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Chocoloats。》 To look at his pictures you would have thought that Monet；
Manet； and the rest of the Impressionists had never been。
〃I don't pretend to be a great painter；〃 he said； 〃I'm not a Michael
Angelo； no； but I have something。 I sell。 I bring romance into the
homes of all sorts of people。 Do you know； they buy my pictures not
only in Holland； but in Norway and Sweden and Denmark？ It's mostly
merchants who buy them； and rich tradesmen。 You can't imagine what
the winters are like in those countries； so long and dark and cold。 They
like to think that Italy is like my pictures。 That's what they expect。
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That's what I expected Italy to be before I came here。〃
And I think that was the vision that had remained with him always；
dazzling his eyes so that he could not see the truth； and notwithstanding
the brutality of fact； he continued to see with the eyes of the spirit an Italy
of romantic brigands and picturesque ruins。 It was an ideal that he
painted a poor one； common and shop…soiled； but still it was an ideal；
and it gave his character a peculiar charm。
It was because I felt this that Dirk Stroeve was not to me； as to others；
merely an object of ridicule。 His fellow…painters made no secret of their
contempt for his work； but he earned a fair amount of money； and they did
not hesitate to make free use of his purse。 He was generous； and the
needy； laughing at him because he believed so naively their stories of
distress； borrowed from him with effrontery。 He was very emotional； yet
his feeling； so easily aroused； had in it something absurd； so that you
accepted his kindness； but felt no gratitude。 To take money from him was
like robbing a child； and you despised him because he was so foolish。 I
imagine that a pickpocket； proud of his light fingers； must feel a sort of
indignation with the careless woman who leaves in a cab a vanity…bag with
all her jewels in it。 Nature had made him a butt； but had denied him
insensibility。 He writhed under the jokes； practical and otherwise； which
were perpetually made at his expense； and yet never ceased； it seemed
wilfully； to expose himself to them。 He was constantly wounded； and yet
his good… nature was such that he could not bear malice： the viper might
sting him； but he never learned by experience； and had no sooner
recovered from his pain than he tenderly placed it once more in his bosom。
His life was a tragedy written in the terms of knockabout farce。 Because
I did not laugh at him he was grateful to me； and he used to pour into my
sympathetic ear the long list of his troubles。 The saddest thing about
them was that they were grotesque； and the more pathetic they were； the
more you wanted to laugh。
But though so bad a painter； he had a very delicate feeling for art； and
to go with him to picture…galleries was a rare treat。 His enthusiasm was
sincere and his criticism acute。 He was catholic。 He had not only a true
appreciation of the old masters； but sympathy with the moderns。 He was
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quick to discover talent； and his praise was generous。 I think I have
never known a man whose judgment was surer。 And he was better
educated than most painters。 He was not； like most of them； ignorant of
kindred arts； and his taste for music and literature gave depth and variety
to his comprehension of painting。 To a young man like myself his advice
and guidance were of incomparable value。
When I left Rome I corresponded with him； and about once in two
months received from him long letters in queer English； which brought
before me vividly his spluttering； enthusiastic； gesticulating conversation。
Some time before I went to Paris he had married an Englishwoman； and
was now settled in a studio in Montmartre。 I had not seen him for four
years； and had never met his wife。
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Chapter XIX
I had not announced my arrival to Stroeve； and when I rang the bell
of his studio； on opening the door himself； for a moment he did not know
me。 Then he gave a cry of delighted surprise and drew me in。 It was
charming to be welcomed with so much eagerness。 His wife was seated
near the stove at her sewing； and she rose as I came in。 He introduced
me。
〃Don't you remember？〃 he said to her。 〃I've talked to you about him
often。〃 And then to me： 〃But why didn't you let me know you were
coming？ How long have you been here？ How long are you going to
stay？ Why didn't you come an hour earlier； and we would have dined
together？〃
He bombarded me with questions。 He sat me down in a chair； patting
me as though I were a cushion； pressed cigars upon me； cakes； wine。 He
could not let me alone。 He was heart…broken because he had no whisky；
wanted to make coffee for me； racked his brain for something he could
possibly do for me； and beamed and laughed； and in the exuberance of his
delight sweated at every pore。
〃You haven't changed；〃 I said； smiling； as I looked at him。
He had the same absurd appearance that I remembered。 He was a fat
little man； with short legs； young still he could not have been more than
thirty but prematurely bald。 His face was perfectly round； and he had a
very high colour； a white skin； red cheeks； and red lips。 His eyes were
blue and round too； he wore large gold…rimmed spectacles； and his
eyebrows were so fair that you could not see them。 He reminded you of
those jolly； fat merchants that Rubens painted。
When I told him that I meant to live in Paris for a while； and had taken
an apartment； he reproached me bitterly for not having let him know。 He
would have found me an apartment himself； and