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whose talent I am more convinced。 Take my word for it； you are missing
a good affair。 Some day those pictures will be worth 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 who
couldn't sell their pictures at that time； and their pictures are worth nothing
still。 How can one tell？ Is merit enough to bring success？ Don't believe
it。 ； it has still to be proved that this friend of yours has
merit。 No one claims it for him but Monsieur Stroeve。〃
〃And how； then； will you recognise merit？〃 asked Dirk； red in the 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。〃
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Chapter XXIII
I saw Strickland not infrequently； and now and then played chess
with him。 He was of uncertain temper。 Sometimes he would sit silent
and abstracted； taking no notice of anyone； and at others； when he was in a
good humour； he would talk in his own halting way。 He never said a
clever thing； but he had a vein of brutal sarcasm which was not ineffective；
and he always said exactly what he thought。 He was indifferent to the
susceptibilities of others； and when he wounded them was amused。 He
was constantly offending Dirk Stroeve so bitterly that he flung away；
vowing he would never speak to him again； but there was a solid force in
Strickland that attracted the fat Dutchman against his will； so that he came
back； fawning like a clumsy dog； though he knew that his only greeting
would be the blow he dreaded。
I do not know why Strickland put up with me。 Our relations were
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 in his eyes。
〃You're so simple。 You recognise no obligations。 No one is under
any obligation to you。〃
〃Wouldn't it make you uncomfortable if I went and hanged myself
because I'd been turned out of my room as I couldn't pay the rent？〃
〃Not a bit。〃
He chuckled。
〃You're bragging。 If I really did you'd be overwhelmed with
remorse。〃
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〃Try it； and we'll see；〃 I retorted。
A smile flickered in his eyes； and he stirred his absinthe in silence。
〃Would you like to play chess？〃 I asked。
〃I don't mind。〃
We set up the pieces； and when the board was ready he considered it
with a comfortable eye。 There is a sense of satisfaction 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 that ingenuous 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 it
was 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 one evening； 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 a retired
plumber for two hundred francs。〃＇5＇
＇5＇ This picture； formerly in the possession of a wealthy
manufacturer at Lille； who fled from that city on the approach of the
Germans； is now in the National Gallery at Stockholm。 The Swede is
adept at the gentle pastime of fishing in troubled waters。
〃How did you manage that？〃
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〃The woman where I get my bread recommended me。 He'd told her
he was looking out for someone to paint him。 I've got to give her 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 long hairs growing out of it。〃
Strickland was in a good humour； and when Dirk Stroeve came up
and sat down with us he attacked him with ferocious banter。 He showed a
skill I should never have credited him with in finding the places where the
unhappy Dutchman was most sensitive。 Strickland employed not the
rapier of sarcasm but the bludgeon of invective。 The attack was so
unprovoked that Stroeve； taken unawares； was defenceless。 He reminded
you of a 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 most sincere emotions are ridiculous。
But after all when I look back upon that winter in Paris； my pleasantest
recollection is of Dirk Stroeve。 There was something very charming in
his little household。 He and his wife made a picture which the
imagination gratefully dwelt upon； and the simplicity of his love for her
had a deliberate grace。 He remained absurd； but the sincerity of his passion
excited one's sympathy。 I could understand how his wife must feel for
him； and I was glad that her affection was so tender。 If she had any sense
of humour； it must amuse her that he should place her on a pedestal and
worship her with such an honest idolatry； but even while she laughed she
must have been pleased and touched。 He was the constant lover； and
though she grew old； losing her rounded lines and her fair comeliness； 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
painted bad pictures； she went marketing； cooked the luncheon； sewed；
occupied herself like a busy ant all the day； and in the evening sat in the
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studio； sewing again； while Dirk played music which I am sure was far
beyond her comprehension。 He played with taste； but with more feeling
than was always justified； and into his music poured all his honest；
sentimental； exuberant soul。
Their life in its own way was an idyl； and it managed to achieve a
singular beauty。 The absurdity that clung to everything connected with
Dirk Stroeve gave it a curious note； like an unresolved discord； but made it
somehow mo