Chapter XIX

by William Somerset Maugham

　　I had not announced my arrival to Stroeve, and when I rang thebell of his studio, on opening the door himself, for a momenthe did not know me. Then he gave a cry of delighted surpriseand drew me in. It was charming to be welcomed with so mucheagerness. His wife was seated near the stove at her sewing,and she rose as I came in. He introduced me."Don't you remember?" he said to her. "I've talked to youabout him often." And then to me: "But why didn't you let meknow you were coming? How long have you been here? How longare you going to stay? Why didn't you come an hour earlier,and we would have dined together?"He bombarded me with questions. He sat me down in a chair,patting me as though I were a cushion, pressed cigars upon me,cakes, wine. He could not let me alone. He was heart-brokenbecause he had no whisky, wanted to make coffee for me,racked his brain for something he could possibly do for me,and beamed and laughed, and in the exuberance of his delightsweated at every pore."You haven't changed," I said, smiling, as I looked at him.He had the same absurd appearance that I remembered. He was afat little man, with short legs, young still -- he could nothave been more than thirty -- but prematurely bald. His facewas perfectly round, and he had a very high colour, a whiteskin, red cheeks, and red lips. His eyes were blue and roundtoo, he wore large gold-rimmed spectacles, and his eyebrowswere so fair that you could not see them. He reminded you ofthose jolly, fat merchants that Rubens painted.When I told him that I meant to live in Paris for a while, andhad taken an apartment, he reproached me bitterly for nothaving let him know. He would have found me an apartmenthimself, and lent me furniture -- did I really mean that I hadgone to the expense of buying it? -- and he would have helpedme to move in. He really looked upon it as unfriendly that Ihad not given him the opportunity of making himself useful to me.Meanwhile, Mrs. Stroeve sat quietly mending her stockings,without talking, and she listened to all he said with a quietsmile on her lips."So, you see, I'm married," he said suddenly; "what do youthink of my wife?"He beamed at her, and settled his spectacles on the bridge ofhis nose. The sweat made them constantly slip down."What on earth do you expect me to say to that?" I laughed."Really, Dirk," put in Mrs. Stroeve, smiling."But isn't she wonderful? I tell you, my boy, lose no time;get married as soon as ever you can. I'm the happiest man alive.Look at her sitting there. Doesn't she make a picture?Chardin, eh? I've seen all the most beautiful womenin the world; I've never seen anyone more beautiful thanMadame Dirk Stroeve.""If you don't be quiet, Dirk, I shall go away.""Mon petit chou", he said.She flushed a little, embarrassed by the passion in his tone.His letters had told me that he was very much in love with hiswife, and I saw that he could hardly take his eyes off her.I could not tell if she loved him. Poor pantaloon, he was notan object to excite love, but the smile in her eyes wasaffectionate, and it was possible that her reserve concealed avery deep feeling. She was not the ravishing creature thathis love-sick fancy saw, but she had a grave comeliness.She was rather tall, and her gray dress, simple and quitewell-cut, did not hide the fact that her figure was beautiful.It was a figure that might have appealed more to the sculptorthan to the costumier. Her hair, brown and abundant, wasplainly done, her face was very pale, and her features weregood without being distinguished. She had quiet gray eyes.She just missed being beautiful, and in missing it was noteven pretty. But when Stroeve spoke of Chardin it was notwithout reason, and she reminded me curiously of that pleasanthousewife in her mob-cap and apron whom the great painter hasimmortalised. I could imagine her sedately busy among herpots and pans, making a ritual of her household duties, sothat they acquired a moral significance; I did not supposethat she was clever or could ever be amusing, but there wassomething in her grave intentness which excited my interest.Her reserve was not without mystery. I wondered why she hadmarried Dirk Stroeve. Though she was English, I could notexactly place her, and it was not obvious from what rank insociety she sprang, what had been her upbringing, or how shehad lived before her marriage. She was very silent, but whenshe spoke it was with a pleasant voice, and her mannerswere natural.I asked Stroeve if he was working."Working? I'm painting better than I've ever painted before."We sat in the studio, and he waved his hand to an unfinishedpicture on an easel. I gave a little start. He was paintinga group of Italian peasants, in the costume of the Campagna,lounging on the steps of a Roman church."Is that what you're doing now?" I asked."Yes. I can get my models here just as well as in Rome.""Don't you think it's very beautiful?" said Mrs. Stroeve."This foolish wife of mine thinks I'm a great artist," said he.His apologetic laugh did not disguise the pleasure that he felt.His eyes lingered on his picture. It was strange thathis critical sense, so accurate and unconventional when hedealt with the work