand England is at the other end of the world.\"\n\n\"True,\" I replied.\n\n\"He would come to Papeete every two or three months, when he\nwanted paints or tobacco or money, and then he would wander\nabout like a lost dog.  I was sorry for him.  I had a girl\nhere then called Ata to do the rooms; she was some sort of a\nrelation of mine, and her father and mother were dead, so I\nhad her to live with me.  Strickland used to come here now and\nthen to have a square meal or to play chess with one of the boys.\nI noticed that she looked at him when he came, and I\nasked her if she liked him.  She said she liked him well enough.\nYou know what these girls are; they're always pleased\nto go with a white man.\"\n\n\"Was she a native?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes; she hadn't a drop of white blood in her.  Well, after\nI'd talked to her I sent for Strickland, and I said to him:\n'Strickland, it's time for you to settle down.  A man of your\nage shouldn't go playing about with the girls down at the front.\nThey're bad lots, and you'll come to no good with them.\nYou've got no money, and you can never keep a job for\nmore than a month or two.  No one will employ you now.\nYou say you can always live in the bush with one or other of\nthe natives, and they're glad to have you because you're a\nwhite man, but it's not decent for a white man.  Now, listen\nto me, Strickland.'\"\n\nTiare mingled French with English in her conversation, for she\nused both languages with equal facility.  She spoke them with\na singing accent which was not unpleasing.  You felt that a\nbird would speak in these tones if it could speak English.\n\n\"'Now, what do you say to marrying Ata?  She's a good girl and\nshe's only seventeen.  She's never been promiscuous like some\nof these girls -- a captain or a first mate, yes, but she's\nnever been touched by a native.  <i Elle se respecte, vois-tu>.\nThe purser of the <i Oahu> told me last journey that he hadn't\nmet a nicer girl in the islands.  It's time she settled\ndown too, and besides, the captains and the first mates like a\nchange now and then.  I don't keep my girls too long.  She has\na bit of property down by Taravao, just before you come to the\npeninsula, and with copra at the price it is now you could\nlive quite comfortably.  There's a house, and you'd have all\nthe time you wanted for your painting.  What do you say to it?\"\n\nTiare paused to take breath.\n\n\"It was then he told me of his wife in England.  'My poor\nStrickland,' I said to him, 'they've all got a wife somewhere;\nthat is generally why they come to the islands.  Ata is a\nsensible girl, and she doesn't expect any ceremony before the\nMayor.  She's a Protestant, and you know they don't look upon\nthese things like the Catholics.'\n\n\"Then he said:  'But what does Ata say to it?' 'It appears\nthat she has a <i beguin> for you,' I said.  'She's willing if\nyou are.  Shall I call her?' He chuckled in a funny, dry way\nhe had, and I called her.  She knew what I was talking about,\nthe hussy, and I saw her out of the corner of my eyes\nlistening with all her ears, while she pretended to iron a\nblouse that she had been washing for me.  She came.  She was\nlaughing, but I could see that she was a little shy,\nand Strickland looked at her without speaking.\"\n\n\"Was she pretty?\" I asked.\n\n\"Not bad.  But you must have seen pictures of her.  He painted\nher over and over again, sometimes with a <i pareo> on and\nsometimes with nothing at all.  Yes, she was pretty enough.\nAnd she knew how to cook.  I taught her myself.  I saw\nStrickland was thinking of it, so I said to him:  'I've given\nher good wages and she's saved them, and the captains and the\nfirst mates she's known have given her a little something now\nand then.  She's saved several hundred francs.'\n\n\"He pulled his great red beard and smiled.\n\n\"'Well, Ata,' he said, 'do you fancy me for a husband.'\n\n\"She did not say anything, but just giggled.\n\n\"'But I tell you, my poor Strickland, the girl has a\n<i beguin> for you,' I said.\n\n\"I shall beat you,' he said, looking at her.\n\n\"'How else should I know you loved me,' she answered.\"\n\nTiare broke off her narrative and addressed herself to me\nreflectively.\n\n\"My first husband, Captain Johnson, used to thrash me\nregularly.  He was a man.  He was handsome, six foot three,\nand when he was drunk there was no holding him.  I would be\nblack and blue all over for days at a time.  Oh, I cried when\nhe died.  I thought I should never get over it.  But it wasn't\ntill I married George Rainey that I knew what I'd lost.\nYou can never tell what a man is like till you live with him.\nI've never been so deceived in a man as I was in George\nRainey.  He was a fine, upstanding fellow too.  He was nearly\nas tall as Captain Johnson, and he looked strong enough.  But\nit was all on the surface.  He never drank.  He never raised\nhis hand to me.  He might have been a missionary.  I made love\nwith the officers of every ship that touched the island, and\nGeorge Rainey never saw anything.  At last I was disgusted\nwith him, and I got a divorce.  What was the good of a husband\nlike that? It's a terrible thing the way some men treat women.\"\n\nI condoled with Tiare, and remarked feelingly that men were\ndeceivers ever, then asked her to go on with her story of Strickland.\n\n\"'Well,' I said to him, 'there's no hurry about it.  Take your\ntime and think it over.  Ata has a very nice room in the\nannexe.  Live with her for a month, and see how you like her.\nYou can have your meals here.  And at the end of a month, if\nyou decide you want to marry her, you can just go and settle\ndown on her property.'\n\n\"Well, he agreed to that. Ata continued to do the housework, and\nI gave him his meals as I said I would. I taught Ata to make one\nor two dishes I knew he was fond of. He did not paint much. He\nwandered about the hills and bathed in the stream. And he sat\nabout the front looking at the lagoon, and at sunset he would go\ndown and look at Murea. He used to go fishing on the reef. He\nloved to moon about the harbour talking to the natives. He was a\nnice, quiet fellow. And every evening after dinner he would go\ndown to the annexe with Ata. I saw he was longing to get away to\nthe bush, and at the end of the month I asked him what he\nintended to do. He said if Ata was willing to go, he was willing\nto go with her. So I gave them a wedding dinner. I cooked it with\nmy own hands. I gave them a pea soup and lobster <i a la portugaise,>\nand a curry, and a cocoa-nut salad -- you've never had one of my\ncocoa-nut salads, have you? I must make you one before you go --\nand then I made them an ice. We had all the champagne we could\ndrink and liqueurs to follow. Oh, I'd made up my mind to do\nthings well. And afterwards we danced in the drawing-room. I was\nnot so fat, then, and I always loved dancing.\"\n\nThe drawing-room at the Hotel de la Fleur was a small room,\nwith a cottage piano, and a suite of mahogany furniture,\ncovered in stamped velvet, neatly arranged around the walls.\nOn round tables were photograph albums, and on the walls\nenlarged photographs of Tiare and her first husband, Captain\nJohnson.  Still, though Tiare was old and fat, on occasion we\nrolled back the Brussels carpet, brought in the maids and one\nor two friends of Tiare's, and danced, though now to the\nwheezy music of a gramaphone.  On the verandah the air was\nscented with the heavy perfume of the tiare, and overhead the\nSouthern Cross shone in a cloudless sky.\n\nTiare smiled indulgently as she remembered the gaiety of a\ntime long passed.\n\n\"We kept it up till three, and when we went to bed I don't\nthink anyone was very sober.  I had told them they could have\nmy trap to take them as far as the road went, because after\nthat they had a long walk.  Ata's property was right away in a\nfold of the mountain.  They started at dawn, and the boy I\nsent with them didn't come back till next day.\n\n\"Yes, that's how Strickland was married.\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter LII\n\n\nI suppose the next three years were the happiest of\nStrickland's life.  Ata's house stood about eight kilometres\nfrom the road that runs round the island, and you went to it\nalong a winding pathway shaded by the luxuriant trees of the\ntropics.  