the moon and sixpence(月球和六便士)-第15章
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would have found me an apartment himself； and lent me furniture did I
really mean that I had gone to the expense of buying it？ and he would
have helped me to move in。 He really looked upon it as unfriendly that I
had not given him the opportunity of making himself useful to me。
Meanwhile； Mrs。 Stroeve sat quietly mending her stockings； without
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talking； and she listened to all he said with a quiet smile on her lips。
〃So； you see； I'm married；〃 he said suddenly； 〃what do you think of
my wife？〃
He beamed at her； and settled his spectacles on the bridge of his nose。
The sweat made them constantly slip down。
〃What on earth do you expect me to say to that？〃 I laughed。
〃Really； Dirk；〃 put in Mrs。 Stroeve； smiling。
〃But isn't she wonderful？ I tell you； my boy； lose no time； get
married as soon as ever you can。 I'm the happiest man alive。 Look at her
sitting there。 Doesn't she make a picture？ Chardin； eh？ I've seen all the
most beautiful women in the world； I've never seen anyone more beautiful
than Madame Dirk Stroeve。〃
〃If you don't be quiet； Dirk； I shall go away。〃
； he said。
She flushed a little； embarrassed by the passion in his tone。 His letters
had told me that he was very much in love with his wife； and I saw that he
could hardly take his eyes off her。 I could not tell if she loved him。 Poor
pantaloon； he was not an object to excite love； but the smile in her eyes
was affectionate； and it was possible that her reserve concealed a very
deep feeling。 She was not the ravishing creature that his love…sick fancy
saw； but she had a grave comeliness。 She was rather tall； and her gray
dress； simple and quite well…cut； did not hide the fact that her figure was
beautiful。 It was a figure that might have appealed more to the sculptor
than to the costumier。 Her hair； brown and abundant； was plainly done；
her face was very pale； and her features were good without being
distinguished。 She had quiet gray eyes。 She just missed being beautiful；
and in missing it was not even pretty。 But when Stroeve spoke of
Chardin it was not without reason； and she reminded me curiously of that
pleasant housewife in her mob…cap and apron whom the great painter has
immortalised。 I could imagine her sedately busy among her pots and
pans； making a ritual of her household duties； so that they acquired a
moral significance； I did not suppose that she was clever or could ever be
amusing； but there was something in her grave intentness which excited
my interest。 Her reserve was not without mystery。 I wondered why she
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had married Dirk Stroeve。 Though she was English； I could not exactly
place her； and it was not obvious from what rank in society she sprang；
what had been her upbringing； or how she had lived before her marriage。
She was very silent； but when she spoke it was with a pleasant voice； and
her manners were natural。
I asked Stroeve if he was working。
〃Working？ I'm painting better than I've ever painted before。〃 We
sat in the studio； and he waved his hand to an unfinished picture on an
easel。 I gave a little start。 He was painting a group of Italian peasants；
in the costume of the Campagna； lounging on the steps of a Roman
church。
〃Is that what you're doing now？〃 I asked。
〃Yes。 I can get my models here just as well as in Rome。〃
〃Don't you think it's very beautiful？〃 said Mrs。 Stroeve。
〃This foolish wife of mine thinks I'm a great artist；〃 said he。
His apologetic laugh did not disguise the pleasure that he felt。 His eyes
lingered on his picture。 It was strange that his critical sense； so accurate
and unconventional when he dealt with the work of others； should be
satisfied in himself with what was hackneyed and vulgar beyond belief。
〃Show him some more of your pictures；〃 she said。
〃Shall I？〃
Though he had suffered so much from the ridicule of his friends； Dirk
Stroeve； eager for praise and naively self…satisfied； could never resist
displaying his work。 He brought out a picture of two curly…headed
Italian urchins playing marbles。
〃Aren't they sweet？〃 said Mrs。 Stroeve。
And then he showed me more。 I discovered that in Paris he had been
painting just the same stale； obviously picturesque things that he had
painted for years in Rome。 It was all false； insincere； shoddy； and yet no
one was more honest； sincere； and frank than Dirk Stroeve。 Who could
