I settled down in Paris and began to write a play. I led a very regular
life, working in the morning, and in the afternoon lounging about the
gardens of the Luxembourg or sauntering through the streets. I spent
long hours in the Louvre, the most friendly of all galleries and the
most convenient for meditation; or idled on the quays, fingering
second-hand books that I never meant to buy. I read a page here and
there, and made acquaintance with a great many authors whom I was
content to know thus desultorily. In the evenings I went to see my
friends. I looked in often on the Stroeves, and sometimes shared their
modest fare. Dirk Stroeve flattered himself on his skill in cooking
Italian dishes, and I confess that his _spaghetti_ were very much
better than his pictures. It was a dinner for a King when he brought in
a huge dish of it, succulent with tomatoes, and we ate it together with
the good household bread and a bottle of red wine. I grew more intimate
with Blanche Stroeve, and I think, because I was English and she knew
few English people, she was glad to see me. She was pleasant and
simple, but she remained always rather silent, and I knew not why, gave
me the impression that she was concealing something. But I thought that
was perhaps no more than a natural reserve accentuated by the verbose
frankness of her husband. Dirk never concealed anything. He discussed
the most intimate matters with a complete lack of self-consciousness.
Sometimes he embarrassed his wife, and the only time I saw her put out
of countenance was when he insisted on telling me that he had taken a
purge, and went into somewhat realistic details on the subject. The
perfect seriousness with which he narrated his misfortunes convulsed me
with laughter, and this added to Mrs. Stroeve’s irritation.
“You seem to like making a fool of yourself,” she said.
His round eyes grew rounder still, and his brow puckered in dismay as
he saw that she was angry.
“Sweetheart, have I vexed you? I’ll never take another. It was only
because I was bilious. I lead a sedentary life. I don’t take enough
exercise. For three days I hadn’t ...”
“For goodness sake, hold your tongue,” she interrupted, tears of
annoyance in her eyes.
His face fell, and he pouted his lips like a scolded child. He gave me
a look of appeal, so that I might put things right, but, unable to
control myself, I shook with helpless laughter.
We went one day to the picture-dealer in whose shop Stroeve thought he
could show me at least two or three of Strickland’s pictures, but when
we arrived were told that Strickland himself had taken them away. The
dealer did not know why.
“But don’t imagine to yourself that I make myself bad blood on that
account. I took them to oblige Monsieur Stroeve, and I said I would
sell them if I could. But really—” He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m
interested in the young men, but _voyons_, you yourself, Monsieur
Stroeve, you don’t think there’s any talent there.”
“I give you my word of honour, there’s no one painting to-day in 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. _Du reste_, 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.”