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recollection is of Dirk Stroeve。 There was something very charming in
his little household。 He and his wife made a picture which the
imagination gratefully dwelt upon； and the simplicity of his love for her
had a deliberate grace。 He remained absurd； but the sincerity of his passion
excited one's sympathy。 I could understand how his wife must feel for
him； and I was glad that her affection was so tender。 If she had any sense
of humour； it must amuse her that he should place her on a pedestal and
worship her with such an honest idolatry； but even while she laughed she
must have been pleased and touched。 He was the constant lover； and
though she grew old； losing her rounded lines and her fair comeliness； to
him she would certainly never alter。 To him she would always be the
loveliest woman in the world。 There was a pleasing grace in the
orderliness of their lives。 They had but the studio； a bedroom； and a tiny
kitchen。 Mrs。 Stroeve did all the housework herself； and while Dirk
painted bad pictures； she went marketing； cooked the luncheon； sewed；
occupied herself like a busy ant all the day； and in the evening sat in the
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studio； sewing again； while Dirk played music which I am sure was far
beyond her comprehension。 He played with taste； but with more feeling
than was always justified； and into his music poured all his honest；
sentimental； exuberant soul。
Their life in its own way was an idyl； and it managed to achieve a
singular beauty。 The absurdity that clung to everything connected with
Dirk Stroeve gave it a curious note； like an unresolved discord； but made it
somehow more modern； more human； like a rough joke thrown into a
serious scene； it heightened the poignancy which all beauty has。
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Chapter XXIV
Shortly before Christmas Dirk Stroeve came to ask me to spend the
holiday with him。 He had a characteristic sentimentality about the day
and wanted to pass it among his friends with suitable ceremonies。
Neither of us had seen Strickland for two or three weeks I because I had
been busy with friends who were spending a little while in Paris； and
Stroeve because； having quarreled with him more violently than usual； he
had made up his mind to have nothing more to do with him。 Strickland
was impossible； and he swore never to speak to him again。 But the season
touched him with gentle feeling； and he hated the thought of Strickland
spending Christmas Day by himself； he ascribed his own emotions to him；
and could not bear that on an occasion given up to good…fellowship the
lonely painter should be abandoned to his own melancholy。 Stroeve had
set up a Christmas…tree in his studio； and I suspected that we should both
find absurd little presents hanging on its festive branches； but he was shy
about seeing Strickland again； it was a little humiliating to forgive so
easily insults so outrageous； and he wished me to be present at the
reconciliation on which he was determined。
We walked together down the Avenue de Clichy； but Strickland was
not in the cafe。 It was too cold to sit outside； and we took our places on
leather benches within。 It was hot and stuffy； and the air was gray with
smoke。 Strickland did not come； but presently we saw the French painter
who occasionally played chess with him。 I had formed a casual
acquaintance with him； and he sat down at our table。 Stroeve asked him
if he had seen Strickland。
〃He's ill；〃 he said。 〃Didn't you know？〃
〃Seriously？〃
〃Very； I understand。〃
Stroeve's face grew white。
〃Why didn't he write and tell me？ How stupid of me to quarrel with
him。 We must go to him at once。 He can have no one to look after him。
Where does he live？〃
〃I have no idea；〃 said the Frenchman。
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We discovered that none of us knew how to find him。 Stroeve grew
more and more distressed。
〃He might die； and not a soul would know anything about it。 It's
dreadful。 I can't bear the thought。 We must find him at once。〃
I tried to make Stroeve understand that it was absurd to hunt vaguely
about Paris。 We must first think of some plan。
〃Yes； but all this time he may be dying； and when we get there it may
be too late to do anything。〃
〃Sit still and let us think；〃 I said impatiently。
The only address I knew was the Hotel des Belges； but Strickland had
long left that； and they would have no recollection of him。 With that
queer idea of his to keep his whereabouts secret； it was unlikely that； on
leaving； he had said where he was going。 Besides； it was more than five
years ago。 I felt pretty sure that he had not moved far。 If he continued to
frequent the same cafe as when he had stayed at the hotel； it was probably
because it was the most convenient。 Suddenly I remembered that he had
got his commission to paint a portrait through the baker from whom he
bought his bread； and it struck me that there one might find his address。 I
called for a directory and looked out the bakers。 There were five in the
immediate neighbourhood； and the only thing was to go to all of them。
Stroeve accompanied me unwillingly。 His own plan was to run up and
down the streets that led out of the Avenue de Clichy and ask at every
house if Strickland lived there。 My commonplace scheme was； after all；
effective； for in the second shop we asked at the woman behind the
counter acknowledged that she knew him。 She was not certain where he
lived； but it was in one of the three houses opposite。 Luck favoured us；
and in the first we tried the concierge told us that we should find him on
the top floor。
〃It appears that he's ill；〃 said Stroeve。
〃It