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Blanche Stroeve stopped suddenly, and as hard as she could slapped her husband's face. She took advantage of his confusion to escape, and ran up the stairs to the studio. No word had passed her lips. When he told me this he put his hand to his cheek as though he still felt the smart of the blow, and in his eyes was a pain that was heartrending and an amazement that was ludicrous.
Strickland's injurious calm robbed Stroeve of the rest of his self-control. Blind rage seized him, and without knowing what he was doing he flung himself on Strickland. Strickland was taken by surprise and he staggered, but he was very strong, even after his illness, and in a moment, he did not exactly know how, Stroeve found himself on the floor. "You funny little man," said Strickland.
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 <i 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.
"You have no more spirit than a mongrel cur. You lie down on the ground and ask people to trample on you." Stroeve gave a little laugh. He thought he understood the reason of his wife's attitude. "Oh, my poor dear, you're thinking of that day he came here to look at my pictures. What does it matter if he didn't think them any good? It was stupid of me to show them to him.
"Oh, my dear one, don't refuse. I couldn't bear to leave him where he is. I shouldn't sleep a wink for thinking of him." "I have no objection to your nursing him." Her voice was cold and distant. "But he'll die." "Let him." Stroeve gave a little gasp. He wiped his face. He turned to me for support, but I did not know what to say. "He's a great artist." "What do I care? I hate him."
"Why did I always think your pictures beautiful, Dirk? I admired them the very first time I saw them." Stroeve's lips trembled a little. "Go to bed, my precious. I will walk a few steps with our friend, and then I will come back." Dirk Stroeve agreed to fetch me on the following evening and take me to the cafe at which Strickland was most likely to be found.
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.
I was puzzled by him, and I was eager to see how he regarded the tragedy he had caused in the lives of people who had used him with so much kindness. I applied the scalpel boldly. "Stroeve told me that picture you painted of his wife was the best thing you've ever done." Strickland took his pipe out of his mouth, and a smile lit up his eyes. "It was great fun to do." "Why did you give it him?"
Stroeve picked himself up. He noticed that his wife had remained perfectly still, and to be made ridiculous before her increased his humiliation. His spectacles had tumbled off in the struggle, and he could not immediately see them. She picked them up and silently handed them to him.
I begged Stroeve to behave more wisely. His want of spirit was exasperating. "You're doing no good at all by going on like this," I said. "I think you'd have been wiser if you'd hit her over the head with a stick. She wouldn't have despised you as she does now." I suggested that he should go home for a while.
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