Chapter 19 nineteen

I did not tell Stroeve beforehand that I was coming to Paris.I rang the bell, and it was Stroeve himself who opened the door, and for a moment he did not recognize me.But immediately he cried out in surprise and joy, and hastily dragged me into the house.It was a real pleasure to receive such a warm welcome.His wife, who was sitting at her needlework by the fire, rose when she saw me come in.Stroeve introduced me to her. "Do you remember?" he said to her, "I used to talk about him with you." Then he said to me: "But why didn't you tell me when you came to Paris? How long have you been in Paris? How long are you going to stay? Why don't you come an hour early so we can have dinner?"

He asked me a lot of questions.He made me sit on a chair, patted me like a cushion, made me smoke cigars, eat cake and drink.He never asked me to stop for a minute.He was devastated because there was no whiskey in the house.He was going to make me coffee and was racking his brains for what else to offer me.He was so happy that his face was blooming, and beads of sweat came out from every sweat pore. "You're still the same," I said with a smile as I looked him over. He looked just as I remembered him, and was still so funny.He was short and fat, with short legs.He was very young—thirty at the most—but bald.He had a round face, ruddy and fair skin, but his cheeks and lips were always flushed.His blue eyes were also round and round, and he wore large gold-rimmed glasses, and his eyebrows were so pale that they could hardly be seen.Seeing him, you can't help but think of those fat and friendly businessmen painted by Rubens.

When I told him that I was going to live in Paris for a while and that the apartment had already been rented, he reproached me vigorously for not consulting him first.He'd find me a suitable place to live, and he'd lend me furniture—did I really pay too much for it? ——, and he can also help me move.It seemed to him unfriended that I had not given him the opportunity to serve me, and he meant it.While he was talking to me, Mrs. Stroeve sat quietly mending her stockings.She didn't say anything herself, just listened to her husband talking with a serene smile on her lips. "You see, I'm married," he said suddenly, "what do you think of my wife?"

He looked at her with a smile on his face, putting his glasses on the bridge of his nose.Sweat kept sliding his glasses down. "How do you ask me to answer this question?" I laughed. "That's right, Dirk," Frau Stroeve interrupted, also smiling. "But don't you think she's too nice? I tell you, old friend, don't waste time, get married. I'm the happiest man in the world right now. Look at her sitting there, it's not a wonderful picture." A picture? Like a Chardin, huh? I have seen the most beautiful women in the world, but I have never seen one more beautiful than Madame Dirk Stroeve."

"If you stop talking, Dirk, I'll go out." "My little one," he said. A flush came over her face, and she was a little embarrassed by the enthusiasm in his tone.Stroeve had written to me how much he loved his wife, and I see now that he hardly took his eyes off her for a moment.I can't tell if she loves him or not.The poor fool, he is not a character to attract a woman's love.But there was affection in the smile in Frau Stroeve's eyes, and deep feelings might be concealed behind her silence.She is not the dazzling beauty in his lovesickness and admiration, but she has a dignified and beautiful demeanor.She was taller, and her beautiful figure could not be concealed by a suit of well-cut plain clothes.Her size may have appealed more to sculptors than to clothiers.Her thick brown hair is very simple, her complexion is fair, and her features are beautiful, but not glamorous.She was only a little short of a beauty, but just because she was a little short, she was not even beautiful.Stroeve did not speak casually of Chardin's painting, and her appearance is strangely reminiscent of the great painter's immortal pen—the lovely figure in the turban and apron. housewife.Closing my eyes, I can imagine her peacefully busy among the pots and pans, handling some housework like a ritual, giving these daily trivial matters a kind of sublime meaning.I didn't think she was very bright or funny, but her serious, focused look was interesting.There seemed to be some kind of mystery in her steady silence.I don't know why she married Dirk Stroeve.Although she is from my hometown, I can't figure out what kind of person she is.I couldn't tell what social class she was from, what education she had, or what kind of occupation she had been before her marriage.She doesn't talk much, but her voice is pleasant and her manners are very natural.

I asked Stroeve if he had painted anything lately. "Drawing? I'm better at drawing now than I've ever been." We were sitting in his studio; he waved at an unfinished work on the easel.I was taken aback.He painted a group of Italian peasants, dressed in Roman suburban costume, loitering on the steps of a Roman cathedral. "Is this the picture you are drawing now?" "Yes. I can find models here as well as in Rome." "Don't you think he is very beautiful?" asked Mrs. Stroeve. "My silly wife always thinks I'm a great painter," he said.

