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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
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
.
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
Entombment
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
cannot
praise
him
because
he
resisted
the
temptation
to
make
any
of
those
compromises
with
the
world
which
most
of
us
yield
to
.
He
had
no
such
temptation
.
It
never
entered
his
head
that
compromise
was
possible
.
He
lived
in
Paris
more
lonely
than
an
anchorite
in
the
deserts
of
Thebes
He
asked
nothing
his
fellows
except
that
they
should
leave
him
alone
.
He
was
single
-
hearted
in
his
aim
,
and
to
pursue
it
he
was
willing
to
sacrifice
not
only
himself
—
many
can
do
that
—
but
others
.
He
had
a
vision
.
Strickland
was
an
odious
man
,
but
I
still
think
he
was
a
great
one
.
A
certain
importance
attaches
to
the
views
on
art
of
painters
,
and
this
is
the
natural
place
for
me
to
set
down
what
I
know
of
Strickland
’
s
opinions
of
the
great
artists
of
the
past
.
I
am
afraid
I
have
very
little
worth
noting
.
Strickland
was
not
a
conversationalist
,
and
he
had
no
gift
for
putting
what
he
had
to
say
in
the
striking
phrase
that
the
listener
remembers
.
He
had
no
wit
.
His
humour
,
as
will
be
seen
if
I
have
in
any
way
succeeded
in
reproducing
the
manner
of
his
conversation
,
was
sardonic
.
His
repartee
was
rude
.
He
made
one
laugh
sometimes
by
speaking
the
truth
,
but
this
is
a
form
of
humour
which
gains
its
force
only
by
its
unusualness
;
it
would
cease
to
amuse
if
it
were
commonly
practised
.