It was a bungalow of unpainted wood, consisting of\ntwo small rooms, and outside was a small shed that served as a\nkitchen.  There was no furniture except the mats they used as\nbeds, and a rocking-chair, which stood on the verandah.\nBananas with their great ragged leaves, like the tattered\nhabiliments of an empress in adversity, grew close up to the house.\nThere was a tree just behind which bore alligator pears,\nand all about were the cocoa-nuts which gave the land\nits revenue.  Ata's father had planted crotons round his property,\nand they grew in coloured profusion, gay and brilliant;\nthey fenced the land with flame.  A mango grew in front\nof the house, and at the edge of the clearing were two\nflamboyants, twin trees, that challenged the gold of the\ncocoa-nuts with their scarlet flowers.\n\nHere Strickland lived, coming seldom to Papeete, on the\nproduce of the land.  There was a little stream that ran not\nfar away, in which he bathed, and down this on occasion would\ncome a shoal of fish.  Then the natives would assemble with spears,\nand with much shouting would transfix the great startled\nthings as they hurried down to the sea. Sometimes Strickland\nwould go down to the reef, and come back with a basket\nof small, coloured fish that Ata would fry in cocoa-nut oil,\nor with a lobster; and sometimes she would make a savoury\ndish of the great land-crabs that scuttled away under your feet.\nUp the mountain were wild-orange trees, and now and\nthen Ata would go with two or three women from the village and\nreturn laden with the green, sweet, luscious fruit.  Then the\ncocoa-nuts would be ripe for picking, and her cousins (like\nall the natives, Ata had a host of relatives) would swarm up\nthe trees and throw down the big ripe nuts.  They split them\nopen and put them in the sun to dry.  Then they cut out the\ncopra and put it into sacks, and the women would carry it down\nto the trader at the village by the lagoon, and he would give\nin exchange for it rice and soap and tinned meat and a little money.\nSometimes there would be a feast in the neighbourhood,\nand a pig would be killed.  Then they would go and eat\nthemselves sick, and dance, and sing hymns.\n\nBut the house was a long way from the village, and the\nTahitians are lazy.  They love to travel and they love to\ngossip, but they do not care to walk, and for weeks at a time\nStrickland and Ata lived alone.  He painted and he read, and\nin the evening, when it was dark, they sat together on the\nverandah, smoking and looking at the night.  Then Ata had a\nbaby, and the old woman who came up to help her through her\ntrouble stayed on.  Presently the granddaughter of the old\nwoman came to stay with her, and then a youth appeared -- no\none quite knew where from or to whom he belonged -- but he\nsettled down with them in a happy-go-lucky way, and they all\nlived together.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LIII\n\n\n\"<i Tenez, voila le Capitaine Brunot>,\" said Tiare, one day\nwhen I was fitting together what she could tell me of Strickland.\n\"He knew Strickland well; he visited him at his house.\"\n\nI saw a middle-aged Frenchman with a big black beard, streaked\nwith gray, a sunburned face, and large, shining eyes.  He was\ndressed in a neat suit of ducks.  I had noticed him at\nluncheon, and Ah Lin, the Chinese boy, told me he had come\nfrom the Paumotus on the boat that had that day arrived.\nTiare introduced me to him, and he handed me his card, a large\ncard on which was printed <i Rene Brunot>, and underneath,\n<i Capitaine au Long Cours.>  We were sitting on a little\nverandah outside the kitchen, and Tiare was cutting out a\ndress that she was making for one of the girls about the\nhouse.  He sat down with us.\n\n\"Yes; I knew Strickland well,\" he said.  \"I am very fond of\nchess, and he was always glad of a game.  I come to Tahiti\nthree or four times a year for my business, and when he was at\nPapeete he would come here and we would play.  When he\nmarried\" -- Captain Brunot smiled and shrugged his shoulders --\n\"<i enfin>, when he went to live with the girl that Tiare\ngave him, he asked me to go and see him.  I was one of the\nguests at the wedding feast.\"  He looked at Tiare, and they\nboth laughed.  \"He did not come much to Papeete after that,\nand about a year later it chanced that I had to go to that\npart of the island for I forgot what business, and when I had\nfinished it I said to myself:  '<i Voyons>, why should I not\ngo and see that poor Strickland?' I asked one or two natives\nif they knew anything about him, and I discovered that he\nlived not more than five kilometres from where I was.  So I went.\nI shall never forget the impression my visit made on me.\nI live on an atoll, a low island, it is a strip of land\nsurrounding a lagoon, and its beauty is the beauty of the sea\nand sky and the varied colour of the lagoon and the grace of\nthe cocoa-nut trees; but the place where Strickland lived had\nthe beauty of the Garden of Eden.  Ah, I wish I could make you\nsee the enchantment of that spot, a corner hidden away from\nall the world, with the blue sky overhead and the rich,\nluxuriant trees.  It was a feast of colour.  And it was\nfragrant and cool.  Words cannot describe that paradise.\nAnd here he lived, unmindful of the world and by the\nworld forgotten. I suppose to European eyes it would have\nseemed astonishingly sordid.  The house was dilapidated and none\ntoo clean.  Three or four natives were lying on the verandah.\nYou know how natives love to herd together.  There was a young\nman lying full length, smoking a cigarette, and he wore nothing\nbut a <i pareo>.\"\n\nThe <i pareo> is a long strip of trade cotton, red or blue,\nstamped with a white pattern.  It is worn round the waist and\nhangs to the knees.\n\n\"A girl of fifteen, perhaps, was plaiting pandanus-leaf to\nmake a hat, and an old woman was sitting on her haunches\nsmoking a pipe.  Then I saw Ata.  She was suckling a new-born\nchild, and another child, stark naked, was playing at her feet.\nWhen she saw me she called out to Strickland, and he\ncame to the door.  He, too, wore nothing but a <i pareo>.\nHe was an extraordinary figure, with his red beard and matted\nhair, and his great hairy chest.  His feet were horny and\nscarred, so that I knew he went always bare foot.  He had gone\nnative with a vengeance.  He seemed pleased to see me, and\ntold Ata to kill a chicken for our dinner.  He took me into\nthe house to show me the picture he was at work on when I came in.\nIn one corner of the room was the bed, and in the middle\nwas an easel with the canvas upon it.  Because I was sorry for\nhim, I had bought a couple of his pictures for small sums, and\nI had sent others to friends of mine in France.  And though I\nhad bought them out of compassion, after living with them I\nbegan to like them.  Indeed, I found a strange beauty in them.\nEveryone thought I was mad, but it turns out that I was right.\nI was his first admirer in the islands.\"\n\nHe smiled maliciously at Tiare, and with lamentations she told\nus again the story of how at the sale of Strickland's effects\nshe had neglected the pictures, but bought an American stove\nfor twenty-seven francs.\n\n\"Have you the pictures still?\" I asked.\n\n\"Yes; I am keeping them till my daughter is of marriageable\nage, and then I shall sell them.  They will be her <i dot>.\"\nThen he went on with the account of his visit to Strickland.\n\n\"I shall never forget the evening I spent with him.  I had not\nintended to stay more than an hour, but he insisted that I\nshould spend the night.  I hesitated, for I confess I did not\nmuch like the look of the mats on which he proposed that I\nshould sleep; but I shrugged my shoulders.  When I was\nbuilding my house in the Paumotus I had slept out for weeks on\na harder bed than that, with nothing to shelter me but wild\nshrubs; and as for vermin, my tough skin should be proof\nagainst their malice.\n\n\"We went down to the stream to bathe while Ata was preparing\nthe dinner, and after we had eaten it we sat on the verandah.\nWe smoked and chatted.  The young man had a concertina, and he\nplayed the tunes popular on the music-halls a dozen years\nbefore.  They sounded strangely in the tropical night\nthousands of miles from civilisation.  I asked Strickland if\nit did not irk him to live in that promiscuity.  