Chapter XVIII

           

           Inpointoffact,ImetStricklandbeforeIhadbeenafortnightinParis.

           IquicklyfoundmyselfatinyapartmentonthefifthfloorofahouseintheRuedesDames,andforacoupleofhundredfrancsboughtatasecond-handdealer’senoughfurnituretomakeithabitable.Iarrangedwiththeconciergetomakemycoffeeinthemorningandtokeeptheplaceclean.ThenIwenttoseemyfriendDirkStroeve.

           DirkStroevewasoneofthosepersonswhom,accordingtoyourcharacter,youcannotthinkofwithoutderisivelaughteroranembarrassedshrugoftheshoulders.Naturehadmadehimabuffoon.Hewasapainter,butaverybadone,whomIhadmetinRome,andIstillrememberedhispictures.Hehadagenuineenthusiasmforthecommonplace.Hissoulpalpitatingwithloveofart,hepaintedthemodelswhohungaboutthestairwayofBerniniinthePiazzadeSpagna,undauntedbytheirobviouspicturesqueness;andhisstudiowasfullofcanvasesonwhichwereportrayedmoustachioed,large-eyedpeasantsinpeakedhats,urchinsinbecomingrags,andwomeninbrightpetticoats.Sometimestheyloungedatthestepsofachurch,andsometimesdalliedamongcypressesagainstacloudlesssky;sometimestheymadelovebyaRenaissancewell-head,andsometimestheywanderedthroughtheCampagnabythesideofanox-waggon.Theywerecarefullydrawnandcarefullypainted.Aphotographcouldnothavebeenmoreexact.OneofthepaintersattheVillaMedicihadcalledhimLeMaitredelaBoiteaChocoloats.TolookathispicturesyouwouldhavethoughtthatMonet,Manet,andtherestoftheImpressionistshadneverbeen.

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