Chapter 24 twenty four

Shortly before Christmas, Dirk Stroeve invited me to spend the holidays with them.Christmas always made him a little sentimental (it was also a feature of his character), and he wished to celebrate it with a few friends and according to the proper etiquette.Neither of us had seen Strickland for two or three weeks; I was busy with some friends who were in Paris for a short stay, and Stroeve had a big row with him last time. Determined not to associate with him.Strickland was so unsophisticated that he swore he would never speak to him again.But when the festival came, Stroeve softened again, and said that he could not leave Strickland alone at home.He thought that Strickland's frame of mind must have been the same as his own, and that it was intolerable to have the painter in his solitude on a day when men were supposed to love one another.He's got a Christmas tree set up in his studio, and I guess we're all going to find a ridiculous little gift among the dotted branches.But he was a little ashamed to go to Strickland; it would be dishonorable to forgive the humiliating insult so easily, and though he was determined to reconcile with Strickland, he hoped that when he offered to visit him, I was there too.

We walked together to the Rue Clicher, but Strickland was not in the café.It was so cold that it was no longer possible to sit outside.We went inside and sat down on the leather chairs.The room was hot and stuffy, and the air was gray with smoke.Strickland was not in the room, but we soon spotted the French painter with whom he occasionally played chess.I also had a little interaction with him, and he sat down at our table.Stroeve asked him if he had seen Strickland. "He's sick," he said. "Haven't you heard?" "Is it great?" "I heard it's great."

Stroeve turned pale. "Why didn't he write and tell me? Why, what am I arguing with him for? We must go and see him right away. He's unattended. Where does he live?" "I can't tell," said the Frenchman. We found that no one knew where to find him.Stroeve was getting more and more sad. "Maybe he's dead, and no one knows about him. It's terrible. I can't bear it. We must find him right away." I wanted to make Stroeve understand the absurdity of finding someone in Paris, which is like an ocean.We must first have a plan. "Yes. But maybe while we're trying, he's dying, and by the time we find him, it'll be too late."

"Sit quietly for a while and think about what to do," I said impatiently. The only address I know is the Belgian Hotel, but Strickland has long since moved out of that place and no one there will remember him.His whereabouts were secretive, and he was unwilling to let others know his address; when he moved out, he probably did not leave his address.Besides, this was five years ago.But I'm sure he doesn't live too far away.Since he came to this café when he was staying at the Belgian Hotel and never changed his place, it must be because it was so convenient for him.Suddenly I remembered that a shop where he often went to buy bread had introduced him to draw a portrait, maybe the bakery would know his address.I ordered a phone book and started looking for bakeries in the area.I found five in total, and the only way was to inquire one by one.Stroeve followed me unwillingly.He had planned to run up and down the streets that adjoined the Rue de Crischer, and inquire about any boarding house he came across.As it turned out, my mundane plan worked.The second bakery we walked into, a woman behind the counter said she knew him.She didn't quite know where he lived, but it must be one of the three buildings opposite.As luck would have it, the porter on the first building told us we could find him on the top floor.

"He may be ill," said Stroeve. "Perhaps so," said the porter coldly. "As a matter of fact, I haven't seen him for a few days." Stroeve ran up the stairs ahead of me, and by the time I reached the top floor he had knocked on the door of a room and was talking to a workman in his shirt.The man pointed to another door.He believed the man who lived there was a painter.He hadn't seen him for a week.Stroeve was about to knock at the door, but then turned back and made a sign to me that he did not know what to do.I found him terribly frightened. "What if he's dead?"

"He can't die," I said. I knocked on the door.No one answered.I turned the handle and the door wasn't locked.I went in, and Stroeve followed me.It was dark, and all I could tell was an attic with a sloping ceiling.A dim light came in from the skylight, not much brighter than the gloom of the room. "Strickland," I called. no answer.Everything was really mysterious, and Stroeve stood close behind me, and it seemed to me that he was trembling.I hesitated for a while, whether to strike a match.In the dimness, I saw a bed in the corner. I wondered if the light would allow me to see a dead body lying on the bed.

"Have you no matches, you fool?" I was startled by Strickland's scolding voice from the darkness. Stroeve cried out. "Oh, God, I thought you were dead." I struck a match and looked around for candles.All of a sudden, what I saw was a very small room, half house, half studio. There was only one bed in the room. Facing the wall were some picture frames, an easel, a table and a chair. .The floor was bare with no carpet.There is no stove in the room.The table was littered with paint bottles, palette knives, and miscellaneous things, and in the midst of this mess I found half a candle stub.I put it on.Strickland was lying uncomfortably on the bed, which was evidently too small for him.For warmth, he was covered with clothes.It was obvious at a glance that he was running a high fever.Stroeve went up to the bed, hoarse from emotion.

"Oh, poor friend, what's the matter with you? I had no idea you were sick. Why didn't you tell me? You know I would do anything for you. Do you care what I say? That's not what I mean .I was wrong. I should not be mad at you." "Go to hell!" said Strickland. "Don't be unreasonable, will you? Let me make you comfortable. Is there no one to take care of you?" He looked around the dingy little attic, not knowing where to start.He adjusted Strickland's quilt.Strickland gasped for breath, suppressed his anger and said nothing.He gave me an annoyed look.I stood there silently, staring at him.

"If you want to do anything for me, go and buy me some milk," he said at last, "I can't go out for two days." Beside the bed was an empty milk bottle, and a newspaper with some crumbs on it. "What have you eaten?" "I didn't eat anything." "How long?" cried Stroeve. "You mean you haven't eaten or drank for two days? It's horrible." "I still have water to drink." His eyes rested for a moment on a large jug; it was within easy reach of his hand. "I'll go right away," said Stroeve. "Do you want anything else?"

I suggested buying him a thermos, some grapes, and bread.Stroeve, delighted at the opportunity of helping, thumped down the stairs. "Damn fool," grunted Strickland. I feel for his pulse.The pulse was fast and weak.I asked him a question or two and he didn't answer.When I pressed again, he turned his face away in anger, facing the wall.There was nothing else to do but wait in the house without saying a word.Ten minutes later, Stroeve came back out of breath.He bought candles, gravy, and a spirit lamp, besides what I proposed for him.He was a good man of business, and without delay for a moment, he boiled a glass of milk and soaked the bread in it.I took Strickland's temperature.It was one hundred and four degrees Fahrenheit, and he was clearly very ill.