Chapter XXII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　I settled down in Paris and began to write a play. I led avery regular life, working in the morning, and in theafternoon lounging about the gardens of the Luxembourg orsauntering through the streets. I spent long hours in theLouvre, the most friendly of all galleries and the mostconvenient for meditation; or idled on the quays, fingeringsecond-hand books that I never meant to buy. I read a pagehere and there, and made acquaintance with a great manyauthors whom I was content to know thus desultorily. In theevenings I went to see my friends. I looked in often on theStroeves, and sometimes shared their modest fare. DirkStroeve flattered himself on his skill in cooking Italiandishes, and I confess that his spaghetti were very muchbetter than his pictures. It was a dinner for a King when hebrought in a huge dish of it, succulent with tomatoes, and weate it together with the good household bread and a bottle ofred wine. I grew more intimate with Blanche Stroeve, and Ithink, because I was English and she knew few English people,she was glad to see me. She was pleasant and simple, but sheremained always rather silent, and I knew not why, gave me theimpression that she was concealing something. But I thought thatwas perhaps no more than a natural reserve accentuated by theverbose frankness of her husband. Dirk never concealed anything.He discussed the most intimate matters with a completelack of self-consciousness. Sometimes he embarrassedhis wife, and the only time I saw her put out of countenancewas when he insisted on telling me that he had taken a purge,and went into somewhat realistic details on the subject.The perfect seriousness with which he narrated hismisfortunes convulsed me with laughter, and this added toMrs. Stroeve's irritation."You seem to like making a fool of yourself," she said.His round eyes grew rounder still, and his brow puckered indismay as he saw that she was angry."Sweetheart, have I vexed you? I'll never take another.It was only because I was bilious. I lead a sedentary life.I don't take enough exercise. For three days I hadn't ...""For goodness sake, hold your tongue," she interrupted, tearsof annoyance in her eyes.His face fell, and he pouted his lips like a scolded child.He gave me a look of appeal, so that I might put things right,but, unable to control myself, I shook with helpless laughter.We went one day to the picture-dealer in whose shop Stroevethought he could show me at least two or three of Strickland'spictures, but when we arrived were told that Stricklandhimself had taken them away. The dealer did not know why."But don't imagine to yourself that I make myself bad blood onthat account. I took them to oblige Monsieur Stroeve, and Isaid I would sell them if I could. But really --" Heshrugged his shoulders. "I'm interested in the young men, butvoyons, you yourself, Monsieur Stroeve, you don't thinkthere's any talent there.""I give you my word of honour, there's no one painting to-dayin whose talent I am more convinced. Take my word for it,you are missing a good affair. Some day those pictures will beworth more than all you have in your shop. Remember Monet,who could not get anyone to buy his pictures for a hundred francs.What are they worth now?""True. But there were a hundred as good painters as Monet whocouldn't sell their pictures at that time, and their picturesare worth nothing still. How can one tell? Is merit enough tobring success? Don't believe it. Du reste, it has stillto be proved that this friend of yours has merit. No oneclaims it for him but Monsieur Stroeve.""And how, then, will you recognise merit?" asked Dirk, red inthe face with anger."There is only one way -- by success.""Philistine," cried Dirk."But think of the great artists of the past -- Raphael,Michael Angelo, Ingres, Delacroix -- they were all successful.""Let us go," said Stroeve to me, "or I shall kill this man."