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a spare old man； his hands gnarled after the work of a lifetime； silent and
upright； in the evening he read the paper aloud； while his wife and
daughter （now married to the captain of a fishing smack）； unwilling to lose
a moment； bent over their sewing。 Nothing ever happened in that little
town； left behind by the advance of civilisation； and one year followed the
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next till death came； like a friend； to give rest to those who had laboured
so diligently。
〃My father wished me to become a carpenter like himself。 For five
generations we've carried on the same trade； from father to son。 Perhaps
that is the wisdom of life； to tread in your father's steps； and look neither
to the right nor to the left。 When I was a little boy I said I would marry the
daughter of the harness…maker who lived next door。 She was a little girl
with blue eyes and a flaxen pigtail。 She would have kept my house like a
new pin； and I should have had a son to carry on the business after me。〃
Stroeve sighed a little and was silent。 His thoughts dwelt among
pictures of what might have been； and the safety of the life he had refused
filled him with longing。
〃The world is hard and cruel。 We are here none knows why； and we
go none knows whither。 We must be very humble。 We must see the
beauty of quietness。 We must go through life so inconspicuously that
Fate does not notice us。 And let us seek the love of simple； ignorant
people。 Their ignorance is better than all our knowledge。 Let us be
silent； content in our little corner； meek and gentle like them。 That is the
wisdom of life。〃
To me it was his broken spirit that expressed itself； and I rebelled
against his renunciation。 But I kept my own counsel。
〃What made you think of being a painter？〃 I asked。
He shrugged his shoulders。
〃It happened that I had a knack for drawing。 I got prizes for it at
school。 My poor mother was very proud of my gift； and she gave me a
box of water…colours as a present。 She showed my sketches to the pastor
and the doctor and the judge。 And they sent me to Amsterdam to try for a
scholarship； and I won it。 Poor soul； she was so proud； and though it
nearly broke her heart to part from me； she smiled； and would not show
me her grief。 She was pleased that her son should be an artist。 They
pinched and saved so that I should have enough to live on； and when my
first picture was exhibited they came to Amsterdam to see it； my father
and mother and my sister； and my mother cried when she looked at it。〃
His kind eyes glistened。 〃And now on every wall of the old house there is
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one of my pictures in a beautiful gold frame。〃
He glowed with happy pride。 I thought of those cold scenes of his；
with their picturesque peasants and cypresses and olive…trees。 They must
look queer in their garish frames on the walls of the peasant house。
〃The dear soul thought she was doing a wonderful thing for me when
she made me an artist； but perhaps； after all； it would have been better for
me if my father's will had prevailed and I were now but an honest
carpenter。〃
〃Now that you know what art can offer； would you change your life？
Would you have missed all the delight it has given you？〃
〃Art is the greatest thing in the world；〃 he answered； after a pause。
He looked at me for a minute reflectively； he seemed to hesitate； then
he said：
〃Did you know that I had been to see Strickland？〃
〃You？〃
I was astonished。 I should have thought he could not bear to set eyes
on him。 Stroeve smiled faintly。
〃You know already that I have no proper pride。〃
〃What do you mean by that？〃
He told me a singular story。
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Chapter XXXIX
When I left him； after we had buried poor Blanche； Stroeve walked
into the house with a heavy heart。 Something impelled him to go to the
studio； some obscure desire for self…torture； and yet he dreaded the
anguish that he foresaw。 He dragged himself up the stairs； his feet
seemed unwilling to carry him； and outside the door he lingered for a long
time； trying to summon up courage to go in。 He felt horribly sick。 He
had an impulse to run down the stairs after me and beg me to go in with
him； he had a feeling that there was somebody in the studio。 He
remembered how often he had waited for a minute or two on the landing
to get his breath after the ascent； and how absurdly his impatience to see
Blanche had taken it away again。 To see her was a delight that never staled；
and even though he had not been out an hour he was as excited at the
prospect as if they had been parted for a month。 Suddenly he could not
believe that she was dead。 What had happened could only be a dream； a
frightful dream； and when he turned the key and opened the door； he
would see her bending slightly over the table in the gracious attitude of the
woman in Chardin's ； which always seemed to him so
exquisite。 Hurriedly he took the key out of his pocket； opened； and walked
in。
The apartment had no look of desertion。 His wife's tidiness was one
of the traits which had so much pleased him； his own upbringing had
given him a tender sympathy for the delight in orderliness； and when he
had seen her instinctive desire to put each thing in its appointed place it
had given him a little warm feeling in his heart。 The bedroom looked as
though she had just left it： the brushes were neatly placed on the toilet…
table； one on each side of the comb； someone had smoothed down the bed
on which she had spent her last night in the studio； and her nightdress in a
little case lay on the pillow。 It was impossible to believe that she would
never come into that room again。
But he felt thirsty； and went into the kitchen to get himself some water。
Here； too； was order。 On a rack were the plates that she had used for
dinner on the night of her quarrel with Strickland； and they had been
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carefully washed。 The knives and forks were put away in a drawer。
Under a cover were the remains of a piece of cheese； and in a tin box was
a crust of bread。 She had done her marketing from day to day； buying
only what was strictly needful； so that nothing was left over from one day
to the next。 Stroeve knew from the enquiries made by the police that
Strickland had walked out of the house immediately after dinner； and the
fact that Blanche had washed up the things as usual gave him a little thrill
of horror。 Her methodicalness made her suicide more deliberate。 Her self…
possession was frightening。 A sudden pang seized him； and his knees felt
so weak that he almost fell。 He went back into the bedroom and threw
himself on the bed。 He cried out her name。
〃Blanche。 Blanche。〃
The thought of her suffering was intolerable。 He had a sudden vision
of her standing in the kitchen it was hardly larger than a cupboard
washing the plates and glasses； the forks and spoons； giving the knives a
rapid polish on the knife…board； and then putting everything away； giving
the sink a scrub； and hanging the dish…cloth up to dry it was there still； a
gray torn rag； then looking round to see that everything was clean and nice。
He saw her roll down her sleeves and remove her apron the apron hung
on a peg behind the door and take the bottle of oxalic acid and go with it
into the bedroom。
The agony of it drove him up from the bed and out of the room。 He
went into the s