We arrived at the house in which I lived. I would not ask himto come in with me, but walked up the stairs without a word.He followed me, and entered the apartment on my heels. He hadnot been in it before, but he never gave a glance at the roomI had been at pains to make pleasing to the eye. There was atin of tobacco on the table, and, taking out his pipe, hefilled it. He sat down on the only chair that had no arms andtilted himself on the back legs."If you're going to make yourself at home, why don't you sitin an arm-chair?" I asked irritably."Why are you concerned about my comfort?""I'm not," I retorted, "but only about my own. It makes meuncomfortable to see someone sit on an uncomfortable chair."He chuckled, but did not move. He smoked on in silence,taking no further notice of me, and apparently was absorbed inthought. I wondered why he had come.Until long habit has blunted the sensibility, there issomething disconcerting to the writer in the instinct whichcauses him to take an interest in the singularities of humannature so absorbing that his moral sense is powerless against it.He recognises in himself an artistic satisfaction in thecontemplation of evil which a little startles him;but sincerity forces him to confess that the disapproval he feelsfor certain actions is not nearly so strong as his curiosityin their reasons. The character of a scoundrel, logical andcomplete, has a fascination for his creator which is anoutrage to law and order. I expect that Shakespeare devisedIago with a gusto which he never knew when, weaving moonbeamswith his fancy, he imagined Desdemona. It may be that in hisrogues the writer gratifies instincts deep-rooted in him, whichthe manners and customs of a civilised world have forced backto the mysterious recesses of the subconscious. In giving tothe character of his invention flesh and bones he is givinglife to that part of himself which finds no other means ofexpression. His satisfaction is a sense of liberation.The writer is more concerned to know than to judge.There was in my soul a perfectly genuine horror of Strickland,and side by side with it a cold curiosity to discover his motives.I was puzzled by him, and I was eager to see how heregarded the tragedy he had caused in the lives of people whohad used him with so much kindness. I applied the scalpelboldly."Stroeve told me that picture you painted of his wife was thebest thing you've ever done."Strickland took his pipe out of his mouth, and a smile lit uphis eyes."It was great fun to do.""Why did you give it him?""I'd finished it. It wasn't any good to me.""Do you know that Stroeve nearly destroyed it?""It wasn't altogether satisfactory."He was quiet for a moment or two, then he took his pipe out ofhis mouth again, and chuckled."Do you know that the little man came to see me?""Weren't you rather touched by what he had to say?""No; I thought it damned silly and sentimental.""I suppose it escaped your memory that you'd ruined his life?"I remarked.He rubbed his bearded chin reflectively."He's a very bad painter.""But a very good man.""And an excellent cook," Strickland added derisively.His callousness was inhuman, and in my indignation I was notinclined to mince my words."As a mere matter of curiosity I wish you'd tell me, have youfelt the smallest twinge of remorse for Blanche Stroeve's death?"I watched his face for some change of expression, but itremained impassive."Why should I?" he asked."Let me put the facts before you. You were dying, and DirkStroeve took you into his own house. He nursed you like a mother.He sacrificed his time and his comfort and his money for you.He snatched you from the jaws of death."Strickland shrugged his shoulders."The absurd little man enjoys doing things for other people.That's his life.""Granting that you owed him no gratitude, were you obliged togo out of your way to take his wife from him? Until you cameon the scene they were happy. Why couldn't you leave them alone?""What makes you think they were happy?""It was evident.""You are a discerning fellow. Do you think she could everhave forgiven him for what he did for her?""What do you mean by that?""Don't you know why he married her?"I shook my head."She was a governess in the family of some Roman prince, andthe son of the house seduced her. She thought he was going tomarry her. They turned her out into the street neck and crop.She was going to have a baby, and she tried to commit suicide.Stroeve found her and married her.""It was just like him. I never knew anyone with socompassionate a heart."I had often wondered why that ill-assorted pair had married,but just that explanation had never occurred to me. That wasperhaps the cause of the peculiar quality of Dirk's love forhis wife. I had noticed in it something more than passion.I remembered also how I had always fancied that her reserveconcealed I knew not what; but now I saw in it more than thedesire to hide a shameful secret. Her tranquillity was likethe sullen calm that broods over an island which has beenswept by a hurricane. Her cheerfulness was the cheerfulnessof despair. Strickland interrupted my reflections with anobservation the profound cynicism of which startled me."A woman can forgive a man for the harm he does her," he said,"but she can never forgive him for the sacrifices he makes onher account.""It must be reassuring to you to know that you certainly runno risk of incurring the resentment of the women you come incontact with," I retorted.A slight smile broke on his lips."You are always prepared to sacrifice your principles for arepartee," he answered."What happened to the child?""Oh, it was still-born, three or four months after they were married."Then I came to the question which had seemed to me most puzzling."Will you tell me why you bothered about Blanche Stroeve at all?"He did not answer for so long that I nearly repeated it."How do I know?" he said at last. "She couldn't bear thesight of me. It amused me.""I see."He gave a sudden flash of anger."Damn it all, I wanted her."But he recovered his temper immediately, and looked at me witha smile."At first she was horrified.""Did you tell her?""There wasn't any need. She knew. I never said a word.She was frightened. At last I took her."I do not know what there was in the way he told me this thatextraordinarily suggested the violence of his desire. It wasdisconcerting and rather horrible. His life was strangelydivorced from material things, and it was as though his bodyat times wreaked a fearful revenge on his spirit. The satyrin him suddenly took possession, and he was powerless in thegrip of an instinct which had all the strength of