Shortly before Christmas Dirk Stroeve came to ask me to spend the
holiday with him. He had a characteristic sentimentality about the day
and wanted to pass it among his friends with suitable ceremonies.
Neither of us had seen Strickland for two or three weeks—I because I
had been busy with friends who were spending a little while in Paris,
and Stroeve because, having quarreled with him more violently than
usual, he had made up his mind to have nothing more to do with him.
Strickland was impossible, and he swore never to speak to him again.
But the season touched him with gentle feeling, and he hated the
thought of Strickland spending Christmas Day by himself; he ascribed
his own emotions to him, and could not bear that on an occasion given
up to good-fellowship the lonely painter should be abandoned to his own
melancholy. Stroeve had set up a Christmas-tree in his studio, and I
suspected that we should both find absurd little presents hanging on
its festive branches; but he was shy about seeing Strickland again; it
was a little humiliating to forgive so easily insults so outrageous,
and he wished me to be present at the reconciliation on which he was
determined.
We walked together down the Avenue de Clichy, but Strickland was not in
the café. It was too cold to sit outside, and we took our places on
leather benches within. It was hot and stuffy, and the air was gray
with smoke. Strickland did not come, but presently we saw the French
painter who occasionally played chess with him. I had formed a casual
acquaintance with him, and he sat down at our table. Stroeve asked him
if he had seen Strickland.
“He’s ill,” he said. “Didn’t you know?”
“Seriously?”
“Very, I understand.”
Stroeve’s face grew white.
“Why didn’t he write and tell me? How stupid of me to quarrel with him.
We must go to him at once. He can have no one to look after him. Where
does he live?”
“I have no idea,” said the Frenchman.
We discovered that none of us knew how to find him. Stroeve grew more
and more distressed.
“He might die, and not a soul would know anything about it. It’s
dreadful. I can’t bear the thought. We must find him at once.”
I tried to make Stroeve understand that it was absurd to hunt vaguely
about Paris. We must first think of some plan.
“Yes; but all this time he may be dying, and when we get there it may
be too late to do anything.”
“Sit still and let us think,” I said impatiently.
The only address I knew was the Hôtel des Belges, but Strickland had
long left that, and they would have no recollection of him. With that
queer idea of his to keep his whereabouts secret, it was unlikely that,
on leaving, he had said where he was going. Besides, it was more than
five years ago. I felt pretty sure that he had not moved far. If he
continued to frequent the same café as when he had stayed at the hotel,
it was probably because it was the most convenient. Suddenly I
remembered that he had got his commission to paint a portrait through
the baker from whom he bought his bread, and it struck me that there
one might find his address. I called for a directory and looked out the
bakers. There were five in the immediate neighbourhood, and the only
thing was to go to all of them. Stroeve accompanied me unwillingly. His
own plan was to run up and down the streets that led out of the Avenue
de Clichy and ask at every house if Strickland lived there. My
commonplace scheme was, after all, effective, for in the second shop we
asked at the woman behind the counter acknowledged that she knew him.
She was not certain where he lived, but it was in one of the three
houses opposite. Luck favoured us, and in the first we tried the
concierge told us that we should find him on the top floor.
“It appears that he’s ill,” said Stroeve.
“It may be,” answered the concierge indifferently. “_En effet_, I have
not seen him for several days.”
Stroeve ran up the stairs ahead of me, and when I reached the top floor
I found him talking to a workman in his shirt-sleeves who had opened a
door at which Stroeve had knocked. He pointed to another door. He
believed that the person who lived there was a painter. He had not seen
him for a week. Stroeve made as though he were about to knock, and then
turned to me with a gesture of helplessness. I saw that he was
panic-stricken.
“Supposing he’s dead?”
“Not he,” I said.
I knocked. There was no answer. I tried the handle, and found the door
unlocked. I walked in, and Stroeve followed me. The room was in
darkness. I could only see that it was an attic, with a sloping roof;
and a faint glimmer, no more than a less profound obscurity, came from
a skylight.
“Strickland,” I called.
There was no answer. It was really rather mysterious, and it seemed to
me that Stroeve, standing just behind, was trembling in his shoes. For
a moment I hesitated to strike a light. I dimly perceived a bed in the
corner, and I wondered whether the light would disclose lying on it a
dead body.
“Haven’t you got a match, you fool?”
Strickland’s voice, coming out of the darkness, harshly, made me start.
Stroeve cried out.
“Oh, my God, I thought you were dead.”
I struck a match, and looked about for a candle. I had a rapid glimpse
of a tiny apartment, half room, half studio, in which was nothing but a
bed, canvases with their faces to the wall, an easel, a table, and a
chair. There was no carpet on the floor. There was no fireplace. On the
table, crowded with paints, palette-knives, and litter of all kinds,
was the end of a candle. I lit it. Strickland was lying in the bed,
uncomfortably because it was too small for him, and he had put all his
clothes over him for warmth. It was obvious at a glance that he was in
a high fever. Stroeve, his voice cracking with emotion, went up to him.
“Oh, my poor friend, what is the matter with you? I had no idea you
were ill. Why didn’t you let me know? You must know I’d have done
anything in the world for you. Were you thinking of what I said? I
didn’t mean it. I was wrong. It was stupid of me to take offence.”
“Go to hell,” said Strickland.
“Now, be reasonable. Let me make you comfortable. Haven’t you anyone to
look after you?”
He looked round the squalid attic in dismay. He tried to arrange the
bed-clothes. Strickland, breathing laboriously, kept an angry silence.
He gave me a resentful glance. I stood quite quietly, looking at him.
“If you want to do something for me, you can get me some milk,” he said
at last. “I haven’t been able to get out for two days.” There was an
empty bottle by the side of the bed, which had contained milk, and in a
piece of newspaper a few crumbs.
“What have you been having?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“For how long?” cried Stroeve. “Do you mean to say you’ve had nothing
to eat or drink for two days? It’s horrible.”
“I’ve had water.”
His eyes dwelt for a moment on a large can within reach of an
outstretched arm.
“I’ll go immediately,” said Stroeve. “Is there anything you fancy?”
I suggested that he should get a thermometer, and a few grapes, and
some bread. Stroeve, glad to make himself useful, clattered down the
stairs.
“Damned fool,” muttered Strickland.
I felt his pulse. It was beating quickly and feebly. I asked him one or
two questions, but he would not answer, and when I pressed him he
turned his face irritably to the wall. The only thing was to wait in
silence. In ten minutes Stroeve, panting, came back. Besides what I had
suggested, he brought candles, and meat-juice, and a spirit-lamp. He
was a practical little fellow, and without delay set about making
bread-and-milk. I took Strickland’s temperature. It was a hundred and
four. He was obviously very ill.