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divine his anguish。
When I come to his connection with Blanche Stroeve I am exasperated
by the fragmentariness of the facts at my disposal。 To give my story
coherence I should describe the progress of their tragic union； but I know
nothing of the three months during which they lived together。 I do not
know how they got on or what they talked about。 After all； there are
twenty…four hours in the day； and the summits of emotion can only be
reached at rare intervals。 I can only imagine how they passed the rest of
the time。 While the light lasted and so long as Blanche's strength
endured； I suppose that Strickland painted； and it must have irritated her
when she saw him absorbed in his work。 As a mistress she did not then
exist for him； but only as a model； and then there were long hours in
which they lived side by side in silence。 It must have frightened her。
When Strickland suggested that in her surrender to him there was a sense
of triumph over Dirk Stroeve； because he had come to her help in her
extremity； he opened the door to many a dark conjecture。 I hope it was
not true。 It seems to me rather horrible。 But who can fathom the
subtleties of the human heart？ Certainly not those who expect from it only
decorous sentiments and normal emotions。 When Blanche saw that；
notwithstanding his moments of passion； Strickland remained aloof； she
must have been filled with dismay； and even in those moments I surmise
that she realised that to him she was not an individual； but an instrument
of pleasure； he was a stranger still； and she tried to bind him to herself
with pathetic arts。 She strove to ensnare him with comfort and would not
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see that comfort meant nothing to him。 She was at pains to get him the
things to eat that he liked； and would not see that he was indifferent to
food。 She was afraid to leave him alone。 She pursued him with
attentions； and when his passion was dormant sought to excite it； for then
at least she had the illusion of holding him。 Perhaps she knew with her
intelligence that the chains she forged only aroused his instinct of
destruction； as the plate…glass window makes your fingers itch for half a
brick； but her heart； incapable of reason； made her continue on a course
she knew was fatal。 She must have been very unhappy。 But the
blindness of love led her to believe what she wanted to be true； and her
love was so great that it seemed impossible to her that it should not in
return awake an equal love。
But my study of Strickland's character suffers from a greater defect
than my ignorance of many facts。 Because they were obvious and
striking； I have written of his relations to women； and yet they were but an
insignificant part of his life。 It is an irony that they should so tragically
have affected others。 His real life consisted of dreams and of
tremendously hard work。
Here lies the unreality of fiction。 For in men； as a rule； love is but an
episode which takes its place among the other affairs of the day； and the
emphasis laid on it in novels gives it an importance which is untrue to life。
There are few men to whom it is the most important thing in the world；
and they are not very interesting ones； even women； with whom the
subject is of paramount interest； have a contempt for them。 They are
flattered and excited by them； but have an uneasy feeling that they are
poor creatures。 But even during the brief intervals in which they are in
love； men do other things which distract their mind； the trades by which
they earn their living engage their attention； they are absorbed in sport；
they can interest themselves in art。 For the most part； they keep their
various activities in various compartments； and they can pursue one to the
temporary exclusion of the other。 They have a faculty of concentration on
that which occupies them at the moment； and it irks them if one
encroaches on the other。 As lovers； the difference between men and
women is that women can love all day long； but men only at times。
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With Strickland the sexual appetite took a very small place。 It was
unimportant。 It was irksome。 His soul aimed elsewhither。 He had
violent passions； and on occasion desire seized his body so that he was
driven to an orgy of lust； but he hated the instincts that robbed him of his
self…possession。 I think； even； he hated the inevitable partner in his
debauchery。 When he had regained command over himself； he shuddered
at the sight of the woman he had enjoyed。 His thoughts floated then
serenely in the empyrean； and he felt towards her the horror that perhaps
the painted butterfly； hovering about the flowers； feels to the filthy
chrysalis from which it has triumphantly emerged。 I suppose that art is a
manifestation of the sexual instinct。 It is the same emotion which is
excited in the human heart by the sight of a lovely woman； the Bay of
Naples under the yellow moon； and the of Titian。 It is
possible that Strickland hated the normal release of sex because it seemed
to him brutal by comparison with the satisfaction of artistic creation。 It
seems strange even to myself； when I have described a man who was cruel；
selfish； brutal and sensual； to say that he was a great idealist。 The fact
remains。
He lived more poorly than an artisan。 He worked harder。 He cared
nothing for those things which with most people make life gracious and
beautiful。 He was indifferent to money。 He cared nothing about fame。
You can