The apartment had no look of desertion. His wife's tidiness was one of the traits which had so much pleased him; his own upbringing had given him a tender sympathy for the delight in orderliness; and when he had seen her instinctive10 desire to put each thing in its appointed place it had given him a little warm feeling in his heart. The bedroom looked as though she had just left it: the brushes were neatly11 placed on the toilet-table, one on each side of the comb; someone had smoothed down the bed on which she had spent her last night in the studio; and her nightdress in a little case lay on the pillow. It was impossible to believe that she would never come into that room again.
But he felt thirsty, and went into the kitchen to get himself some water. Here, too, was order. On a rack were the plates that she had used for dinner on the night of her quarrel with Strickland, and they had been carefully washed. The knives and forks were put away in a drawer. Under a cover were the remains13 of a piece of cheese, and in a tin box was a crust of bread. She had done her marketing14 from day to day, buying only what was strictly15 needful, so that nothing was left over from one day to the next. Stroeve knew from the enquiries made by the police that Strickland had walked out of the house immediately after dinner, and the fact that Blanche had washed up the things as usual gave him a little thrill of horror. Her methodicalness made her suicide more deliberate. Her self-possession was frightening. A sudden pang16 seized him, and his knees felt so weak that he almost fell. He went back into the bedroom and threw himself on the bed. He cried out her name.
"Blanche. Blanche."
The thought of her suffering was intolerable. He had a sudden vision of her standing17 in the kitchen—it was hardly larger than a cupboard—washing the plates and glasses, the forks and spoons, giving the knives a rapid polish on the knife-board; and then putting everything away, giving the sink a scrub, and hanging the dish-cloth up to dry—it was there still, a gray torn rag; then looking round to see that everything was clean and nice. He saw her roll down her sleeves and remove her apron18—the apron hung on a peg19 behind the door—and take the bottle of oxalic acid and go with it into the bedroom.
The agony of it drove him up from the bed and out of the room. He went into the studio. It was dark, for the curtains had been drawn20 over the great window, and he pulled them quickly back; but a sob21 broke from him as with a rapid glance he took in the place where he had been so happy. Nothing was changed here, either. Strickland was indifferent to his surroundings, and he had lived in the other's studio without thinking of altering a thing. It was deliberately22 artistic23. It represented Stroeve's idea of the proper environment for an artist. There were bits of old brocade on the walls, and the piano was covered with a piece of silk, beautiful and tarnished24; in one corner was a copy of the Venus of Milo, and in another of the Venus of the Medici. Here and there was an Italian cabinet surmounted25 with Delft, and here and there a bas-relief. In a handsome gold frame was a copy of Velasquez' Innocent X., that Stroeve had made in Rome, and placed so as to make the most of their decorative26 effect were a number of Stroeve's pictures, all in splendid frames. Stroeve had always been very proud of his taste. He had never lost his appreciation27 for the romantic atmosphere of a studio, and though now the sight of it was like a stab in his heart, without thinking what he was at, he changed slightly the position of a Louis XV. table which was one of his treasures. Suddenly he caught sight of a canvas with its face to the wall. It was a much larger one than he himself was in the habit of using, and he wondered what it did there. He went over to it and leaned it towards him so that he could see the painting. It was a nude28. His heart began to beat quickly, for he guessed at once that it was one of Strickland's pictures. He flung it back against the wall angrily—what did he mean by leaving it there?—but his movement caused it to fall, face downwards29, on the ground. No mater whose the picture, he could not leave it there in the dust, and he raised it; but then curiosity got the better of him. He thought he would like to have a proper look at it, so he brought it along and set it on the easel. Then he stood back in order to see it at his ease.
He gave a gasp30. It was the picture of a woman lying on a sofa, with one arm beneath her head and the other along her body; one knee was raised, and the other leg was stretched out. The pose was classic. Stroeve's head swam. It was Blanche. Grief and jealousy31 and rage seized him, and he cried out hoarsely32; he was inarticulate; he clenched33 his fists and raised them threateningly at an invisible enemy. He screamed at the top of his voice. He was beside himself. He could not bear it. That was too much. He looked round wildly for some instrument; he wanted to hack34 the picture to pieces; it should not exist another minute. He could see nothing that would serve his purpose; he rummaged35 about his painting things; somehow he could not find a thing; he was frantic36. At last he came upon what he sought, a large scraper, and he pounced37 on it with a cry of triumph. He seized it as though it were a dagger38, and ran to the picture.
