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If I am rhetorical it is because Stroeve was rhetorical. He was like the mystic seeking to describe the ineffable. But one fact he made clear to me; people talk of beauty lightly, and having no feeling for words, they use that one carelessly, so that it loses its force; and the thing it stands for, sharing its name with a hundred trivial objects, is deprived of dignity.
Dirk Stroeve was one of those persons whom, according to your character, you cannot think of without derisive laughter or an embarrassed shrug of the shoulders. Nature had made him a buffoon. He was a painter, but a very bad one, whom I had met in Rome, and I still remembered his pictures. He had a genuine enthusiasm for the commonplace.
One morning, having come to a pause in my work, I thought I would give myself a holiday, and I went to the Louvre. I wandered about looking at the pictures I knew so well, and let my fancy play idly with the emotions they suggested. I sauntered into the long gallery, and there suddenly saw Stroeve.
Since I did not think a doctor could at the moment do any more than we had done, I consented. We found Blanche Stroeve laying the table for dinner. Dirk went up to her, and took both her hands. "Dear one, I want you to do something for me," he said. She looked at him with the grave cheerfulness which was one of her charms.
"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?"
I thought of the happy life that pair had led in the cosy studio in Montmartre, Stroeve and his wife, their simplicity, kindness, and hospitality; it seemed to me cruel that it should have been broken to pieces by a ruthless chance; but the cruellest thing of all was that in fact it made no great difference. The world went on, and no one was a penny the worse for all that wretchedness.
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.
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.
Stroeve stopped, gasping, and I thought he was going to faint. This was not at all the story I had expected him to tell me. "She was very pale, but she brought the paper and the string. He didn't say anything. He made the parcel and he whistled a tune. He took no notice of either of us. His eyes had an ironic smile in them. My heart was like lead.
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?
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