No, he said;\nhe liked to have his models under his hand.  Presently, after\nloud yawning, the natives went away to sleep, and Strickland\nand I were left alone.  I cannot describe to you the intense\nsilence of the night.  On my island in the Paumotus there is\nnever at night the complete stillness that there was here.\nThere is the rustle of the myriad animals on the beach, all\nthe little shelled things that crawl about ceaselessly, and\nthere is the noisy scurrying of the land-crabs.  Now and then\nin the lagoon you hear the leaping of a fish, and sometimes a\nhurried noisy splashing as a brown shark sends all the other\nfish scampering for their lives.  And above all, ceaseless\nlike time, is the dull roar of the breakers on the reef.\nBut here there was not a sound, and the air was scented with the\nwhite flowers of the night.  It was a night so beautiful that\nyour soul seemed hardly able to bear the prison of the body.\nYou felt that it was ready to be wafted away on the immaterial air,\nand death bore all the aspect of a beloved friend.\"\n\nTiare sighed.\n\n\"Ah, I wish I were fifteen again.\"\n\nThen she caught sight of a cat trying to get at a dish of\nprawns on the kitchen table, and with a dexterous gesture and\na lively volley of abuse flung a book at its scampering tail.\n\n\"I asked him if he was happy with Ata.\n\n\"'She leaves me alone,' he said.  'She cooks my food and looks\nafter her babies.  She does what I tell her.  She gives me\nwhat I want from a woman.'\n\n\"'And do you never regret Europe? Do you not yearn sometimes\nfor the light of the streets in Paris or London, the\ncompanionship of your friends, and equals, <i que sais-je?>\nfor theatres and newspapers, and the rumble of omnibuses on\nthe cobbled pavements?'\n\n\"For a long time he was silent.  Then he said:\n\n\"'I shall stay here till I die.'\n\n\"'But are you never bored or lonely?' I asked.\n\n\"He chuckled.\n\n\"'<i Mon pauvre ami>,' he said.  'It is evident that you do\nnot know what it is to be an artist.'\"\n\nCapitaine Brunot turned to me with a gentle smile, and there\nwas a wonderful look in his dark, kind eyes.\n\n\"He did me an injustice, for I too know what it is to have\ndreams.  I have my visions too.  In my way I also am an artist.\"\n\nWe were all silent for a while, and Tiare fished out of her\ncapacious pocket a handful of cigarettes.  She handed one to\neach of us, and we all three smoked.  At last she said:\n\n\"Since <i ce monsieur> is interested in Strickland, why do you\nnot take him to see Dr. Coutras?  He can tell him something\nabout his illness and death.\"\n\n\"<i Volontiers>,\" said the Captain, looking at me.\n\nI thanked him, and he looked at his watch.\n\n\"It is past six o'clock.  We should find him at home if you\ncare to come now.\"\n\nI got up without further ado, and we walked along the road\nthat led to the doctor's house.  He lived out of the town,\nbut the Hotel de la Fleur was on the edge of it, and we were\nquickly in the country.  The broad road was shaded by pepper-trees,\nand on each side were the plantations, cocoa-nut and vanilla.\nThe pirate birds were screeching among the leaves of the palms.\nWe came to a stone bridge over a shallow river,\nand we stopped for a few minutes to see the native boys bathing.\nThey chased one another with shrill cries and laughter,\nand their bodies, brown and wet, gleamed in the sunlight.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LIV\n\n\nAs we walked along I reflected on a circumstance which all\nthat I had lately heard about Strickland forced on my attention.\nHere, on this remote island, he seemed to have aroused\nnone of the detestation with which he was regarded at home,\nbut compassion rather; and his vagaries were accepted\nwith tolerance.  To these people, native and European, he was\na queer fish, but they were used to queer fish, and they took\nhim for granted; the world was full of odd persons, who did\nodd things; and perhaps they knew that a man is not what he\nwants to be, but what he must be.  In England and France he\nwas the square peg in the round hole, but here the holes were\nany sort of shape, and no sort of peg was quite amiss.\nI do not think he was any gentler here, less selfish or less\nbrutal, but the circumstances were more favourable.  If he had\nspent his life amid these surroundings he might have passed\nfor no worse a man than another.  He received here what he\nneither expected nor wanted among his own people -- sympathy.\n\nI tried to tell Captain Brunot something of the astonishment\nwith which this filled me, and for a little while he did not\nanswer.\n\n\"It is not strange that I, at all events, should have had\nsympathy for him,\" he said at last, \"for, though perhaps\nneither of us knew it, we were both aiming at the same thing.\"\n\n\"What on earth can it be that two people so dissimilar as you\nand Strickland could aim at?\" I asked, smiling.\n\n\"Beauty.\"\n\n\"A large order,\" I murmured.\n\n\"Do you know how men can be so obsessed by love that they are\ndeaf and blind to everything else in the world? They are as\nlittle their own masters as the slaves chained to the benches\nof a galley.  The passion that held Strickland in bondage was\nno less tyrannical than love.\"\n\n\"How strange that you should say that!\" I answered.  \"For long\nago I had the idea that he was possessed of a devil.\"\n\n\"And the passion that held Strickland was a passion to\ncreate beauty.  It gave him no peace.  It urged him hither\nand thither.  He was eternally a pilgrim, haunted by a divine\nnostalgia, and the demon within him was ruthless.  There are\nmen whose desire for truth is so great that to attain it they\nwill shatter the very foundation of their world.  Of such was\nStrickland, only beauty with him took the place of truth.\nI could only feel for him a profound compassion.\"\n\n\"That is strange also.  A man whom he had deeply wronged told\nme that he felt a great pity for him.\"  I was silent for a moment.\n\"I wonder if there you have found the explanation of\na character which has always seemed to me inexplicable.\nHow did you hit on it?\"\n\nHe turned to me with a smile.\n\n\"Did I not tell you that I, too, in my way was an artist?\nI realised in myself the same desire as animated him.\nBut whereas his medium was paint, mine has been life.\"\n\nThen Captain Brunot told me a story which I must repeat,\nsince, if only by way of contrast, it adds something to my\nimpression of Strickland.  It has also to my mind a beauty of\nits own.\n\nCaptain Brunot was a Breton, and had been in the French Navy.\nHe left it on his marriage, and settled down on a small\nproperty he had near Quimper to live for the rest of his days\nin peace; but the failure of an attorney left him suddenly\npenniless, and neither he nor his wife was willing to live in\npenury where they had enjoyed consideration.  During his sea\nfaring days he had cruised the South Seas, and he determined\nnow to seek his fortune there.  He spent some months in Papeete\nto make his plans and gain experience; then, on money borrowed\nfrom a friend in France, he bought an island in the Paumotus.\nIt was a ring of land round a deep lagoon, uninhabited,\nand covered only with scrub and wild guava.  With the\nintrepid woman who was his wife, and a few natives,\nhe landed there, and set about building a house, and clearing\nthe scrub so that he could plant cocoa-nuts.  That was twenty\nyears before, and now what had been a barren island was a garden.\n\n\"It was hard and anxious work at first, and we worked\nstrenuously, both of us.  Every day I was up at dawn,\nclearing, planting, working on my house, and at night when I\nthrew myself on my bed it was to sleep like a log till\nmorning.  My wife worked as hard as I did.  Then children were\nborn to us, first a son and then a daughter.  My wife and I\nhave taught them all they know.  We had a piano sent out from\nFrance, and she has taught them to play and to speak English,\nand I have taught them Latin and mathematics, and we read\nhistory together.  They can sail a boat.  They can swim as\nwell as the natives.  There is nothing about the land of which\nthey are ignorant.  Our trees have prospered, and there is\nshell on my reef.  I have come to Tahiti now to buy a\nschooner.  I can get enough shell to make it worth while to\nfish for it, and, who knows?  