As Stroeve told me this he became as excited as when the incident occurred, and he took hold of a dinner-knife on the table between us, and brandished39 it. He lifted his arm as though to strike, and then, opening his hand, let it fall with a clatter40 to the ground. He looked at me with a tremulous smile. He did not speak.
"Fire away," I said.
"I don't know what happened to me. I was just going to make a great hole in the picture, I had my arm all ready for the blow, when suddenly I seemed to see it."
"See what?"
"The picture. It was a work of art. I couldn't touch it. I was afraid."
Stroeve was silent again, and he stared at me with his mouth open and his round blue eyes starting out of his head.
"It was a great, a wonderful picture. I was seized with awe12. I had nearly committed a dreadful crime. I moved a little to see it better, and my foot knocked against the scraper. I shuddered41."
I really felt something of the emotion that had caught him. I was strangely impressed. It was as though I were suddenly transported into a world in which the values were changed. I stood by, at a loss, like a stranger in a land where the reactions of man to familiar things are all different from those he has known. Stroeve tried to talk to me about the picture, but he was incoherent, and I had to guess at what he meant. Strickland had burst the bonds that hitherto had held him. He had found, not himself, as the phrase goes, but a new soul with unsuspected powers. It was not only the bold simplification of the drawing which showed so rich and so singular a personality; it was not only the painting, though the flesh was painted with a passionate42 sensuality which had in it something miraculous43; it was not only the solidity, so that you felt extraordinarily44 the weight of the body; there was also a spirituality, troubling and new, which led the imagination along unsuspected ways, and suggested dim empty spaces, lit only by the eternal stars, where the soul, all naked, adventured fearful to the discovery of new mysteries.
If I am rhetorical it is because Stroeve was rhetorical. (Do we not know that man in moments of emotion expresses himself naturally in the terms of a novelette?) Stroeve was trying to express a feeling which he had never known before, and he did not know how to put it into common terms. He was like the mystic seeking to describe the ineffable45. But one fact he made clear to me; people talk of beauty lightly, and having no feeling for words, they use that one carelessly, so that it loses its force; and the thing it stands for, sharing its name with a hundred trivial objects, is deprived of dignity. They call beautiful a dress, a dog, a sermon; and when they are face to face with Beauty cannot recognise it. The false emphasis with which they try to deck their worthless thoughts blunts their susceptibilities. Like the charlatan46 who counterfeits47 a spiritual force he has sometimes felt, they lose the power they have abused. But Stroeve, the unconquerable buffoon48, had a love and an understanding of beauty which were as honest and sincere as was his own sincere and honest soul. It meant to him what God means to the believer, and when he saw it he was afraid.
"What did you say to Strickland when you saw him?"
"I asked him to come with me to Holland."
"We both loved Blanche. There would have been room for him in my mother's house. I think the company of poor, simple people would have done his soul a great good. I think he might have learnt from them something that would be very useful to him."
"What did he say?"
"He smiled a little. I suppose he thought me very silly. He said he had other fish to fry."
I could have wished that Strickland had used some other phrase to indicate his refusal.
"He gave me the picture of Blanche."
I wondered why Strickland had done that. But I made no remark, and for some time we kept silence.
"What have you done with all your things?" I said at last.
"I got a Jew in, and he gave me a round sum for the lot. I'm taking my pictures home with me. Beside them I own nothing in the world now but a box of clothes and a few books."
"I'm glad you're going home," I said.
I felt that his chance was to put all the past behind him. I hoped that the grief which now seemed intolerable would be softened50 by the lapse51 of time, and a merciful forgetfulness would help him to take up once more the burden of life. He was young still, and in a few years he would look back on all his misery52 with a sadness in which there would be something not unpleasurable. Sooner or later he would marry some honest soul in Holland, and I felt sure he would be happy. I smiled at the thought of the vast number of bad pictures he would paint before he died.
Next day I saw him off for Amsterdam.
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1
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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2
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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8
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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10
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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12
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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13
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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16
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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20
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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21
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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22
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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23
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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24
tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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25
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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26
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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27
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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28
nude
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| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
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29
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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30
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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31
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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32
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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33
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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35
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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36
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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37
pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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38
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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39
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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40
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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41
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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42
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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43
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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44
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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45
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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46
charlatan
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| n.骗子；江湖医生；假内行 | |
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47
counterfeits
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| v.仿制，造假( counterfeit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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48
buffoon
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| n.演出时的丑角 | |
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49
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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50
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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51
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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52
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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