of others, should be satisfied in himselfwith what was hackneyed and vulgar beyond belief."Show him some more of your pictures," she said."Shall I?"Though he had suffered so much from the ridicule of his friends,Dirk Stroeve, eager for praise and naively self-satisfied,could never resist displaying his work. He brought outa picture of two curly-headed Italian urchins playing marbles."Aren't they sweet?" said Mrs. Stroeve.And then he showed me more. I discovered that in Paris he hadbeen painting just the same stale, obviously picturesquethings that he had painted for years in Rome. It was allfalse, insincere, shoddy; and yet no one was more honest,sincere, and frank than Dirk Stroeve. Who could resolvethe contradiction?I do not know what put it into my head to ask:"I say, have you by any chance run across a painter calledCharles Strickland?""You don't mean to say you know him?" cried Stroeve."Beast," said his wife.Stroeve laughed."Ma pauvre cherie." He went over to her and kissed bothher hands. "She doesn't like him. How strange that youshould know Strickland!""I don't like bad manners," said Mrs. Stroeve.Dirk, laughing still, turned to me to explain."You see, I asked him to come here one day and look at mypictures. Well, he came, and I showed him everything I had."Stroeve hesitated a moment with embarrassment. I do not knowwhy he had begun the story against himself; he felt anawkwardness at finishing it. "He looked at -- at my pictures,and he didn't say anything. I thought he was reserving hisjudgment till the end. And at last I said: `There, that'sthe lot!' He said: `I came to ask you to lend me twenty francs.'""And Dirk actually gave it him," said his wife indignantly."I was so taken aback. I didn't like to refuse. He put themoney in his pocket, just nodded, said 'Thanks,' and walked out."Dirk Stroeve, telling the story, had such a look of blankastonishment on his round, foolish face that it was almostimpossible not to laugh."I shouldn't have minded if he'd said my pictures were bad,but he said nothing -- nothing.""And you will tell the story, Dirk," Said his wife.It was lamentable that one was more amused by the ridiculousfigure cut by the Dutchman than outraged by Strickland'sbrutal treatment of him."I hope I shall never see him again," said Mrs. Stroeve.Stroeve smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He had alreadyrecovered his good-humour."The fact remains that he's a great artist, a very great artist.""Strickland?" I exclaimed. "It can't be the same man.""A big fellow with a red beard. Charles Strickland.An Englishman.""He had no beard when I knew him, but if he has grown one itmight well be red. The man I'm thinking of only beganpainting five years ago.""That's it. He's a great artist.""Impossible.""Have I ever been mistaken?" Dirk asked me. "I tell you hehas genius. I'm convinced of it. In a hundred years, if youand I are remembered at all, it will be because we knewCharles Strickland."I was astonished, and at the same time I was very much excited.I remembered suddenly my last talk with him."Where can one see his work?" I asked. "Is he having any success?Where is he living?""No; he has no success. I don't think he's ever sold a picture.When you speak to men about him they only laugh.But I know he's a great artist. After all, they laughedat Manet. Corot never sold a picture. I don't know where helives, but I can take you to see him. He goes to a cafe inthe Avenue de Clichy at seven o'clock every evening. If youlike we'll go there to-morrow.""I'm not sure if he'll wish to see me. I think I may remindhim of a time he prefers to forget. But I'll come all the same.Is there any chance of seeing any of his pictures?""Not from him. He won't show you a thing. There's a littledealer I know who has two or three. But you mustn't go without me;you wouldn't understand. I must show them to you myself.""Dirk, you make me impatient," said Mrs. Stroeve. "How canyou talk like that about his pictures when he treated you ashe did?" She turned to me. "Do you know, when some Dutchpeople came here to buy Dirk's pictures he tried to persuadethem to buy Strickland's? He insisted on bringing them hereto show.""What did you think of them?" I asked her, smiling."They were awful.""Ah, sweetheart, you don't understand.""Well, your Dutch people were furious with you. They thoughtyou were having a joke with them."Dirk Stroeve took off his spectacles and wiped them. Hisflushed face was shining with excitement."Why should you think that beauty, which is the most preciousthing in the world, lies like a stone on the beach for thecareless passer-by to pick up idly? Beauty is somethingwonderful and strange that the artist fashions out of thechaos of the world in the torment of his soul. And when hehas made it, it is not given to all to know it. To recognizeit you must repeat the adventure of the artist. It is amelody that he sings to you, and to hear it again in your ownheart you want knowledge and sensitiveness and imagination.""Why did I always think your pictures beautiful, Dirk?I admired them the very first time I saw them."Stroeve's lips trembled a little."Go to bed, my precious. I will walk a few steps with ourfriend, and then I will come back."