I may find pearls.  I have made\nsomething where there was nothing.  I too have made beauty.\nAh, you do not know what it is to look at those tall, healthy\ntrees and think that every one I planted myself.\"\n\n\"Let me ask you the question that you asked Strickland.\nDo you never regret France and your old home in Brittany?\"\n\n\"Some day, when my daughter is married and my son has a wife\nand is able to take my place on the island, we shall go back\nand finish our days in the old house in which I was born.\"\n\n\"You will look back on a happy life,\" I said.\n\n\"<i Evidemment>, it is not exciting on my island, and we are\nvery far from the world -- imagine, it takes me four days to\ncome to Tahiti -- but we are happy there.  It is given to few\nmen to attempt a work and to achieve it.  Our life is simple\nand innocent.  We are untouched by ambition, and what pride we\nhave is due only to our contemplation of the work of our\nhands.  Malice cannot touch us, nor envy attack.  Ah, <i mon\ncher monsieur>, they talk of the blessedness of labour, and it\nis a meaningless phrase, but to me it has the most intense\nsignificance.  I am a happy man.\"\n\n\"I am sure you deserve to be,\" I smiled.\n\n\"I wish I could think so.  I do not know how I have deserved\nto have a wife who was the perfect friend and helpmate,\nthe perfect mistress and the perfect mother.\"\n\nI reflected for a while on the life that the Captain suggested\nto my imagination.\n\n\"It is obvious that to lead such an existence and make so\ngreat a success of it, you must both have needed a strong will\nand a determined character.\"\n\n\"Perhaps; but without one other factor we could have achieved nothing.\"\n\n\"And what was that?\"\n\nHe stopped, somewhat dramatically, and stretched out his arm.\n\n\"Belief in God.  Without that we should have been lost.\"\n\nThen we arrived at the house of Dr. Coutras.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LV\n\n\nMr. Coutras was an old Frenchman of great stature and\nexceeding bulk.  His body was shaped like a huge duck's egg;\nand his eyes, sharp, blue, and good-natured, rested now and\nthen with self-satisfaction on his enormous paunch.  His\ncomplexion was florid and his hair white.  He was a man to\nattract immediate sympathy.  He received us in a room that\nmight have been in a house in a provincial town in France, and\nthe one or two Polynesian curios had an odd look.  He took my\nhand in both of his -- they were huge -- and gave me a hearty\nlook, in which, however, was great shrewdness.  When he shook\nhands with Capitaine Brunot he enquired politely after\n<i Madame et les enfants>.  For some minutes there was an\nexchange of courtesies and some local gossip about the island,\nthe prospects of copra and the vanilla crop; then we came to\nthe object of my visit.\n\nI shall not tell what Dr. Coutras related to me in his words,\nbut in my own, for I cannot hope to give at second hand any\nimpression of his vivacious delivery.  He had a deep, resonant\nvoice, fitted to his massive frame, and a keen sense of the\ndramatic.  To listen to him was, as the phrase goes, as good\nas a play; and much better than most.\n\nIt appears that Dr. Coutras had gone one day to Taravao in\norder to see an old chiefess who was ill, and he gave a vivid\npicture of the obese old lady, lying in a huge bed, smoking\ncigarettes, and surrounded by a crowd of dark-skinned retainers.\nWhen he had seen her he was taken into another room\nand given dinner -- raw fish, fried bananas, and chicken --\n<i que sais-je>, the typical dinner of the <i indigene> --\nand while he was eating it he saw a young girl being driven\naway from the door in tears.  He thought nothing of it, but\nwhen he went out to get into his trap and drive home, he saw\nher again, standing a little way off; she looked at him with a\nwoebegone air, and tears streamed down her cheeks.  He asked\nsomeone what was wrong with her, and was told that she had\ncome down from the hills to ask him to visit a white man who\nwas sick.  They had told her that the doctor could not be\ndisturbed.  He called her, and himself asked what she wanted.\nShe told him that Ata had sent her, she who used to be at the\nHotel de la Fleur, and that the Red One was ill.  She thrust\ninto his hand a crumpled piece of newspaper, and when he\nopened it he found in it a hundred-franc note.\n\n\"Who is the Red One?\" he asked of one of the bystanders.\n\nHe was told that that was what they called the Englishman, a\npainter, who lived with Ata up in the valley seven kilometres\nfrom where they were.  He recognised Strickland by the\ndescription.  But it was necessary to walk.  It was impossible\nfor him to go; that was why they had sent the girl away.\n\n\"I confess,\" said the doctor, turning to me, \"that I\nhesitated.  I did not relish fourteen kilometres over a bad\npathway, and there was no chance that I could get back to\nPapeete that night.  Besides, Strickland was not sympathetic\nto me.  He was an idle, useless scoundrel, who preferred to\nlive with a native woman rather than work for his living like\nthe rest of us.  <i Mon Dieu>, how was I to know that one day\nthe world would come to the conclusion that he had genius?\nI asked the girl if he was not well enough to have come down to\nsee me.  I asked her what she thought was the matter with him.\nShe would not answer.  I pressed her, angrily perhaps, but she\nlooked down on the ground and began to cry.  Then I shrugged\nmy shoulders; after all, perhaps it was my duty to go, and in\na very bad temper I bade her lead the way.\"\n\nHis temper was certainly no better when he arrived, perspiring\nfreely and thirsty.  Ata was on the look-out for him, and came\na little way along the path to meet him.\n\n\"Before I see anyone give me something to drink or I shall die\nof thirst,\" he cried out.  \"<i Pour l'amour de Dieu>, get me a\ncocoa-nut.\"\n\nShe called out, and a boy came running along.  He swarmed up a\ntree, and presently threw down a ripe nut.  Ata pierced a hole\nin it, and the doctor took a long, refreshing draught.\nThen he rolled himself a cigarette and felt in a better humour.\n\n\"Now, where is the Red One?\" he asked.\n\n\"He is in the house, painting.  I have not told him you were\ncoming.  Go in and see him.\"\n\n\"But what does he complain of? If he is well enough to paint,\nhe is well enough to have come down to Taravao and save me\nthis confounded walk.  I presume my time is no less valuable\nthan his.\"\n\nAta did not speak, but with the boy followed him to the house.\nThe girl who had brought him was by this time sitting on the\nverandah, and here was lying an old woman, with her back to\nthe wall, making native cigarettes.  Ata pointed to the door.\nThe doctor, wondering irritably why they behaved so strangely,\nentered, and there found Strickland cleaning his palette.\nThere was a picture on the easel.  Strickland, clad only in a\n<i pareo>, was standing with his back to the door, but he\nturned round when he heard the sound of boots.  He gave the\ndoctor a look of vexation.  He was surprised to see him, and\nresented the intrusion.  But the doctor gave a gasp, he was\nrooted to the floor, and he stared with all his eyes.\nThis was not what he expected.  He was seized with horror.\n\n\"You enter without ceremony,\" said Strickland.  \"What can I do\nfor you?\"\n\nThe doctor recovered himself, but it required quite an effort\nfor him to find his voice.  All his irritation was gone, and\nhe felt -- <i eh bien, oui, je ne le nie pas> -- he felt an\noverwhelming pity.\n\n\"I am Dr. Coutras.  I was down at Taravao to see the chiefess,\nand Ata sent for me to see you.\"\n\n\"She's a damned fool.  I have had a few aches and pains lately\nand a little fever, but that's nothing; it will pass off.\nNext time anyone went to Papeete I was going to send for\nsome quinine.\"\n\n\"Look at yourself in the glass.\"\n\nStrickland gave him a glance, smiled, and went over to a cheap\nmirror in a little wooden frame, that hung on the wall.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Do you not see a strange change in your face?  Do you not see\nthe thickening of your features and a look -- how shall I\ndescribe it? -- the books call it lion-faced.  <i Mon pauvre ami>,\nmust I tell you that you have a terrible disease?\"\n\n\"I?