resolve the contradiction？
I do not know what put it into my head to ask：
〃I say； have you by any chance run across a painter called Charles
Strickland？〃
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〃You don't mean to say you know him？〃 cried Stroeve。
〃Beast；〃 said his wife。
Stroeve laughed。
He went over to her and kissed both her
hands。 〃She doesn't like him。 How strange that you should know
Strickland！〃
〃I don't like bad manners；〃 said Mrs。 Stroeve。
Dirk； laughing still； turned to me to explain。
〃You see； I asked him to come here one day and look at my pictures。
Well； he came； and I showed him everything I had。〃 Stroeve hesitated a
moment with embarrassment。 I do not know why he had begun the story
against himself； he felt an awkwardness at finishing it。 〃He looked at
at my pictures； and he didn't say anything。 I thought he was reserving his
judgment till the end。 And at last I said： ‘There； that's the lot！' He said：
‘I came to ask you to lend me twenty francs。'〃
〃And Dirk actually gave it him；〃 said his wife indignantly。
〃I was so taken aback。 I didn't like to refuse。 He put the money in
his pocket； just nodded； said 'Thanks；' and walked out。〃
Dirk Stroeve； telling the story； had such a look of blank astonishment
on his round； foolish face that it was almost impossible not to laugh。
〃I shouldn't have minded if he'd said my pictures were bad； but he said
nothing nothing。〃
〃And you tell the story； Dirk；〃 Said his wife。
It was lamentable that one was more amused by the ridiculous figure
cut by the Dutchman than outraged by Strickland's brutal treatment of him。
〃I hope I shall never see him again；〃 said Mrs。 Stroeve。
Stroeve smiled and shrugged his shoulders。 He had already
recovered his good…humour。
〃The fact remains that he's a great artist； a very great artist。〃
〃Strickland？〃 I exclaimed。 〃It can't be the same man。〃
〃A big fellow with a red beard。 Charles Strickland。 An Englishman。〃
〃He had no beard when I knew him； but if he has grown one it might
well be red。 The man I'm thinking of only began painting five years
ago。〃
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〃That's it。 He's a great artist。〃
〃Impossible。〃
〃Have I ever been mistaken？〃 Dirk asked me。 〃I tell you he has
genius。 I'm convinced of it。 In a hundred years； if you and I are
remembered at all； it will be because we knew Charles Strickland。〃
I was astonished； and at the same time I was very much excited。 I
remembered suddenly my last talk with him。
〃Where can one see his work？〃 I asked。 〃Is he having any success？
Where is he living？〃
〃No； he has no success。 I don't think he's ever sold a picture。 When
you speak to men about him they only laugh。 But I he's a great
artist。 After all； they laughed at Manet。 Corot never sold a picture。 I
don't know where he lives； but I can take you to see him。 He goes to a
cafe in the Avenue de Clichy at seven o'clock every evening。 If you like
we'll go there to…morrow。〃
〃I'm not sure if he'll wish to see me。 I think I may remind him of a
time he prefers to forget。 But I'll come all the same。 Is there any chance
of seeing any of his pictures？〃
〃Not from him。 He won't show you a thing。 There's a little dealer I
know who has two or three。 But you mustn't go without me； you
wouldn't understand。 I must show them to you myself。〃
〃Dirk； you make me impatient；〃 said Mrs。 Stroeve。 〃How can you
talk like that about his pictures when he treated you as he did？〃 She turned
to me。 〃Do you know； when some Dutch people came here to buy Dirk's
pictures he tried to persuade them to buy Strickland's？ He insisted on
bringing them here to show。〃
〃What did think of them？〃 I asked her； smiling。
〃They were awful。〃
〃Ah； sweetheart； you don't understand。〃
〃Well； your Dutch people were furious with you。 They thought you
were having a joke with them。〃
Dirk Stroeve took off his spectacles and wiped them。 His flushed
face was shining with excitement。
〃Why should you think that beauty； which is the most precious thing in
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the world； lies like a stone on the beach for the careless passer…by to pick
up idly？ Beauty is something wonderful and strange that the artist
fashions out of the chaos of the world in the torment of his soul。 And
when he has made it； it is not given to all to know it。 To recognize it you
must repeat the adventure of the artist。 It is a melody that he sings to you；
and to hear it again in your own heart
