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he could never endure a foreign yoke。 I believed him capable of
uprooting from his heart； though it might be with agony； so that he was left
battered and ensanguined； anything that came between himself and that
uncomprehended craving that urged him constantly to he knew not what。
If I have succeeded at all in giving the complicated impression that
Strickland made on me； it will not seem outrageous to say that I felt he
was at once too great and too small for love。
But I suppose that everyone's conception of the passion is formed on
his own idiosyncrasies； and it is different with every different person。 A
man like Strickland would love in a manner peculiar to himself。 It was
vain to seek the analysis of his emotion。
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Chapter XXXI
Next day； though I pressed him to remain； Stroeve left me。 I offered
to fetch his things from the studio； but he insisted on going himself； I think
he hoped they had not thought of getting them together； so that he would
have an opportunity of seeing his wife again and perhaps inducing her to
come back to him。 But he found his traps waiting for him in the porter's
lodge； and the concierge told him that Blanche had gone out。 I do not think
he resisted the temptation of giving her an account of his troubles。 I
found that he was telling them to everyone he knew； he expected
sympathy； but only excited ridicule。
He bore himself most unbecomingly。 Knowing at what time his wife
did her shopping； one day； unable any longer to bear not seeing her； he
waylaid her in the street。 She would not speak to him； but he insisted on
speaking to her。 He spluttered out words of apology for any wrong he
had committed towards her； he told her he loved her devotedly and begged
her to return to him。 She would not answer； she walked hurriedly； with
averted face。 I imagined him with his fat little legs trying to keep up with
her。 Panting a little in his haste； he told her how miserable he was； he
besought her to have mercy on him； he promised； if she would forgive him；
to do everything she wanted。 He offered to take her for a journey。 He
told her that Strickland would soon tire of her。 When he repeated to me
the whole sordid little scene I was outraged。 He had shown neither sense
nor dignity。 He had omitted nothing that could make his wife despise
him。 There is no cruelty greater than a woman's to a man who loves her
and whom she does not love； she has no kindness then； no tolerance even；
she has only an insane irritation。 Blanche Stroeve stopped suddenly； and
as hard as she could slapped her husband's face。 She took advantage of
his confusion to escape； and ran up the stairs to the studio。 No word had
passed her lips。
When he told me this he put his hand to his cheek as though he still
felt the smart of the blow； and in his eyes was a pain that was heartrending
and an amazement that was ludicrous。 He looked like an overblown
schoolboy； and though I felt so sorry for him； I could hardly help laughing。
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Then he took to walking along the street which she must pass through
to get to the shops； and he would stand at the corner； on the other side； as
she went along。 He dared not speak to her again； but sought to put into
his round eyes the appeal that was in his heart。 I suppose he had some
idea that the sight of his misery would touch her。 She never made the
smallest sign that she saw him。 She never even changed the hour of her
errands or sought an alternative route。 I have an idea that there was some
cruelty in her indifference。 Perhaps she got enjoyment out of the torture
she inflicted。 I wondered why she hated him so much。
I begged Stroeve to behave more wisely。 His want of spirit was
exasperating。
〃You're doing no good at all by going on like this；〃 I said。 〃I think
you'd have been wiser if you'd hit her over the head with a stick。 She
wouldn't have despised you as she does now。〃
I suggested that he should go home for a while。 He had often spoken
to me of the silent town； somewhere up in the north of Holland； where his
parents still lived。 They were poor people。 His father was a carpenter；
and they dwelt in a little old red…brick house； neat and clean； by the side of
a sluggish canal。 The streets were wide and empty； for two hundred
years the place had been dying； but the houses had the homely stateliness
of their time。 Rich merchants； sending their wares to the distant Indies；
had lived in them calm and prosperous lives； and in their decent decay
they kept still an aroma of their splendid past。 You could wander along
the canal till you came to broad green fields； with windmills here and there；
in which cattle； black and white； grazed lazily。 I thought that among those
surroundings； with their recollections of his boyhood； Dirk Stroeve would
forget his unhappiness。 But he would not go。
〃I must be here when she needs me；〃 he repeated。 〃It would be
dreadful if something terrible happened and I were not at hand。〃
〃What do you think is going to happen？〃 I asked。
〃I don't know。 But I'm afraid。〃
I shrugged my shoulders。
For all his pain； Dirk Stroeve remained a ridiculous object。 He might
have excited sympathy if he had grown worn and thin。 He did nothing of
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the kind。 He remained fat； and his round； red cheeks shone like ripe
apples。 He had great neatness of person； and he continued to wear his
spruce black coat and his bowler hat； always a little too small for him； in a
dapper； jaunty manner。 He was getting something of a paunch； and
sorrow had no effect on it。 He looked more than ever like a prosperous
bagman。 It is hard that a man's exterior should tally so little sometimes
with his soul。 Dirk Stroeve had the passion of Romeo in