"AndDirk actually gave it him, " said his wife indignantly.

"I wasso taken aback. I didn't like to refuse. He put the money in his pocket, justnodded, said 'Thanks, ' and walked out. "

Dirk Stroeve,telling the story, had such a look of blank astonishment on his round, foolishface that it was almost impossible not to laugh.

"Ishouldn't have minded if he'd said my pictures were bad, but he said nothing --nothing. "

"And youwill tell the story, Dirk, " Said his wife.

It waslamentable that one was more amused by the ridiculous figure cut by theDutchman than outraged by Strickland's brutal treatment of him.

"I hopeI shall never see him again, " said Mrs. Stroeve.

Stroevesmiled and shrugged his shoulders. He had already recovered his good-humour.

"Thefact remains that he's a great artist, a very great artist. "

"Strickland?"I exclaimed. "It can't be the same man. "

"A bigfellow with a red beard. Charles Strickland. An Englishman. "

"He hadno beard when I knew him, but if he has grown one it might well be red. The manI'm thinking of only began painting five years ago. "

"That'sit. He's a great artist. "

"Impossible."

"Have Iever been mistaken?" Dirk asked me. "I tell you he has genius. I'mconvinced of it. In a hundred years, if you and I are remembered at all, itwill be because we knew Charles Strickland. "

I wasastonished, and at the same time I was very much excited. I remembered suddenlymy last talk with him.

"Wherecan one see his work?" I asked. "Is he having any success? Where ishe living?"

"No; hehas no success. I don't think he's ever sold a picture. When you speak to menabout him they only laugh. But I know he's a great artist. After all, theylaughed at Manet. Corot never sold a picture. I don't know where he lives, butI can take you to see him. He goes to a cafe in the Avenue de Clichy at seveno'clock every evening. If you like we'll go there to-morrow. "

"I'm notsure if he'll wish to see me. I think I may remind him of a time he prefers toforget. But I'll come all the same. Is there any chance of seeing any of hispictures?"

"Notfrom him. He won't show you a thing. There's a little dealer I know who has twoor three. But you mustn't go without me; you wouldn't understand. I must showthem to you myself. "

"Dirk,you make me impatient, " said Mrs. Stroeve. "How can you talk likethat about his pictures when he treated you as he did?" She turned to me."Do you know, when some Dutch people came here to buy Dirk's pictures hetried to persuade them to buy Strickland's? He insisted on bringing them hereto show. "

"Whatdid you think of them?" I asked her, smiling.

"Theywere awful. "

"Ah,sweetheart, you don't understand. "

"Well,your Dutch people were furious with you. They thought you were having a joke withthem."

Dirk Stroevetook off his spectacles and wiped them. His flushed face was shining withexcitement.

"Whyshould you think that beauty, which is the most precious thing in the world,lies like a stone on the beach for the careless passer-by to pick up idly?Beauty is something wonderful and strange that the artist fashions out of thechaos of the world in the torment of his soul. And when he has made it, it isnot given to all to know it. To recognize it you must repeat the adventure ofthe artist. It is a melody that he sings to you, and to hear it again in yourown heart you want knowledge and sensitiveness and imagination. "

"Why didI always think your pictures beautiful, Dirk? I admired them the very firsttime I saw them. "

Stroeve'slips trembled a little.

"Go tobed, my precious. I will walk a few steps with our friend, and then I will comeback. "

“戴尔克居然把钱给他了，”他的妻子气愤地说。

“我听了他这话吓了一跳。我不想拒绝他。他把钱放在口袋里，朝我点了点头，说了声‘谢谢’，扭头就走了。”

说这个故事的时候，戴尔克·施特略夫的一张傻里傻气的胖脸蛋上流露着那么一种惊诧莫解的神情，不由得你看了不发笑。

“如果他说我画得不好我一点也不在乎，可是他什么都没说——一句话也没说。”

“你还挺得意地把这个故事讲给人家听，戴尔克，”他的妻子说。

可悲的是，不论是谁听了这个故事，首先会被这位荷兰人扮演的滑稽角色逗得发笑，而并不感到思特里克兰德这种粗鲁行为生气。

“我再也不想看到这个人了，”施特略夫太太说。

施特略夫笑起来，耸了耸肩膀。他的好性子已经恢复了。

“实际上，他是一个了不起的画家，非常了不起。”

“思特里克兰德？”我喊起来。“咱们说的不是一个人。”

“就是那个身材高大、生着一把红胡子的人。查理斯·思特里克兰德。一个英国人。”

“我认识他的时候他没留胡子。但是如果留起胡子来，很可能是红色的。我说的这个人五年以前才开始学画。”

“就是这个人。他是个伟大的画家。”

“不可能。”

“我哪一次看走过眼？”戴尔克问我。“我告诉你他有天才。我有绝对把握。一百年以后，如果还有人记得咱们两个人，那是因为我们沾了认识查理斯·思特里克兰德的光儿。”

我非常吃惊，但与此同时我也非常兴奋。我忽然想起我最后一次同他谈话。

“在什么地方可以看到他的作品？”我问，“他有了点儿名气没有？他现在住在什么地方？”

“没有名气。我想他没有卖出过一幅画。你要是和人谈起他的画来，没有一个不笑他的。但是我知道他是个了不起的画家。他们还不是笑过马奈？柯罗也是一张画没有卖出去过。我不知道他住在什么地方，但是我可以带你去找到他。每天晚上七点钟他都到克利舍路一家咖啡馆去。你要是愿意的话，咱们明天就可以去。”

“我不知道他是不是愿意看到我。我怕我会使他想起一段他宁愿忘掉的日子。但是我想我还是得去一趟。有没有可能看到他的什么作品？”

“从他那里看不到。他什么也不给你看。我认识一个小画商，手里有两三张他的画。但是你要是去，一定得让我陪着你；你不会看懂的。我一定要亲自指点给你看。”

“戴尔克，你简直叫我失去耐性了，”施特略夫太太说。“他那样对待你，你怎么还能这样谈论他的画？”她转过来对我说：“你知道，有一些人到这里来买戴尔克的画，他却劝他们买思特里克兰德的。他非让思特里克兰德把画拿到这里给他们看不可。”

“你觉得思特里克兰德的画怎么样？”我笑着问她。

“糟糕极了。”

“啊，亲爱的，你不懂。”

“哼，你的那些荷兰老乡简直气坏了。他们认为你是在同他们开玩笑。”

戴尔克·施特略夫摘下眼镜来，擦了擦。他的一张通红的面孔因为兴奋而闪着亮光。

“为什么你认为美——世界上最宝贵的财富——会同沙滩上的石头一样，一个漫不经心的过路人随随便便地就能够捡起来？美是一种美妙、奇异的东西，艺术家只有通过灵魂的痛苦折磨才能从宇宙的混沌中塑造出来。在美被创造出以后，它也不是为了叫每个人都能认出来的。要想认识它，一个人必须重复艺术家经历过的一番冒险。他唱给你的是一个美的旋律，要是想在自己心里重新听一遍就必须有知识、有敏锐的感觉和想象力。”

“为什么我总觉得你的画很美呢，戴尔克？你的画我第一次看到就觉得好得了不得。”

施特略夫的嘴唇颤抖了一会儿。

“去睡觉吧，宝贝儿。我要陪我的朋友走几步路，一会儿就回来。”