Chapter 19 nineteen

I did not tell Stroeve beforehand that I was coming to Paris.I rang the bell, and it was Stroeve himself who opened the door, and for a moment he did not recognize me.But immediately he cried out in surprise and joy, and hastily dragged me into the house.It was a real pleasure to receive such a warm welcome.His wife, who was sitting at her needlework by the fire, rose when she saw me come in.Stroeve introduced me to her. do you remember?He said to her, I often talk to you about him.Then he said to me: But why didn't you tell me when you came to Paris?How long have you been in Paris?How long are you going to stay?Why don't you come an hour early so we can have dinner together?

He asked me a lot of questions.He made me sit on a chair, patted me like a cushion, made me smoke cigars, eat cake and drink.He didn't let me idle for a minute.He was devastated because there was no whiskey in the house.He was going to make me coffee and was racking his brains for what else to offer me.He was so happy that his face was blooming, and beads of sweat came out from every sweat pore. You are still the same.I looked at him and said with a smile. He looked just as I remembered him, and was still so funny.He was short and fat, with short legs.He is still very young, no more than thirty years old at most, but he is already bald.He had a round face, ruddy and fair skin, but his cheeks and lips were always flushed.His blue eyes were also round and round, and he wore large gold-rimmed glasses, and his eyebrows were so pale that they could hardly be seen.Seeing him, you can't help but think of those fat and friendly businessmen painted by Rubens.

When I told him that I was going to live in Paris for a while and that the apartment had already been rented, he reproached me vigorously for not consulting him first.He'll find me a suitable place to live, and he'll lend me furniture. Did I really spend a lot of money on it? , and he can also help me move.It seemed to him unfriended that I had not given him the opportunity to serve me, and he meant it.While he was talking to me, Mrs. Stroeve sat quietly mending her stockings.She didn't say anything herself, just listened to her husband talking with a serene smile on her lips. You see, I'm married, he said suddenly, what do you think of my wife?

He looked at her with a smile on his face, putting his glasses on the bridge of his nose.Sweat kept sliding his glasses down. How do you ask me to answer this question?I laughed. That's right, Dirk.Frau Stroeve interjected, also smiling. But don't you think she's too nice?I tell you, old friend, don't waste time, get married quickly.I am the happiest person in the world right now.You see her sitting there, isn't it a wonderful picture?Does it look like Chardin's [Note] painting?I have seen the most beautiful women in the world, but I have not seen Dirk.Madame Stroeve is even more beautiful.

【Note】 Let.Simeon.Chardin: (1699︱1779), French painter. If you stop talking, Dirk, I'm going out. My little baby.He said. A flush came over her face, and she was a little embarrassed by the enthusiasm in his tone.Stroeve had written to me how much he loved his wife, and I see now that he hardly took his eyes off her for a moment.I can't tell if she loves him or not.The poor fool, he is not a character to attract a woman's love.But there was affection in the smile in Frau Stroeve's eyes, and deep feelings might be concealed behind her silence.She is not the dazzling beauty in his lovesickness and admiration, but she has a dignified and beautiful demeanor.She was taller, and her beautiful figure could not be concealed by a suit of well-cut plain clothes.Her size may have appealed more to sculptors than to clothiers.Her thick brown hair is very simple, her complexion is fair, and her features are beautiful, but not glamorous.She was only a little short of a beauty, but just because she was a little short, she was not even beautiful.Stroeve did not speak casually of Chardin's painting, whose appearance is strangely reminiscent of the lovely housewife in the turban and apron of the great painter's immortal pen.Closing my eyes, I can imagine her quietly busy among the pots and pans, performing some housework like a ritual, giving these daily trivial matters a kind of sublime meaning.I didn't think she was very bright or funny, but her serious, focused look was interesting.There seemed to be some kind of mystery in her steady silence.I don't know why she married Dirk.Stroeve.Although she is from my hometown, I can't figure out what kind of person she is.I couldn't tell what social class she was from, what education she had, or what kind of occupation she had been before her marriage.She doesn't talk much, but her voice is pleasant and her manners are very natural.

I asked Stroeve if he had painted anything lately. draw?I can draw better now than ever. We were sitting in his studio; he waved at an unfinished work on the easel.I was taken aback.He painted a group of Italian peasants, dressed in Roman suburban costume, loitering on the steps of a Roman cathedral. Is this what you are painting now? yes.I can find models here as well as in Rome. Don't you think he draws beautifully?asked Mrs. Stroeve. My silly wife always thinks I'm a great painter.He said. His apologetic laugh couldn't hide the joy in his heart.His gaze remained on his painting.It was a strange thing that he could be so accurate and unconventional in criticizing other people's paintings, but be so self-satisfied with his own banal and vulgar ones.