\"\n\n\"When you look at yourself in the glass you see the typical\nappearance of the leper.\"\n\n\"You are jesting,\" said Strickland.\n\n\"I wish to God I were.\"\n\n\"Do you intend to tell me that I have leprosy?\"\n\n\"Unfortunately, there can be no doubt of it.\"\n\nDr. Coutras had delivered sentence of death on many men, and\nhe could never overcome the horror with which it filled him.\nHe felt always the furious hatred that must seize a man\ncondemned when he compared himself with the doctor, sane and\nhealthy, who had the inestimable privilege of life.\nStrickland looked at him in silence.  Nothing of emotion could\nbe seen on his face, disfigured already by the loathsome\ndisease.\n\n\"Do they know?\" he asked at last, pointing to the persons on\nthe verandah, now sitting in unusual, unaccountable silence.\n\n\"These natives know the signs so well,\" said the doctor.\n\"They were afraid to tell you.\"\n\nStrickland stepped to the door and looked out.  There must\nhave been something terrible in his face, for suddenly they\nall burst out into loud cries and lamentation.  They lifted up\ntheir voices and they wept.  Strickland did not speak.\nAfter looking at them for a moment, he came back into the room.\n\n\"How long do you think I can last?\"\n\n\"Who knows? Sometimes the disease continues for twenty years.\nIt is a mercy when it runs its course quickly.\"\n\nStrickland went to his easel and looked reflectively at the\npicture that stood on it.\n\n\"You have had a long journey.  It is fitting that the bearer\nof important tidings should be rewarded.  Take this picture.\nIt means nothing to you now, but it may be that one day you\nwill be glad to have it.\"\n\nDr. Coutras protested that he needed no payment for his\njourney; he had already given back to Ata the hundred-franc\nnote, but Strickland insisted that he should take the picture.\nThen together they went out on the verandah.  The natives were\nsobbing violently.  \"Be quiet, woman.  Dry thy tears,\" said\nStrickland, addressing Ata.  \"There is no great harm.\nI shall leave thee very soon.\"\n\n\"They are not going to take thee away?\" she cried.\n\nAt that time there was no rigid sequestration on the islands,\nand lepers, if they chose, were allowed to go free.\n\n\"I shall go up into the mountain,\" said Strickland.\n\nThen Ata stood up and faced him.\n\n\"Let the others go if they choose, but I will not leave thee.\nThou art my man and I am thy woman.  If thou leavest me I\nshall hang myself on the tree that is behind the house.\nI swear it by God.\"\n\nThere was something immensely forcible in the way she spoke.\nShe was no longer the meek, soft native girl, but a determined\nwoman.  She was extraordinarily transformed.\n\n\"Why shouldst thou stay with me? Thou canst go back to\nPapeete, and thou wilt soon find another white man.  The old\nwoman can take care of thy children, and Tiare will be glad to\nhave thee back.\"\n\n\"Thou art my man and I am thy woman.  Whither thou goest I\nwill go, too.\"\n\nFor a moment Strickland's fortitude was shaken, and a tear\nfilled each of his eyes and trickled slowly down his cheeks.\nThen he gave the sardonic smile which was usual with him.\n\n\"Women are strange little beasts,\" he said to Dr. Coutras.\n\"You can treat them like dogs, you can beat them till your arm\naches, and still they love you.\"  He shrugged his shoulders.\n\"Of course, it is one of the most absurd illusions of\nChristianity that they have souls.\"\n\n\"What is it that thou art saying to the doctor?\" asked Ata\nsuspiciously.  \"Thou wilt not go?\"\n\n\"If it please thee I will stay, poor child.\"\n\nAta flung herself on her knees before him, and clasped his\nlegs with her arms and kissed them.  Strickland looked at Dr.\nCoutras with a faint smile.\n\n\"In the end they get you, and you are helpless in their hands.\nWhite or brown, they are all the same.\"\n\nDr. Coutras felt that it was absurd to offer expressions of\nregret in so terrible a disaster, and he took his leave.\nStrickland told Tane, the boy, to lead him to the village.\nDr. Coutras paused for a moment, and then he addressed himself\nto me.\n\n\"I did not like him, I have told you he was not sympathetic to\nme, but as I walked slowly down to Taravao I could not prevent\nan unwilling admiration for the stoical courage which enabled\nhim to bear perhaps the most dreadful of human afflictions.\nWhen Tane left me I told him I would send some medicine that\nmight be of service; but my hope was small that Strickland\nwould consent to take it, and even smaller that, if he did,\nit would do him good.  I gave the boy a message for Ata that\nI would come whenever she sent for me.  Life is hard, and Nature\ntakes sometimes a terrible delight in torturing her children.\nIt was with a heavy heart that I drove back to my comfortable\nhome in Papeete.\"\n\nFor a long time none of us spoke.\n\n\"But Ata did not send for me,\" the doctor went on, at last,\n\"and it chanced that I did not go to that part of the island\nfor a long time.  I had no news of Strickland.  Once or twice\nI heard that Ata had been to Papeete to buy painting\nmaterials, but I did not happen to see her.  More than two\nyears passed before I went to Taravao again, and then it was\nonce more to see the old chiefess.  I asked them whether they\nhad heard anything of Strickland.  By now it was known\neverywhere that he had leprosy.  First Tane, the boy, had left\nthe house, and then, a little time afterwards, the old woman\nand her grandchild.  Strickland and Ata were left alone with\ntheir babies.  No one went near the plantation, for, as you\nknow, the natives have a very lively horror of the disease,\nand in the old days when it was discovered the sufferer was killed;\nbut sometimes, when the village boys were scrambling about\nthe hills, they would catch sight of the white man, with\nhis great red beard, wandering about.  They fled in terror.\nSometimes Ata would come down to the village at night and\narouse the trader, so that he might sell her various things of\nwhich she stood in need.  She knew that the natives looked\nupon her with the same horrified aversion as they looked upon\nStrickland, and she kept out of their way.  Once some women,\nventuring nearer than usual to the plantation, saw her\nwashing clothes in the brook, and they threw stones at her.\nAfter that the trader was told to give her the message that if\nshe used the brook again men would come and burn down her house.\"\n\n\"Brutes,\" I said.\n\n\"<i Mais non, mon cher monsieur>, men are always the same.\nFear makes them cruel....  I decided to see Strickland, and\nwhen I had finished with the chiefess asked for a boy to show\nme the way.  But none would accompany me, and I was forced to\nfind it alone.\"\n\nWhen Dr. Coutras arrived at the plantation he was seized with\na feeling of uneasiness.  Though he was hot from walking, he\nshivered.  There was something hostile in the air which made\nhim hesitate, and he felt that invisible forces barred his way.\nUnseen hands seemed to draw him back.  No one would go\nnear now to gather the cocoa-nuts, and they lay rotting on the\nground.  Everywhere was desolation.  The bush was encroaching,\nand it looked as though very soon the primeval forest would\nregain possession of that strip of land which had been\nsnatched from it at the cost of so much labour.  He had the\nsensation that here was the abode of pain.  As he approached\nthe house he was struck by the unearthly silence, and at first\nhe thought it was deserted.  Then he saw Ata.  She was sitting\non her haunches in the lean-to that served her as kitchen,\nwatching some mess cooking in a pot.  Near her a small boy was\nplaying silently in the dirt.  She did not smile when she saw him.\n\n\"I have come to see Strickland,\" he said.\n\n\"I will go and tell him.\"\n\nShe went to the house, ascended the few steps that led to the\nverandah, and entered.  Dr. Coutras followed her, but waited\noutside in obedience to her gesture.  As she opened the door\nhe smelt the sickly sweet smell which makes the neighbourhood\nof the leper nauseous.  He heard her speak, and then he heard\nStrickland's answer, but he did not recognise the voice.\nIt had become hoarse and indistinct.  Dr. Coutras raised his\neyebrows.  He judged that the disease had already attacked the\nvocal chords.  Then Ata came out again.\n\n\"He will not see you.  You must go away.