Chapter XXIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　I saw Strickland not infrequently, and now and then playedchess with him. He was of uncertain temper. Sometimes hewould sit silent and abstracted, taking no notice of anyone;and at others, when he was in a good humour, he would talk inhis own halting way. He never said a clever thing, but he hada vein of brutal sarcasm which was not ineffective, and healways said exactly what he thought. He was indifferent tothe susceptibilities of others, and when he wounded them was amused.He was constantly offending Dirk Stroeve so bitterlythat he flung away, vowing he would never speak to him again;but there was a solid force in Strickland that attracted thefat Dutchman against his will, so that he came back, fawninglike a clumsy dog, though he knew that his only greeting wouldbe the blow he dreaded.I do not know why Strickland put up with me. Our relationswere peculiar. One day he asked me to lend him fifty francs."I wouldn't dream of it," I replied."Why not?""It wouldn't amuse me.""I'm frightfully hard up, you know.""I don't care.""You don't care if I starve?""Why on earth should I?" I asked in my turn.He looked at me for a minute or two, pulling his untidy beard.I smiled at him."What are you amused at?" he said, with a gleam of anger inhis eyes."You're so simple. You recognise no obligations. No one isunder any obligation to you.""Wouldn't it make you uncomfortable if I went and hangedmyself because I'd been turned out of my room as I couldn'tpay the rent?""Not a bit."He chuckled."You're bragging. If I really did you'd be overwhelmed withremorse.""Try it, and we'll see," I retorted.A smile flickered in his eyes, and he stirred his absinthe insilence."Would you like to play chess?" I asked."I don't mind."We set up the pieces, and when the board was ready heconsidered it with a comfortable eye. There is a sense ofsatisfaction in looking at your men all ready for the fray."Did you really think I'd lend you money?" I asked."I didn't see why you shouldn't.""You surprise me.""Why?""It's disappointing to find that at heart you are sentimental.I should have liked you better if you hadn't made thatingenuous appeal to my sympathies.""I should have despised you if you'd been moved by it," he answered."That's better," I laughed.We began to play. We were both absorbed in the game. When itwas finished I said to him:"Look here, if you're hard up, let me see your pictures.If there's anything I like I'll buy it.""Go to hell," he answered.He got up and was about to go away. I stopped him."You haven't paid for your absinthe," I said, smiling.He cursed me, flung down the money and left.I did not see him for several days after that, but oneevening, when I was sitting in the cafe, reading a paper,he came up and sat beside me."You haven't hanged yourself after all," I remarked."No. I've got a commission. I'm painting the portrait of aretired plumber for two hundred francs."[5][5] This picture, formerly in the possession of a wealthymanufacturer at Lille, who fled from that city on the approachof the Germans, is now in the National Gallery at Stockholm.The Swede is adept at the gentle pastime of fishing introubled waters."How did you manage that?""The woman where I get my bread recommended me. He'd told herhe was looking out for someone to paint him. I've got to giveher twenty francs.""What's he like?""Splendid. He's got a great red face like a leg of mutton,and on his right cheek there's an enormous mole with longhairs growing out of it."Strickland was in a good humour, and when Dirk Stroeve cameup and sat down with us he attacked him with ferocious banter.He showed a skill I should never have credited him with infinding the places where the unhappy Dutchman was mostsensitive. Strickland employed not the rapier of sarcasm butthe bludgeon of invective. The attack was so unprovoked thatStroeve, taken unawares, was defenceless. He reminded you ofa frightened sheep running aimlessly hither and thither.He was startled and amazed. At last the tears ran from his eyes.And the worst of it was that, though you hated Strickland,and the exhibition was horrible, it was impossible not to laugh.Dirk Stroeve was one of those unlucky persons whose mostsincere emotions are ridiculous.But after all when I look back upon that winter in Paris,my pleasantest recollection is of Dirk Stroeve. There wassomething very charming in his little household. He and hiswife made a picture which the imagination gratefully dweltupon, and the simplicity of his love for her had a deliberate grace.He remained absurd, but the sincerity of his passionexcited one's sympathy. I could understand how his wife mustfeel for him, and I was glad that her affection was so tender.If she had any sense of humour, it must amuse her that heshould place her on a pedestal and worship her with such anhonest idolatry, but even while she laughed she must have beenpleased and touched. He was the constant lover, and thoughshe grew old, losing her rounded lines and her faircomeliness, to him she would certainly never alter.To him she would always be the loveliest woman in the world.There was a pleasing grace in the orderliness of their lives.They had but the studio, a bedroom, and a tiny kitchen.Mrs. Stroeve did all the housework herself; and while Dirk paintedbad pictures, she went marketing, cooked the luncheon, sewed,occupied herself like a busy ant all the day; and in theevening sat in the studio, sewing again, while Dirk playedmusic which I am sure was far beyond her comprehension.He played with taste, but with more feeling than was alwaysjustified, and into his music poured all his honest,sentimental, exuberant soul.Their life in its own way was an idyl, and it managed toachieve a singular beauty. The absurdity that clung toeverything connected with Dirk Stroeve gave it a curious note,like an unresolved discord, but made it somehow more modern,more human; like a rough joke thrown into a serious scene,it heightened the poignancy which all beauty has.