Chapter 38 thirty eight

I didn't see him again for almost a week.He came to see me one night just after seven and asked me out to dinner.He was well dressed, his bowler hat was fastened with a wide black band, and even the handkerchief he used was trimmed with black.His mourning clothes showed that in a disaster he had lost all relatives in the world, even his cousins ​​and distant relatives.His fat body, red and plump cheeks did not match the filial piety on his body.God is really cruel, to let his infinite sorrow and misery have some kind of ridiculous elements. He told me that he had made up his mind to go abroad, not to Italy, as I suggested, but to Holland.

"I'm leaving tomorrow. This may be the last time we'll see each other." I said an appropriate answer, and he smiled forcedly. "I haven't been back to my hometown for five years. I think I've forgotten about my family. I seem to be so far away from my ancestral home that I don't even feel ashamed to go back and visit it. But now I feel like it's the only one I have. shelter." Stroeve was now covered in bruises, and his thoughts led him back to seek the comfort of a loving mother.The teasing and ridicule he had endured for so many years seemed to overwhelm him now, and Blanche's betrayal of him had dealt him the final blow, and he had lost the resilience to bear the ridicule with a smile on his face.He could no longer laugh out loud with those who laughed at him.He has become an outcast from society.He told me about his childhood spent in a tidy brick house.His mother had a tidy nature, and it was a miracle that the kitchen was clean and shiny.The pots and pans were neatly put away, not a single speck of dust could be found anywhere.To tell the truth, his mother's love of cleanliness was a little too much.I seemed to see a neat little old lady with red and white cheeks, who kept her hands and feet busy from morning to night, worked hard all her life, and kept the house in perfect order and spotless.Stroeve's father was a thin old man with knuckles knuckles from work all his life, silent and honest.After dinner he read the newspaper aloud while his wife and daughter (now married to a small fishing boat captain) cherished the time and buried themselves in their needlework.Civilization is changing day by day, but this small town seems to be left behind, and nothing will ever happen, so year after year, until death finally comes, like an old friend, bringing eternal rest to those who have worked hard all their lives .

"My father wanted me to be a carpenter like him. Five generations of our family have been in this industry, and it has always been passed down from generation to generation. Maybe this is the wisdom of life-to walk in the footsteps of my father forever, I neither looked left nor right. When I was young, I told people that I would marry the daughter of the harness maker next door. She was a little girl with blue eyes and flaxen hair in a pigtail. If the same When this person is married, she will also keep my house in order and give me a child to take over my business." Stroeve sighed softly and was silent for a while.His thoughts lingered on these possible scenarios, and he was infinitely attached to this safe and stable life that he voluntarily gave up.

"The world is merciless and cruel. No one knows why we were born, and no one knows where we go when we die. We must humble ourselves. We must see the beauty of solitude. In life we Let us not be in the limelight, or show off, and draw the attention of fate to us. Let us seek the love of those who are simple and honest. Their ignorance is far more valuable than our knowledge. Let us keep silent and be content with our little Heaven and earth, be as gentle and docile as they are. This is the wisdom of life." This remark sounds to me like a confession of his depression, and I don't agree with his self-defeating attitude.But I also don't want to argue with him and preach my purpose in life.

"What reminds you of being a painter?" I asked him. He shrugged. "I happen to have a talent for drawing. I won prizes for drawing at school. My poor mother was so proud of my talent that she bought me a box of water-colours. She also brought my pictures to Priests, doctors, and judges. Then they sent me to Amsterdam to see if I could get a scholarship to go to university. I did. Poor mother, she was very proud. Although she was very sad to be separated from me , she still forced a smile so that I wouldn't see her sadness. She was very happy that her son could become an artist. The old couple lived frugally so that I could maintain my life. When my first painting When I participated in the exhibition, they came to Amsterdam to see, my father, mother and sister all came. My mother saw my pictures and shed tears." Speaking of this, Stroeve's own eyes Also hung up the tears. "Now the walls of the house in my hometown are hung with my paintings one by one, set in beautiful gold frames."

One of his faces shone with blissful pride.I thought again of the lifeless scenes he had painted, the peasants in bright colors, the cypress trees, the olive trees and all.How nondescript are these pictures, in their rich gold frames, on the wall of a cottage! "My poor mother thought she had done a great thing in making me an artist, but perhaps if my father's ideas had been carried out, I would be nothing more than a good carpenter now, which would be much better for me. better." "Now that you know what art can do to people. Are you willing to change your life? Are you willing to give up all those pleasures that art gives you?"

"Art is the greatest thing in the world." He pondered for a moment and said. He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, as if he couldn't make up his mind about something.Finally, he opened his mouth and said: "Did you know I went to see Strickland?" "you?" I was taken aback.I thought he hated him so much that he would never see him.A smile crept onto Stroeve's face. "You already know that I have no self-respect." "What do you mean by that?" He told me a strange story.