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But
I
knew
it
was
not
kindness
that
prompted
the
offer
.
It
is
not
true
that
suffering
ennobles
the
character
;
happiness
does
that
sometimes
,
but
suffering
,
for
the
most
part
,
makes
men
petty
and
vindictive
.
In
point
of
fact
,
I
met
Strickland
before
I
had
been
a
fortnight
in
Paris
.
I
quickly
found
myself
a
tiny
apartment
on
the
fifth
floor
of
a
house
in
the
Rue
des
Dames
,
and
for
a
couple
of
hundred
francs
bought
at
a
second
-
hand
dealer
’
s
enough
furniture
to
make
it
habitable
.
I
arranged
with
the
concierge
to
make
my
coffee
in
the
morning
and
to
keep
the
place
clean
.
Then
I
went
to
see
my
friend
Dirk
Stroeve
.
Dirk
Stroeve
was
one
of
those
persons
whom
,
according
to
your
character
,
you
cannot
think
of
without
derisive
laughter
or
an
embarrassed
shrug
of
the
shoulders
.
Nature
had
made
him
a
buffoon
.
He
was
a
painter
,
but
a
very
bad
one
,
whom
I
had
met
in
Rome
,
and
I
still
remembered
his
pictures
.
He
had
a
genuine
enthusiasm
for
the
commonplace
.
His
soul
palpitating
with
love
of
art
,
he
painted
the
models
who
hung
about
the
stairway
of
Bernini
in
the
Piazza
de
Spagna
,
undaunted
by
their
obvious
picturesqueness
;
and
his
studio
was
full
of
canvases
on
which
were
portrayed
moustachioed
,
large
-
eyed
peasants
in
peaked
hats
,
urchins
in
becoming
rags
,
and
women
in
bright
petticoats
.
Sometimes
they
lounged
at
the
steps
of
a
church
,
and
sometimes
dallied
among
cypresses
against
a
cloudless
sky
;
sometimes
they
made
love
by
a
Renaissance
well
-
head
,
and
sometimes
they
wandered
through
the
Campagna
by
the
side
of
an
ox
-
waggon
.
They
were
carefully
drawn
and
carefully
painted
.
A
photograph
could
not
have
been
more
exact
.
One
of
the
painters
at
the
Villa
Medici
had
called
him
Le
Maitre
de
la
Boite
a
Chocoloats
.
To
look
at
his
pictures
you
would
have
thought
that
Monet
,
Manet
,
and
the
rest
of
the
Impressionists
had
never
been
.
"
I
don
’
t
pretend
to
be
a
great
painter
,
"
he
said
,
"
I
’
m
not
a
Michael
Angelo
,
no
,
but
I
have
something
.
I
sell
.
I
bring
romance
into
the
homes
of
all
sorts
of
people
.
Do
you
know
,
they
buy
my
pictures
not
only
in
Holland
,
but
in
Norway
and
Sweden
and
Denmark
?
It
’
s
mostly
merchants
who
buy
them
,
and
rich
tradesmen
.
You
can
’
t
imagine
what
the
winters
are
like
in
those
countries
,
so
long
and
dark
and
cold
.
They
like
to
think
that
Italy
is
like
my
pictures
.
That
’
s
what
they
expect
.
That
’
s
what
I
expected
Italy
to
be
before
I
came
here
.
"
And
I
think
that
was
the
vision
that
had
remained
with
him
always
,
dazzling
his
eyes
so
that
he
could
not
see
the
truth
;
and
notwithstanding
the
brutality
of
fact
,
he
continued
to
see
with
the
eyes
of
the
spirit
an
Italy
of
romantic
brigands
and
picturesque
ruins
.
It
was
an
ideal
that
he
painted
—
a
poor
one
,
common
and
shop
-
soiled
,
but
still
it
was
an
ideal
;
and
it
gave
his
character
a
peculiar
charm
.
It
was
because
I
felt
this
that
Dirk
Stroeve
was
not
to
me
,
as
to
others
,
merely
an
object
of
ridicule
.
His
fellow
-
painters
made
no
secret
of
their
contempt
for
his
work
,
but
he
earned
a
fair
amount
of
money
,
and
they
did
not
hesitate
to
make
free
use
of
his
purse
.
He
was
generous
,
and
the
needy
,
laughing
at
him
because
he
believed
so
naively
their
stories
of
distress
,
borrowed
from
him
with
effrontery
.
He
was
very
emotional
,
yet
his
feeling
,
so
easily
aroused
,
had
in
it
something
absurd
,
so
that
you
accepted
his
kindness
,
but
felt
no
gratitude
.
To
take
money
from
him
was
like
robbing
a
child
,
and
you
despised
him
because
he
was
so
foolish
.
I
imagine
that
a
pickpocket
,
proud
of
his
light
fingers
,
must
feel
a
sort
of
indignation
with
the
careless
woman
who
leaves
in
a
cab
a
vanity
-
bag
with
all
her
jewels
in
it
.
Nature
had
made
him
a
butt
,
but
had
denied
him
insensibility
.
He
writhed
under
the
jokes
,
practical
and
otherwise
,
which
were
perpetually
made
at
his
expense
,
and
yet
never
ceased
,
it
seemed
wilfully
,
to
expose
himself
to
them
.
He
was
constantly
wounded
,
and
yet
his
good
-
nature
was
such
that
he
could
not
bear
malice
:
the
viper
might
sting
him
,
but
he
never
learned
by
experience
,
and
had
no
sooner
recovered
from
his
pain
than
he
tenderly
placed
it
once
more
in
his
bosom
.
His
life
was
a
tragedy
written
in
the
terms
of
knockabout
farce
.
Because
I
did
not
laugh
at
him
he
was
grateful
to
me
,
and
he
used
to
pour
into
my
sympathetic
ear
the
long
list
of
his
troubles
.
The
saddest
thing
about
them
was
that
they
were
grotesque
,
and
the
more
pathetic
they
were
,
the
more
you
wanted
to
laugh
.
But
though
so
bad
a
painter
,
he
had
a
very
delicate
feeling
for
art
,
and
to
go
with
him
to
picture
-
galleries
was
a
rare
treat
.
His
enthusiasm
was
sincere
and
his
criticism
acute
.
He
was
catholic
.
He
had
not
only
a
true
appreciation
of
the
old
masters
,
but
sympathy
with
the
moderns
.
He
was
quick
to
discover
talent
,
and
his
praise
was
generous
.
I
think
I
have
never
known
a
man
whose
judgment
was
surer
.
And
he
was
better
educated
than
most
painters
.
He
was
not
,
like
most
of
them
,
ignorant
of
kindred
arts
,
and
his
taste
for
music
and
literature
gave
depth
and
variety
to
his
comprehension
of
painting
.
To
a
young
man
like
myself
his
advice
and
guidance
were
of
incomparable
value
When
I
left
Rome
I
corresponded
with
him
,
and
about
once
in
two
months
received
from
him
long
letters
in
queer
English
,
which
brought
before
me
vividly
his
spluttering
,
enthusiastic
,
gesticulating
conversation
.
Some
time
before
I
went
to
Paris
he
had
married
an
Englishwoman
,
and
was
now
settled
in
a
studio
in
Montmartre
.
I
had
not
seen
him
for
four
years
,
and
had
never
met
his
wife
.