\"\n\nDr. Coutras insisted, but she would not let him pass.  Dr. Coutras\nshrugged his shoulders, and after a moment's rejection turned away.\nShe walked with him.  He felt that she too wanted to be rid of him.\n\n\"Is there nothing I can do at all?\" he asked.\n\n\"You can send him some paints,\" she said.  \"There is nothing\nelse he wants.\"\n\n\"Can he paint still?\"\n\n\"He is painting the walls of the house.\"\n\n\"This is a terrible life for you, my poor child.\"\n\nThen at last she smiled, and there was in her eyes a look of\nsuperhuman love.  Dr. Coutras was startled by it, and amazed.\nAnd he was awed.  He found nothing to say.\n\n\"He is my man,\" she said.\n\n\"Where is your other child?\" he asked.  \"When I was here last\nyou had two.\"\n\n\"Yes; it died.  We buried it under the mango.\"\n\nWhen Ata had gone with him a little way she said she must turn\nback.  Dr. Coutras surmised she was afraid to go farther in\ncase she met any of the people from the village.  He told her\nagain that if she wanted him she had only to send and he would\ncome at once.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LVI\n\n\nThen two years more went by, or perhaps three, for time passes\nimperceptibly in Tahiti, and it is hard to keep count of it;\nbut at last a message was brought to Dr. Coutras that\nStrickland was dying.  Ata had waylaid the cart that took the\nmail into Papeete, and besought the man who drove it to go at\nonce to the doctor.  But the doctor was out when the summons\ncame, and it was evening when he received it.  It was\nimpossible to start at so late an hour, and so it was not till\nnext day soon after dawn that he set out.  He arrived at\nTaravao, and for the last time tramped the seven kilometres\nthat led to Ata's house.  The path was overgrown, and it was\nclear that for years now it had remained all but untrodden.\nIt was not easy to find the way.  Sometimes he had to stumble\nalong the bed of the stream, and sometimes he had to push\nthrough shrubs, dense and thorny; often he was obliged to\nclimb over rocks in order to avoid the hornet-nests that hung\non the trees over his head.  The silence was intense.\n\nIt was with a sigh of relief that at last he came upon the\nlittle unpainted house, extraordinarily bedraggled now,\nand unkempt; but here too was the same intolerable silence.\nHe walked up, and a little boy, playing unconcernedly in the\nsunshine, started at his approach and fled quickly away:\nto him the stranger was the enemy.  Dr. Coutras had a sense that\nthe child was stealthily watching him from behind a tree.\nThe door was wide open.  He called out, but no one answered.\nHe stepped in.  He knocked at a door, but again there was no\nanswer. He turned the handle and entered.  The stench that\nassailed him turned him horribly sick.  He put his\nhandkerchief to his nose and forced himself to go in.  The\nlight was dim, and after the brilliant sunshine for a while he\ncould see nothing.  Then he gave a start.  He could not make\nout where he was.  He seemed on a sudden to have entered a\nmagic world.  He had a vague impression of a great primeval\nforest and of naked people walking beneath the trees.  Then he\nsaw that there were paintings on the walls.\n\n\"<i Mon Dieu>, I hope the sun hasn't affected me,\" he muttered.\n\nA slight movement attracted his attention, and he saw that Ata\nwas lying on the floor, sobbing quietly.\n\n\"Ata,\" he called.  \"Ata.\"\n\nShe took no notice.  Again the beastly stench almost made him\nfaint, and he lit a cheroot.  His eyes grew accustomed to the\ndarkness, and now he was seized by an overwhelming sensation\nas he stared at the painted walls.  He knew nothing of\npictures, but there was something about these that\nextraordinarily affected him.  From floor to ceiling the walls\nwere covered with a strange and elaborate composition.  It was\nindescribably wonderful and mysterious.  It took his breath away.\nIt filled him with an emotion which he could not\nunderstand or analyse.  He felt the awe and the delight which\na man might feel who watched the beginning of a world.  It was\ntremendous, sensual, passionate; and yet there was something\nhorrible there, too, something which made him afraid.  It was\nthe work of a man who had delved into the hidden depths of\nnature and had discovered secrets which were beautiful and\nfearful too.  It was the work of a man who knew things which\nit is unholy for men to know.  There was something primeval\nthere and terrible.  It was not human.  It brought to his mind\nvague recollections of black magic.  It was beautiful and obscene.\n\n\"<i Mon Dieu>, this is genius.\"\n\nThe words were wrung from him, and he did not know he had spoken.\n\nThen his eyes fell on the bed of mats in the corner, and he\nwent up, and he saw the dreadful, mutilated, ghastly object\nwhich had been Strickland.  He was dead.  Dr. Coutras made an\neffort of will and bent over that battered horror.  Then he\nstarted violently, and terror blazed in his heart, for he felt\nthat someone was behind him.  It was Ata.  He had not heard\nher get up.  She was standing at his elbow, looking at what\nhe looked at.\n\n\"Good Heavens, my nerves are all distraught,\" he said.\n\"You nearly frightened me out of my wits.\"\n\nHe looked again at the poor dead thing that had been man, and\nthen he started back in dismay.\n\n\"But he was blind.\"\n\n\"Yes; he had been blind for nearly a year.\"\n\n\n\n\nChapter LVII\n\n\nAT that moment we were interrupted by the appearance of\nMadame Coutras, who had been paying visits.  She came in,\nlike a ship in full sail, an imposing creature, tall and stout,\nwith an ample bust and an obesity girthed in alarmingly by\nstraight-fronted corsets. She had a bold hooked nose and three chins.\nShe held herself upright.  She had not yielded for an instant\nto the enervating charm of the tropics, but contrariwise was\nmore active, more worldly, more decided than anyone in a\ntemperate clime would have thought it possible to be.  She was\nevidently a copious talker, and now poured forth a breathless\nstream of anecdote and comment.  She made the conversation we\nhad just had seem far away and unreal.\n\nPresently Dr. Coutras turned to me.\n\n\"I still have in my <i bureau> the picture that Strickland\ngave me,\" he said.  \"Would you like to see it?\"\n\n\"Willingly.\"\n\nWe got up, and he led me on to the verandah which surrounded\nhis house.  We paused to look at the gay flowers that rioted\nin his garden.\n\n\"For a long time I could not get out of my head the\nrecollection of the extraordinary decoration with which\nStrickland had covered the walls of his house,\" he said\nreflectively.\n\nI had been thinking of it, too.  It seemed to me that here\nStrickland had finally put the whole expression of himself.\nWorking silently, knowing that it was his last chance, I\nfancied that here he must have said all that he knew of life\nand all that he divined.  And I fancied that perhaps here he\nhad at last found peace.  The demon which possessed him was\nexorcised at last, and with the completion of the work, for\nwhich all his life had been a painful preparation, rest\ndescended on his remote and tortured soul.  He was willing to\ndie, for he had fulfilled his purpose.\n\n\"What was the subject?\" I asked.\n\n\"I scarcely know.  It was strange and fantastic.  It was a\nvision of the beginnings of the world, the Garden of Eden,\nwith Adam and Eve -- <i que sais-je?> -- it was a hymn to the\nbeauty of the human form, male and female, and the praise of\nNature, sublime, indifferent, lovely, and cruel.  It gave you\nan awful sense of the infinity of space and of the endlessness\nof time.  Because he painted the trees I see about me every\nday, the cocoa-nuts, the banyans, the flamboyants, the\nalligator-pears, I have seen them ever since differently, as\nthough there were in them a spirit and a mystery which I am\never on the point of seizing and which forever escapes me.\nThe colours were the colours familiar to me, and yet they\nwere different.  They had a significance which was all their own.\nAnd those nude men and women.  They were of the earth, and yet\napart from it.  They seemed to possess something of the clay\nof which they were created, and at the same time something divine.\nYou saw man in the nakedness of his primeval instincts,\nand you were afraid, for you saw yourself.