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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.
He was constantly offending Dirk Stroeve so bitterly that he flung away, vowing he would never speak to him again; but there was a solid force in Strickland that attracted the fat Dutchman against his will, so that he came back, fawning like a clumsy dog, though he knew that his only greeting would be the blow he dreaded. I do not know why Strickland put up with me. Our relations were peculiar.
"After all, there's nothing to prove that she is unhappy. For all we know they may have settled down into a most domestic couple." Stroeve gave me a look with his woeful eyes. "Of course it doesn't much matter to you, but to me it's so serious, so intensely serious." I was sorry if I had seemed impatient or flippant. "Will you do something for me?" asked Stroeve. "Willingly."
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.
I followed them rather sulkily to the table at which Strickland always sat, and he called for the board and the chessmen. They both took the situation so much as a matter of course that I felt it absurd to do otherwise. Mrs. Stroeve watched the game with inscrutable face. She was silent, but she had always been silent.
"But why did you want to take her away with you?" I asked. "I didn't," he answered, frowning. "When she said she was coming I was nearly as surprised as Stroeve. I told her that when I'd had enough of her she'd have to go, and she said she'd risk that." He paused a little. "She had a wonderful body, and I wanted to paint a nude. When I'd finished my picture I took no more interest in her."
At last the tears ran from his eyes. And the worst of it was that, though you hated Strickland, and the exhibition was horrible, it was impossible not to laugh. Dirk Stroeve was one of those unlucky persons whose most sincere emotions are ridiculous. But after all when I look back upon that winter in Paris, my pleasantest recollection is of Dirk Stroeve.
I saw that his wife was on the verge of tears. "But it's not only because he's a genius that I ask you to let me bring him here; it's because he's a human being, and he is ill and poor." "I will never have him in my house never." Stroeve turned to me. "Tell her that it's a matter of life and death. It's impossible to leave him in that wretched hole."
You don't think I believe that I have it. I wish I had; but I know it when I see it, and I honour it with all my heart. It's the most wonderful thing in the world. It's a great burden to its possessors. We should be very tolerant with them, and very patient." I stood apart, somewhat embarrassed by the domestic scene, and wondered why Stroeve had insisted on my coming with him.
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?" "You don't mean to say you know him?" cried Stroeve. "Beast," said his wife. Stroeve laughed. <i "Ma pauvre cherie."> 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.
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