His apologetic laugh couldn't hide the joy in his heart.His gaze remained on his painting.It was a strange thing that he could be so accurate and unconventional in criticizing other people's paintings, but be so self-satisfied with his own banal and vulgar ones. "Show him your other paintings," she said. "Do people want to see it?" Although Dirk Stroeve was constantly ridiculed by his friends, he could never restrain himself from showing his paintings to others, hoping to hear praise from others, and his vanity was easily gratified .He first showed me a picture of two poor Italian boys with curly hair playing with a glass ball.

"What two wonderful children," Mrs. Stroeve praised. Then he brought out more pictures.I found out that he was painting in Paris the same old, gaudy pictures that he had painted for many years in Rome.These paintings are not at all real and artistically worthless, but there is no one in the world who is more honest and sincere than their author, Dirk Stroeve.Who can explain this contradiction? I don't know why I suddenly asked him: "Let me ask you, have you ever met a painter named Charles Strickland?" "You mean you know him too?" cried Stroeve. "This man is so ill-bred," said his wife.

Stroeve laughed. "My poor darling." He stepped in front of her and kissed both her hands. "She doesn't like him. It's strange that you know Strickland, too." "I don't like people who are not polite," said Mrs. Stroeve. Dirk's laughter didn't stop, he turned around and explained to me. "You know, once I asked him to look at my paintings. He came, and I showed him all my paintings." At this point, Stroeve hesitated for a while, a little embarrassed.I don't understand why he started telling such a disgraceful story; he doesn't know how to finish it. "He looked at—my paintings and didn't say a word. I thought he'd wait to see them all before commenting. Finally I said: 'That's all!' He said: 'I've come to ask You borrow twenty francs.'"

"Dirk actually gave him the money," his wife said angrily. "I was taken aback by what he said. I didn't want to say no to him. He put the money in his pocket, nodded at me, said 'thank you' and walked away." When the story was being told, Dirk Stroeve had such a look of bewilderment on his fat, foolish face that you couldn't help laughing. "I didn't care a bit if he said I couldn't draw well, but he didn't say anything—not a word." "You're kind of proud to tell that story, Dirk," said his wife. The sad thing is that whoever listens to this story is first amused by the droll character played by the Dutchman, and not offended by Strickland's rude behavior.

"I don't want to see this man again," said Mrs. Stroeve. Stroeve laughed and shrugged his shoulders.His good nature has returned. "Actually, he's a terrific painter, terrific." "Strickland?" I called. "We're not talking about one person." "That's the tall man with the red beard. Charles Strickland. An Englishman." "He didn't grow a beard when I knew him. But if he had one, it would probably be red. The man I'm talking about only started painting five years ago." "That's the man. He's a great painter." "impossible." "When did I miss it?" Dirk asked me. "I tell you he had genius. I'm sure of it. If a hundred years from now, if anyone remembers the two of us, it's because we got to know Charles Strickland." I was very surprised, but at the same time I was very excited.I suddenly remembered the last time I had talked to him. "Where can I see his work?" I asked. "Has he become famous? Where does he live now?" "No fame. I don't think he ever sold a picture. If you tell anyone about his pictures, they never fail to laugh at him. But I know he's a great painter. Didn't they laugh at Manet? Corot also never sold a picture. I don't know where he lives, but I can take you to find him. Every evening at seven o'clock he goes to a café on the Rue de Clicher. If you like , we can go tomorrow." "I don't know if he would like to see me. I'm afraid I'll remind him of a time he'd rather forget. But I think I'll have to go anyway. Is it possible to see something of him?" "You can't see it from him. He won't show you anything. I know a little dealer, and I've got two or three of his pictures. But if you go, be sure to let me accompany you; you won't understand." Yes. I must personally show you." "Dirk, you've got me impatient," said Mrs. Stroeve. "How can you talk about his paintings like that when he treats you like that?" She turned to me and said, "You know, some people come here to buy Dirk paintings, and he persuades them to buy Strickland's paintings." He's gotta get Strickland to take the picture here and show them." "What do you think of Strickland's paintings?" I asked her, smiling. "It's terrible." "Oh dear, you don't understand." "Well, those Dutch folks of yours are really mad. They think you're kidding them." Dirk Stroeve took off his glasses and wiped them.His flushed face shone with excitement. "Why do you think that beauty—the most precious treasure in the world—is like a stone on the beach, which a casual passer-by can pick up casually? Beauty is a wonderful, strange thing, and the artist can only see it through the soul. The torments of the universe are molded out of the chaos of the universe. Beauty is not created for everyone to recognize. To know it, one must repeat the adventures of the artist. He It is a beautiful melody that is sung to you, and to hear it again in your own heart requires knowledge, sensitivity, and imagination." "Why do I always think your paintings are beautiful, Dirk? I thought your paintings were amazing the first time I saw them." Stroeve's lips quivered for a moment. "Go to sleep, sweetie. I'm going to walk a few steps with my friend, and I'll be back in a minute."