\"\n\nDr. Coutras shrugged his shoulders and smiled.\n\n\"You will laugh at me.  I am a materialist, and I am a gross,\nfat man -- Falstaff, eh? -- the lyrical mode does not become me.\nI make myself ridiculous.  But I have never seen painting\nwhich made so deep an impression upon me.  <i Tenez>, I had just\nthe same feeling as when I went to the Sistine Chapel in Rome.\nThere too I was awed by the greatness of the man who\nhad painted that ceiling.  It was genius, and it was\nstupendous and overwhelming.  I felt small and insignificant.\nBut you are prepared for the greatness of Michael Angelo.\nNothing had prepared me for the immense surprise of these\npictures in a native hut, far away from civilisation, in a\nfold of the mountain above Taravao.  And Michael Angelo is\nsane and healthy.  Those great works of his have the calm of\nthe sublime; but here, notwithstanding beauty, was something\ntroubling.  I do not know what it was.  It made me uneasy.\nIt gave me the impression you get when you are sitting next door\nto a room that you know is empty, but in which, you know not\nwhy, you have a dreadful consciousness that notwithstanding\nthere is someone.  You scold yourself; you know it is only\nyour nerves -- and yet, and yet...  In a little while it is\nimpossible to resist the terror that seizes you, and you are\nhelpless in the clutch of an unseen horror.  Yes; I confess I\nwas not altogether sorry when I heard that those strange\nmasterpieces had been destroyed.\"\n\n\"Destroyed?\"  I cried.\n\n\"<i Mais oui>; did you not know?\"\n\n\"How should I know? It is true I had never heard of this work;\nbut I thought perhaps it had fallen into the hands of a\nprivate owner.  Even now there is no certain list of\nStrickland's paintings.\"\n\n\"When he grew blind he would sit hour after hour in those two\nrooms that he had painted, looking at his works with sightless\neyes, and seeing, perhaps, more than he had ever seen in his\nlife before.  Ata told me that he never complained of his\nfate, he never lost courage.  To the end his mind remained\nserene and undisturbed.  But he made her promise that when she\nhad buried him -- did I tell you that I dug his grave with my\nown hands, for none of the natives would approach the infected\nhouse, and we buried him, she and I, sewn up in three\n<i pareos> joined together, under the mango-tree -- he made her\npromise that she would set fire to the house and not leave it\ntill it was burned to the ground and not a stick remained.\"\n\nI did not speak for a while, for I was thinking.  Then I said:\n\n\"He remained the same to the end, then.\"\n\n\"Do you understand? I must tell you that I thought it my duty\nto dissuade her.\"\n\n\"Even after what you have just said?\"\n\n\"Yes; for I knew that here was a work of genius, and I did not\nthink we had the right to deprive the world of it.  But Ata\nwould not listen to me.  She had promised.  I would not stay\nto witness the barbarous deed, and it was only afterwards that\nI heard what she had done.  She poured paraffin on the dry\nfloors and on the pandanus-mats, and then she set fire.  In a\nlittle while nothing remained but smouldering embers, and a\ngreat masterpiece existed no longer.\n\n\"I think Strickland knew it was a masterpiece.  He had\nachieved what he wanted.  His life was complete.  He had made\na world and saw that it was good.  Then, in pride and\ncontempt, he destroyed it.\"\n\n\"But I must show you my picture,\" said Dr. Coutras, moving on.\n\n\"What happened to Ata and the child?\"\n\n\"They went to the Marquesas.  She had relations there.  I have\nheard that the boy works on one of Cameron's schooners.\nThey say he is very like his father in appearance.\"\n\nAt the door that led from the verandah to the doctor's\nconsulting-room, he paused and smiled.\n\n\"It is a fruit-piece.  You would think it not a very suitable\npicture for a doctor's consulting-room, but my wife will not\nhave it in the drawing-room.  She says it is frankly obscene.\"\n\n\"A fruit-piece!\" I exclaimed in surprise.\n\nWe entered the room, and my eyes fell at once on the picture.\nI looked at it for a long time.\n\nIt was a pile of mangoes, bananas, oranges, and I know not what\nand at first sight it was an innocent picture enough. It would\nhave been passed in an exhibition of the Post-Impressionists by a\ncareless person as an excellent but not very remarkable example\nof the school; but perhaps afterwards it would come back to his\nrecollection, and he would wonder why. I do not think then he\ncould ever entirely forget it.\n\nThe colours were so strange that words can hardly tell what a\ntroubling emotion they gave.  They were sombre blues, opaque\nlike a delicately carved bowl in lapis lazuli, and yet with a\nquivering lustre that suggested the palpitation of mysterious\nlife; there were purples, horrible like raw and putrid flesh,\nand yet with a glowing, sensual passion that called up vague\nmemories of the Roman Empire of Heliogabalus; there were reds,\nshrill like the berries of holly -- one thought of Christmas\nin England, and the snow, the good cheer, and the pleasure of\nchildren -- and yet by some magic softened till they had the\nswooning tenderness of a dove's breast; there were deep\nyellows that died with an unnatural passion into a green as\nfragrant as the spring and as pure as the sparkling water of a\nmountain brook.  Who can tell what anguished fancy made these\nfruits? They belonged to a Polynesian garden of the Hesperides.\nThere was something strangely alive in them, as though\nthey were created in a stage of the earth's dark history\nwhen things were not irrevocably fixed to their forms.\nThey were extravagantly luxurious.  They were heavy with\ntropical odours.  They seemed to possess a sombre passion of\ntheir own.  It was enchanted fruit, to taste which might open\nthe gateway to God knows what secrets of the soul and to\nmysterious palaces of the imagination.  They were sullen with\nunawaited dangers, and to eat them might turn a man to beast\nor god.  All that was healthy and natural, all that clung to\nhappy relationships and the simple joys of simple men, shrunk\nfrom them in dismay; and yet a fearful attraction was in them,\nand, like the fruit on the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and\nEvil they were terrible with the possibilities of the Unknown.\n\nAt last I turned away.  I felt that Strickland had kept his\nsecret to the grave.\n\n\"<i Voyons, Rene, mon ami>,\" came the loud, cheerful voice of\nMadame Coutras, \"what are you doing all this time? Here are\nthe  <i aperitifs>.  Ask <i Monsieur> if he will not drink a\nlittle glass of Quinquina Dubonnet.\"\n\n\"<i Volontiers>, Madame,\" I said, going out on to the verandah.\n\nThe spell was broken.\n\n\n\n\nChapter LVIII\n\n\nThe time came for my departure from Tahiti.  According to the\ngracious custom of the island, presents were given me by the\npersons with whom I had been thrown in contact -- baskets made\nof the leaves of the cocoa-nut tree, mats of pandanus, fans;\nand Tiare gave me three little pearls and three jars of\nguava-jelly made with her own plump hands.  When the mail-boat,\nstopping for twenty-four hours on its way from Wellington to\nSan Francisco, blew the whistle that warned the passengers to\nget on board, Tiare clasped me to her vast bosom, so that I\nseemed to sink into a billowy sea, and pressed her red lips\nto mine.  Tears glistened in her eyes.  And when we steamed\nslowly out of the lagoon, making our way gingerly through the\nopening in the reef, and then steered for the open sea,\na certain melancholy fell upon me.  The breeze was laden still\nwith the pleasant odours of the land.  Tahiti is very far\naway, and I knew that I should never see it again.  A chapter\nof my life was closed, and I felt a little nearer to\ninevitable death.\n\n\nNot much more than a month later I was in London; and after I\nhad arranged certain matters which claimed my immediate\nattention, thinking Mrs. Strickland might like to hear what I\nknew of her husband's last years, I wrote to her.  I had not\nseen her since long before the war, and I had to look out her\naddress in the telephone-book.  She made an appointment, and I went\nto the trim little house on Campden Hill which she now inhabited.\nShe was by this time a woman of hard on sixty, but she\nbore her years well, and no one would have taken her for\nmore than fifty.  