I settled down in Paris and began to write a play. I led a very regular life, working in the morning, and in the afternoon lounging about the gardens of the Luxembourg or sauntering through the streets. I spent long hours in the Louvre, the most friendly of all galleries and the most convenient for meditation; or idled on the quays, fingering second-hand books that I never meant to buy. I read a page here and there, and made acquaintance with a great many authors whom I was content to know thus desultorily. In the evenings I went to see my friends. I looked in often on the Stroeves, and sometimes shared their modest fare. Dirk Stroeve flattered himself on his skill in cooking Italian dishes, and I confess that his spaghetti were very much better than his pictures. It was a dinner for a King when he brought in a huge dish of it, succulent with tomatoes, and we ate it together with the good household bread and a bottle of red wine. I grew more intimate with Blanche Stroeve, and I think, because I was English and she knew few English people, she was glad to see me. She was pleasant and simple, but she remained always rather silent, and I knew not why, gave me the impression that she was concealing something. But I thought that was perhaps no more than a natural reserve accentuated by the verbose frankness of her husband. Dirk never concealed anything. He discussed the most intimate matters with a complete lack of self-consciousness. Sometimes he embarrassed his wife, and the only time I saw her put out of countenance was when he insisted on telling me that he had taken a purge, and went into somewhat realistic details on the subject. The perfect seriousness with which he narrated his misfortunes convulsed me with laughter, and this added to Mrs. Stroeve's irritation.
"You seem to like making a fool of yourself, " she said.
His round eyes grew rounder still, and his brow puckered in dismay as he saw that she was angry.
"Sweetheart, have I vexed you? I'll never take another. It was only because I was bilious. I lead a sedentary life. I don't take enough exercise. For three days I hadn't . . . "
"For goodness sake, hold your tongue, " she interrupted, tears of annoyance in her eyes.
His face fell, and he pouted his lips like a scolded child. He gave me a look of appeal, so that I might put things right, but, unable to control myself, I shook with helpless laughter.
We went one day to the picture-dealer in whose shop Stroeve thought he could show me at least two or three of Strickland's pictures, but when we arrived were told that Strickland himself had taken them away. The dealer did not know why.
"But don't imagine to yourself that I make myself bad blood on that account. I took them to oblige Monsieur Stroeve, and I said I would sell them if I could. But really --" He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm interested in the young men, but voyons, you yourself, Monsieur Stroeve, you don't think there's any talent there. "
"I give you my word of honour, there's no one painting to-day in whose talent I am more convinced. Take my word for it, you are missing a good affair. Some day those pictures will be worth more than all you have in your shop. Remember Monet, who could not get anyone to buy his pictures for a hundred francs. What are they worth now?"
"True. But there were a hundred as good painters as Monet who couldn't sell their pictures at that time, and their pictures are worth nothing still. How can one tell? Is merit enough to bring success? Don't believe it. Du reste, it has still to be proved that this friend of yours has merit. No one claims it for him but Monsieur Stroeve. "
"And how, then, will you recognise merit?" asked Dirk, red in the face with anger.
"There is only one way -- by success. "
"Philistine, " cried Dirk.
"But think of the great artists of the past -- Raphael, Michael Angelo, Ingres, Delacroix -- they were all successful. "
"Let us go, " said Stroeve to me, "or I shall kill this man. "
我在巴黎定居下来，开始写一个剧本。我的生活很有规律；早上工作，下午在卢森堡公园或者在大街上漫步。我把很多时间消磨在卢佛尔宫里，这是巴黎所有画廊中我感到最亲切的一个，也是最适于我冥想的地方。再不然我就在塞纳河边悠闲地打发时间，翻弄一些我从来不想买的旧书。我东读两页、西读两页，就这样熟悉了不少作家。对这些作家我有这种零星的知识也就完全够用了。晚饭后我去看朋友。我常常到施特略夫家去，有时候在他家吃一顿简便的晚饭。施特略夫认为做意大利菜是他的拿手，我也承认他做的意大利通心粉远比他画的画高明。当他端上来一大盘香喷喷的通心粉，配着西红柿，我们一边喝红葡萄酒，一边就着通心粉吃他家自己烘烤的面包的时候，这一顿饭简直抵得上皇上的御餐了。我同勃朗什•施特略夫逐渐熟起来。我想，可能因为我是英国人，而她在这里认识的英国人不多，所以她很高兴看到我。她心地单纯，人总是快快活活，但是她一般不太爱说话。不知道为什么，她给我一个印象，仿佛心里藏着什么东西似的。但是我也想过，这也许只是因为她生性拘谨，再加上她丈夫心直口快、过于饶舌的缘故。戴尔克心里有什么话都憋不住，就是最隐秘的事也毫无避讳地公开和你讨论。他的这种态度有时候叫他妻子感到很尴尬。我见到她恼羞成怒只有一次。那次施特略夫非要告诉我他服泻药的事不可，而且说得绘声绘色。在他给我描述这件灾祸时，他的脸色一本正经，结果我差点儿笑破了肚皮，而施特略夫太太则窘得无地自容，终于冒起火来。
“你好象愿意把自己当个傻瓜似的，”她说。
当他看到自己的老婆真的生起气来的时候，他的一对圆眼睛瞪得更圆了，眉毛也不知所措地皱了起来。
“亲爱的，你生我的气了吗？我再也不吃泻药了。这都是因为我肝火太旺的缘故。我整天坐着不动。我的运动不够。我有三天没有……”
“老天啊，你还不闭嘴！”她打断了他的话，因为气恼而迸出眼泪来。
他的脸耷拉下来，象是个挨了训的孩子似地撅起嘴来。他向我递了个恳求的眼色，希望我替他打个圆场，可是我却无法控制自己，笑得直不起腰来。
有一天我们一起到一个画商那里去，施特略夫认为他至少可以让我看到两三张思特里克兰德的画。但是在我们到了那里以后，画商却告诉我们，思特里克兰德已经把画取走了。画商也不知道他为什么要这样做。
“不要认为我为这件事感到恼火。我接受他的画都是看在施特略夫先生的面上。我告诉他我尽量替他卖。但是说真的——”他耸了耸肩膀。“我对年轻人是有兴趣的，可是施待略夫先生，你自己也知道，你也并不认为他们中有什么天才。”
“我拿名誉向你担保，在所有这些画家里，再没有谁比他更有天才了。你相信我的话吧，一笔赚钱的买卖叫你白白糟蹋了。迟早有一天他的这几张画会比你铺子里所有的画加在一起还值钱。你还记得莫奈吗？当时他的一张画一百法郎都没人要。现在值多少钱了？”
“不错。但是当时还有一百个画家，一点也不次于莫奈，同样也卖不掉自己的画。现在这些人的画还是不值钱。谁知道这是怎么回事？是不是画家只要画得好就能成名呢？千万别相信这个。再说①，你的这位朋友究竟画得好不好也还没有证实。只有你施特略夫先生一个人夸奖他，我还没听见别人说他好呢。”
①原文为法语。
“那么你说说，怎样才知道一个人画得好不好？”戴尔克问道，脸都气红了。
“只有一个办法——出了名画得就好。”
“市侩，”戴尔克喊道。
“不妨想想过去的大艺术家——拉斐尔，米开朗基罗，安格尔②，德拉克罗瓦③，都是出了名的。”
②让•奥古斯特•多米尼克•安格尔（1780—1867），法国画家。
③费迪南•维克多•欧仁•德拉克罗瓦（1798—1863），法国画家。
“咱们走吧，”施特略夫对我说，“再不走的话我非把这个人宰了不可。”