theprimitive forces of nature. It was an obsession so completethat there was no room in his soul for prudence or gratitude."But why did you want to take her away with you?" I asked."I didn't," he answered, frowning. "When she said she wascoming I was nearly as surprised as Stroeve. I told her thatwhen I'd had enough of her she'd have to go, and she saidshe'd risk that." He paused a little. "She had a wonderfulbody, and I wanted to paint a nude. When I'd finished mypicture I took no more interest in her.""And she loved you with all her heart."He sprang to his feet and walked up and down the small room."I don't want love. I haven't time for it. It's weakness.I am a man, and sometimes I want a woman. When I've satisfiedmy passion I'm ready for other things. I can't overcome mydesire, but I hate it; it imprisons my spirit; I look forwardto the time when I shall be free from all desire and can givemyself without hindrance to my work. Because women can donothing except love, they've given it a ridiculous importance.They want to persuade us that it's the whole of life. It's aninsignificant part. I know lust. That's normal and healthy.Love is a disease. Women are the instruments of my pleasure;I have no patience with their claim to be helpmates, partners,companions."I had never heard Strickland speak so much at one time.He spoke with a passion of indignation. But neither here norelsewhere do I pretend to give his exact words; his vocabularywas small, and he had no gift for framing sentences, so thatone had to piece his meaning together out of interjections,the expression of his face, gestures and hackneyed phrases."You should have lived at a time when women were chattels andmen the masters of slaves," I said."It just happens that I am a completely normal man."I could not help laughing at this remark, made in all seriousness;but he went on, walking up and down the room likea caged beast, intent on expressing what he felt, but foundsuch difficulty in putting coherently."When a woman loves you she's not satisfied until shepossesses your soul. Because she's weak, she has a rage fordomination, and nothing less will satisfy her. She has asmall mind, and she resents the abstract which she is unableto grasp. She is occupied with material things, and she isjealous of the ideal. The soul of man wanders through theuttermost regions of the universe, and she seeks to imprisonit in the circle of her account-book. Do you remember my wife?I saw Blanche little by little trying all her tricks.With infinite patience she prepared to snare me and bind me.She wanted to bring me down to her level; she cared nothingfor me, she only wanted me to be hers. She was willing to doeverything in the world for me except the one thing I wanted:to leave me alone."I was silent for a while."What did you expect her to do when you left her?""She could have gone back to Stroeve," he said irritably."He was ready to take her.""You're inhuman," I answered. "It's as useless to talk to youabout these things as to describe colours to a man who wasborn blind."He stopped in front of my chair, and stood looking down at mewith an expression in which I read a contemptuous amazement."Do you really care a twopenny damn if Blanche Stroeve isalive or dead?"I thought over his question, for I wanted to answer ittruthfully, at all events to my soul."It may be a lack of sympathy in myself if it does not makeany great difference to me that she is dead. Life had a greatdeal to offer her. I think it's terrible that she should havebeen deprived of it in that cruel way, and I am ashamedbecause I do not really care.""You have not the courage of your convictions. Life has novalue. Blanche Stroeve didn't commit suicide because I lefther, but because she was a foolish and unbalanced woman.But we've talked about her quite enough; she was an entirelyunimportant person. Come, and I'll show you my pictures."He spoke as though I were a child that needed to bedistracted. I was sore, but not with him so much as with myself.I thought of the happy life that pair had led in thecosy studio in Montmartre, Stroeve and his wife, theirsimplicity, kindness, and hospitality; it seemed to me cruelthat it should have been broken to pieces by a ruthlesschance; but the cruellest thing of all was that in fact itmade no great difference. The world went on, and no one was apenny the worse for all that wretchedness. I had an idea thatDirk, a man of greater emotional reactions than depth offeeling, would soon forget; and Blanche's life, begun with whoknows what bright hopes and what dreams, might just as wellhave never been lived. It all seemed useless and inane.Strickland had found his hat, and stood looking at me."Are you coming?""Why do you seek my acquaintance?" I asked him. "You knowthat I hate and despise you."He chuckled good-humouredly."Your only quarrel with me really is that I don't care atwopenny damn what you think about me."I felt my cheeks grow red with sudden anger. It wasimpossible to make him understand that one might be outragedby his callous selfishness. I longed to pierce his armour ofcomplete indifference. I knew also that in the end there wastruth in what he said. Unconsciously, perhaps, we treasurethe power we have over people by their regard for our opinionof them, and we hate those upon whom we have no suchinfluence. I suppose it is the bitterest wound to humanpride. But I would not let him see that I was put out."Is it possible for any man to disregard others entirely?"I said, though more to myself than to him. "You're dependent onothers for everything in existence. It's a preposterousattempt to try to live only for yourself and by yourself.Sooner or later you'll be ill and tired and old, and thenyou'll crawl back into the herd. Won't you be ashamed whenyou feel in your heart the desire for comfort and sympathy?You're trying an impossible thing. Sooner or later the humanbeing in you will yearn for the common bonds of humanity.""Come and look at my pictures.""Have you ever thought of death?""Why should I? It doesn't matter."I stared at him. He stood before me, motionless, with amocking smile in his eyes; but for all that, for a moment Ihad an inkling of a fiery, tortured spirit, aiming atsomething greater than could be conceived by anything that wasbound up with the flesh. I had a fleeting glimpse of apursuit of the ineffable. I looked at the man before me inhis shabby clothes, with his great nose and shining eyes, hisred beard and untidy hair; and I had a strange sensation thatit was only an envelope, and I was in the presence of adisembodied spirit."Let us go and look at your pictures," I said.