Her face, thin and not much lined, was of\nthe sort that ages gracefully, so that you thought in youth\nshe must have been a much handsomer woman than in fact she was.\nHer hair, not yet very gray, was becomingly arranged,\nand her black gown was modish.  I remembered having heard that\nher sister, Mrs. MacAndrew, outliving her husband but a couple\nof years, had left money to Mrs. Strickland; and by the look\nof the house and the trim maid who opened the door I judged\nthat it was a sum adequate to keep the widow in modest comfort.\n\nWhen I was ushered into the drawing-room I found that Mrs.\nStrickland had a visitor, and when I discovered who he was,\nI guessed that I had been asked to come at just that time not\nwithout intention.  The caller was Mr. Van Busche Taylor,\nan American, and Mrs. Strickland gave me particulars with a\ncharming smile of apology to him.\n\n\"You know, we English are so dreadfully ignorant.  You must\nforgive me if it's necessary to explain.\"  Then she turned to\nme.  \"Mr. Van Busche Taylor is the distinguished American\ncritic.  If you haven't read his book your education has been\nshamefully neglected, and you must repair the omission at\nonce.  He's writing something about dear Charlie, and he's\ncome to ask me if I can help him.\"\n\nMr. Van Busche Taylor was a very thin man with a large, bald\nhead, bony and shining; and under the great dome of his skull\nhis face, yellow, with deep lines in it, looked very small.\nHe was quiet and exceedingly polite.  He spoke with the accent\nof New England, and there was about his demeanour a bloodless\nfrigidity which made me ask myself why on earth he was busying\nhimself with Charles Strickland.  I had been slightly tickled\nat the gentleness which Mrs. Strickland put into her mention\nof her husband's name, and while the pair conversed I took\nstock of the room in which we sat.  Mrs. Strickland had moved\nwith the times.  Gone were the Morris papers and gone the\nsevere cretonnes, gone were the Arundel prints that had\nadorned the walls of her drawing-room in Ashley Gardens; the\nroom blazed with fantastic colour, and I wondered if she knew\nthat those varied hues, which fashion had imposed upon her,\nwere due to the dreams of a poor painter in a South Sea\nisland.  She gave me the answer herself.\n\n\"What wonderful cushions you have,\" said Mr. Van Busche Taylor.\n\n\"Do you like them?\" she said, smiling.  \"Bakst, you know.\"\n\nAnd yet on the walls were coloured reproductions of several of\nStrickland's best pictures, due to the enterprise of a\npublisher in Berlin.\n\n\"You're looking at my pictures,\" she said, following my eyes.\n\"Of course, the originals are out of my reach, but it's a\ncomfort to have these.  The publisher sent them to me himself.\nThey're a great consolation to me.\"\n\n\"They must be very pleasant to live with,\" said Mr. Van Busche Taylor.\n\n\"Yes; they're so essentially decorative.\"\n\n\"That is one of my profoundest convictions,\" said Mr. Van\nBusche Taylor.  \"Great art is always decorative.\"\n\nTheir eyes rested on a nude woman suckling a baby, while a\ngirl was kneeling by their side holding out a flower to the\nindifferent child.  Looking over them was a wrinkled, scraggy hag.\nIt was Strickland's version of the Holy Family. I suspected\nthat for the figures had sat his household above Taravao,\nand the woman and the baby were Ata and his first son.\nI asked myself if Mrs. Strickland had any inkling of the facts.\n\nThe conversation proceeded, and I marvelled at the tact with which\nMr. Van Busche Taylor avoided all subjects that might have been\nin the least embarrassing, and at the ingenuity with which\nMrs. Strickland, without saying a word that was untrue, insinuated\nthat her relations with her husband had always been perfect.\nAt last Mr. Van Busche Taylor rose to go.  Holding his\nhostess' hand, he made her a graceful, though perhaps too elaborate,\nspeech of thanks, and left us.\n\n\"I hope he didn't bore you,\" she said, when the door closed\nbehind him.  \"Of course it's a nuisance sometimes, but I feel\nit's only right to give people any information I can about Charlie.\nThere's a certain responsibility about having been the\nwife of a genius.\"\n\nShe looked at me with those pleasant eyes of hers, which had\nremained as candid and as sympathetic as they had been more\nthan twenty years before.  I wondered if she was making a fool of me.\n\n\"Of course you've given up your business,\" I said.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" she answered airily.  \"I ran it more by way of a\nhobby than for any other reason, and my children persuaded me\nto sell it.  They thought I was overtaxing my strength.\"\n\nI saw that Mrs. Strickland had forgotten that she had ever\ndone anything so disgraceful as to work for her living.\nShe had the true instinct of the nice woman that it is only\nreally decent for her to live on other people's money.\n\n\"They're here now,\" she said.  \"I thought they'd, like to hear\nwhat you had to say about their father.  You remember Robert,\ndon't you? I'm glad to say he's been recommended for the\nMilitary Cross.\"\n\nShe went to the door and called them.  There entered a tall\nman in khaki, with the parson's collar, handsome in a somewhat\nheavy fashion, but with the frank eyes that I remembered in\nhim as a boy.  He was followed by his sister.  She must have\nbeen the same age as was her mother when first I knew her, and\nshe was very like her.  She too gave one the impression that\nas a girl she must have been prettier than indeed she was.\n\n\"I suppose you don't remember them in the least,\" said\nMrs. Strickland, proud and smiling.  \"My daughter is now\nMrs. Ronaldson. Her husband's a Major in the Gunners.\"\n\n\"He's by way of being a pukka soldier, you know,\" said\nMrs. Ronaldson gaily.  \"That's why he's only a Major.\"\n\nI remembered my anticipation long ago that she would marry a soldier.\nIt was inevitable.  She had all the graces of the soldier's wife.\nShe was civil and affable, but she could hardly conceal her intimate\nconviction that she was not quite as others were. Robert was breezy.\n\n\"It's a bit of luck that I should be in London when you turned\nup,\" he said.  \"I've only got three days' leave.\"\n\n\"He's dying to get back,\" said his mother.\n\n\"Well, I don't mind confessing it, I have a rattling good time\nat the front.  I've made a lot of good pals.  It's a first-rate life.\nOf course war's terrible, and all that sort of thing;\nbut it does bring out the best qualities in a man,\nthere's no denying that.\"\n\nThen I told them what I had learned about Charles Strickland\nin Tahiti.  I thought it unnecessary to say anything of Ata\nand her boy, but for the rest I was as accurate as I could be.\nWhen I had narrated his lamentable death I ceased.  For a\nminute or two we were all silent.  Then Robert Strickland\nstruck a match and lit a cigarette.\n\n\"The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small,\"\nhe said, somewhat impressively.\n\nMrs. Strickland and Mrs. Ronaldson looked down with a slightly\npious expression which indicated, I felt sure, that they\nthought the quotation was from Holy Writ.  Indeed, I was\nunconvinced that Robert Strickland did not share their illusion.\nI do not know why I suddenly thought of Strickland's\nson by Ata.  They had told me he was a merry,\nlight-hearted youth.  I saw him, with my mind's eye, on the\nschooner on which he worked, wearing nothing but a pair of\ndungarees; and at night, when the boat sailed along easily\nbefore a light breeze, and the sailors were gathered on the\nupper deck, while the captain and the supercargo lolled in\ndeck-chairs, smoking their pipes, I saw him dance with another lad,\ndance wildly, to the wheezy music of the concertina.\nAbove was the blue sky, and the stars, and all about the\ndesert of the Pacific Ocean.\n\nA quotation from the Bible came to my lips, but I held my tongue,\nfor I know that clergymen think it a little blasphemous when the\nlaity poach upon their preserves. My Uncle Henry, for\ntwenty-seven years Vicar of Whitstable, was on these occasions in\nthe habit of saying that the devil could always quote scripture\nto his purpose. He remembered the days when you could get\nthirteen Royal Natives for a shilling."