Let him see your other paintings.she says. Do people want to see it? Although Dirk.Constantly ridiculed by his friends, Stroeve was never able to restrain himself from showing his paintings, hoping to hear praise from others, and his vanity was easily gratified.He first showed me a picture of two curly-haired poor Italian kids playing with a glass ball. What fun for two kids.Mrs. Stroeve praised. Then he brought out more pictures.I found out that he was painting in Paris the same old, gaudy pictures that he had painted for many years in Rome.These paintings are not real at all and have no artistic value, but there is no one in the world better than the author of these paintings, Dirk.Stroeve was more honest, more sincere and frank.Who can explain this contradiction?

I don't know why I suddenly asked him: Let me ask you a question, I didn't know you met a guy named Charles.Strickland's painter? You mean you know him too?Stroeve cried out. This man is so uneducated.said his wife. Stroeve laughed. my poor baby.He stepped in front of her and kissed both her hands.She doesn't like him.Strange that you know Strickland too. I don't like people who are not polite.said Mrs. Stroeve. Dirk's laughter didn't stop, he turned around and explained to me. You know, once I asked him to look at my paintings.He came and I showed him all my paintings.Having said this, Stroeve was a little embarrassed and hesitated for a while.I don't understand why he started telling such a disgraceful story; he doesn't know how to finish it.He looked at my drawing without saying a word.I would have thought he waited to see all the paintings before commenting.Finally I said: That's it!He said: I have come to borrow twenty francs from you.

Dirk actually gave him the money.said his wife angrily. I was taken aback by what he said.I don't want to turn him down.He put the money in his pocket, nodded to me, said thank you, turned around and left. When telling this story, Dirk.Stroeve's fat, foolish face had such an expression of bewilderment that you couldn't help but laugh. I wouldn't care a bit if he said I couldn't draw well, but he didn't say anything or a word. You're proud to tell this story, Dirk.said his wife. The sad thing is that whoever listens to this story is first amused by the droll character played by the Dutchman, rather than offended by Strickland's rude behavior.

I never want to see this man again.said Mrs. Stroeve. Stroeve laughed and shrugged his shoulders.His good nature has returned. In fact, he was a terrific painter, very terrific. Strickland?I shouted, we are not talking about the same person. It was the tall man with the red beard.Charles.Strickland.an Englishman. He didn't grow a beard when I knew him.But if you grow a beard, it will probably be red.The person I am talking about only started learning painting five years ago. This is the person.He is a great painter. impossible. When did I miss it?Dirk asked me, and I tell you he's a genius.I am absolutely sure.A hundred years later, if anyone still remembers the two of us, it is because we got to know Charles.Light of Strickland.

I was very surprised, but at the same time I was very excited.I suddenly remembered the last time I had talked to him. Where can I see his work?I asked, has he gained some fame?Where does he live now? no fame.I don't think he ever sold a painting.If you talk about his paintings with people, no one will laugh at him.But I know he is a great painter.Haven't they laughed at Manet?Corot also never sold a single painting.I don't know where he lives, but I can take you there to find him.Every evening at seven o'clock he went to a café on the Rue de Clicher.We can go tomorrow if you want. I don't know if he wants to see me.I'm afraid I'll remind him of a day he'd rather forget.But I think I'll have to go anyway.Is it possible to see some of his works? Can't see it from him.He doesn't show you anything.I know a small dealer who has two or three of his paintings.But if you go, be sure to let me accompany you; you won't understand.I must personally point out to you. Dirk, you've got me impatient, said Mrs. Stroeve, how can you talk about his paintings like that when he treats you like that?She turned to me and said: You know, some people come here to buy a Dirk and he persuades them to buy a Strickland.He must have Strickland bring the picture here to show them. What do you think of Strickland's paintings?I asked her with a smile. Terrible. Ah, dear, you don't understand. Humph, your fellow Dutch folks are just pissed off.They think you are joking with them. Dirk.Stroeve took off his glasses and wiped them.His flushed face shone with excitement. Why do you think that the most precious treasures in the world of beauty are like stones on the beach, which a casual passer-by can pick up casually?Beauty is a wonderful, strange thing that the artist can shape out of the chaos of the universe only through the torment of the soul.Nor was beauty created to be recognizable to everyone.To know it, one must repeat the adventures that the artist has gone through.What he sings to you is a beautiful melody, and to hear it again in your own mind requires knowledge, sensitivity, and imagination. Why do I always think your paintings are beautiful, Dirk?When I saw your painting for the first time, I thought it was very good. Stroeve's lips quivered for a moment. Go to bed, baby.I'm going to walk a few steps with my friend, and I'll be back in a while.