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rather than narrating such facts as I know of a curious personality； I should
have invented much to account for this change of heart。 I think I should
have shown a strong vocation in boyhood； crushed by the will of his father
or sacrificed to the necessity of earning a living； I should have pictured
him impatient of the restraints of life； and in the struggle between his
passion for art and the duties of his station I could have aroused sympathy
for him。 I should so have made him a more imposing figure。 Perhaps it
would have been possible to see in him a new Prometheus。 There was
here； maybe； the opportunity for a modern version of the hero who for the
good of mankind exposes himself to the agonies of the damned。 It is
always a moving subject。
On the other hand； I might have found his motives in the influence of
the married relation。 There are a dozen ways in which this might be
managed。 A latent gift might reveal itself on acquaintance with the
painters and writers whose society his wife sought； or domestic
incompatability might turn him upon himself； a love affair might fan into
bright flame a fire which I could have shown smouldering dimly in his
heart。 I think then I should have drawn Mrs。 Strickland quite differently。
I should have abandoned the facts and made her a nagging； tiresome
woman； or else a bigoted one with no sympathy for the claims of the spirit。
I should have made Strickland's marriage a long torment from which
escape was the only possible issue。 I think I should have emphasised his
patience with the unsuitable mate； and the compassion which made him
unwilling to throw off the yoke that oppressed him。 I should certainly have
eliminated the children。
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An effective story might also have been made by bringing him into
contact with some old painter whom the pressure of want or the desire for
commercial success had made false to the genius of his youth； and who；
seeing in Strickland the possibilities which himself had wasted； influenced
him to forsake all and follow the divine tyranny of art。 I think there
would have been something ironic in the picture of the successful old man；
rich and honoured； living in another the life which he； though knowing it
was the better part； had not had the strength to pursue。
The facts are much duller。 Strickland； a boy fresh from school； went
into a broker's office without any feeling of distaste。 Until he married he
led the ordinary life of his fellows； gambling mildly on the Exchange；
interested to the extent of a sovereign or two on the result of the Derby or
the Oxford and Cambridge Race。 I think he boxed a little in his spare
time。 On his chimney…piece he had photographs of Mrs。 Langtry and
Mary Anderson。 He read and the 。 He
went to dances in Hampstead。
It matters less that for so long I should have lost sight of him。 The
years during which he was struggling to acquire proficiency in a difficult
art were monotonous； and I do not know that there was anything
significant in the shifts to which he was put to earn enough money to keep
him。 An account of them would be an account of the things he had seen
happen to other people。 I do not think they had any effect on his own
character。 He must have acquired experiences which would form
abundant material for a picaresque novel of modern Paris； but he remained
aloof； and judging from his conversation there was nothing in those years
that had made a particular impression on him。 Perhaps when he went to
Paris he was too old to fall a victim to the glamour of his environment。
Strange as it may seem； he always appeared to me not only practical； but
immensely matter…of…fact。 I suppose his life during this period was
romantic； but he certainly saw no romance in it。 It may be that in order
to realise the romance of life you must have something of the actor in you；
and； capable of standing outside yourself； you must be able to watch your
actions with an interest at once detached and absorbed。 But no one was
more single…minded than Strickland。 I never knew anyone who was less
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self…conscious。 But it is unfortunate that I can give no description of the
arduous steps by which he reached such mastery over his art as he ever
acquired； for if I could show him undaunted by failure； by an unceasing
effort of courage holding despair at bay； doggedly persistent in the face of
self…doubt； which is the artist's bitterest enemy； I might excite some
sympathy for a personality which； I am all too conscious； must appear
singularly devoid of charm。 But I have nothing to go on。 I never once
saw Strickland at work； nor do I know that anyone else did。 He kept the
secret of his struggles to himself。 If in the loneliness of his studio he
wrestled desperately with the Angel of the Lord he never allowed a soul to
divine his anguish。
When I come to his connection with Blanche Stroeve I am exasperated
by the fragmentariness of the facts at my disposal。 To give my story
coherence I should describe the progress of their tragic union； but I know
nothing of the three months during which they lived together。 I do not
know how they got on or what they talked about。 After all； there are
twenty…four hours in the day； and the summits of emotion can only be
reached at rare intervals。 I can only imagine how they passed the rest of
the time。 While the light lasted and so long as Blanche's strength
endured； I suppose that Strickland painted； and it must have irritated her
when she saw him absorbed in his work。 As a mistress she did not then
exist for him； but only as a model； and then there were long hours in
which they lived side by side in silence。 It must have frightened her。
When Strickland suggested that in her surrender to him there was a sense
of triumph over Dirk Stroeve； because he had come to her help in her
extremity； he opened the door to many a dark conjecture。 I hope it was
not true。 It seems to me rather horrible。 But who can fathom the
subtleties of the human heart？ Certainly not those who expect from it only
decorous sentiments and normal emotions。 When Blanche saw that；
notwithstanding his moments of passion； Strickland remained aloof； she
must have been filled with dismay； and even in those moments I surmise
that she realised that to him she was not an individual； but an instrument
of pleasure； he was a stranger still； and she tried to bind him to herself
with pathetic arts。 She strove to ensnare him with comfort and would not
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see that comfort meant nothing to him。 She was at pains to get him the
things to eat that he liked； and would not see that he was indifferent to
food。 She was afraid to leave him alone。 She pursued him with
attentions； and when his passion was dormant sought to excite it； for then
at least she had the illusion of holding him。 Perhaps she knew with her
intelligence that the chains she forged only aroused his instinct of
destruction； as the plate…glass window makes your fingers itch for half a
brick； but her heart； incapable of reason； made her continue on a course
she knew was fatal。 She must have been very unhappy。 But the
blindness of love led her to believe what she wanted