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Dirk Stroeve gave it a curious note； like an unresolved discord； but made it
somehow more modern； more human； like a rough joke thrown into a
serious scene； it heightened the poignancy which all beauty has。
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Chapter XXIV
Shortly before Christmas Dirk Stroeve came to ask me to spend the
holiday with him。 He had a characteristic sentimentality about the day
and wanted to pass it among his friends with suitable ceremonies。
Neither of us had seen Strickland for two or three weeks I because I had
been busy with friends who were spending a little while in Paris； and
Stroeve because； having quarreled with him more violently than usual； he
had made up his mind to have nothing more to do with him。 Strickland
was impossible； and he swore never to speak to him again。 But the season
touched him with gentle feeling； and he hated the thought of Strickland
spending Christmas Day by himself； he ascribed his own emotions to him；
and could not bear that on an occasion given up to good…fellowship the
lonely painter should be abandoned to his own melancholy。 Stroeve had
set up a Christmas…tree in his studio； and I suspected that we should both
find absurd little presents hanging on its festive branches； but he was shy
about seeing Strickland again； it was a little humiliating to forgive so
easily insults so outrageous； and he wished me to be present at the
reconciliation on which he was determined。
We walked together down the Avenue de Clichy； but Strickland was
not in the cafe。 It was too cold to sit outside； and we took our places on
leather benches within。 It was hot and stuffy； and the air was gray with
smoke。 Strickland did not come； but presently we saw the French painter
who occasionally played chess with him。 I had formed a casual
acquaintance with him； and he sat down at our table。 Stroeve asked him
if he had seen Strickland。
〃He's ill；〃 he said。 〃Didn't you know？〃
〃Seriously？〃
〃Very； I understand。〃
Stroeve's face grew white。
〃Why didn't he write and tell me？ How stupid of me to quarrel with
him。 We must go to him at once。 He can have no one to look after him。
Where does he live？〃
〃I have no idea；〃 said the Frenchman。
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We discovered that none of us knew how to find him。 Stroeve grew
more and more distressed。
〃He might die； and not a soul would know anything about it。 It's
dreadful。 I can't bear the thought。 We must find him at once。〃
I tried to make Stroeve understand that it was absurd to hunt vaguely
about Paris。 We must first think of some plan。
〃Yes； but all this time he may be dying； and when we get there it may
be too late to do anything。〃
〃Sit still and let us think；〃 I said impatiently。
The only address I knew was the Hotel des Belges； but Strickland had
long left that； and they would have no recollection of him。 With that
queer idea of his to keep his whereabouts secret； it was unlikely that； on
leaving； he had said where he was going。 Besides； it was more than five
years ago。 I felt pretty sure that he had not moved far。 If he continued to
frequent the same cafe as when he had stayed at the hotel； it was probably
because it was the most convenient。 Suddenly I remembered that he had
got his commission to paint a portrait through the baker from whom he
bought his bread； and it struck me that there one might find his address。 I
called for a directory and looked out the bakers。 There were five in the
immediate neighbourhood； and the only thing was to go to all of them。
Stroeve accompanied me unwillingly。 His own plan was to run up and
down the streets that led out of the Avenue de Clichy and ask at every
house if Strickland lived there。 My commonplace scheme was； after all；
effective； for in the second shop we asked at the woman behind the
counter acknowledged that she knew him。 She was not certain where he
lived； but it was in one of the three houses opposite。 Luck favoured us；
and in the first we tried the concierge told us that we should find him on
the top floor。
〃It appears that he's ill；〃 said Stroeve。
〃It may be；〃 answered the concierge indifferently。 〃； I
have not seen him for several days。〃
Stroeve ran up the stairs ahead of me； and when I reached the top floor
I found him talking to a workman in his shirt…sleeves who had opened a
door at which Stroeve had knocked。 He pointed to another door。 He
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believed that the person who lived there was a painter。 He had not seen
him for a week。 Stroeve made as though he were about to knock； and then
turned to me with a gesture of helplessness。 I saw that he was panic…
stricken。
〃Supposing he's dead？〃
〃Not he；〃 I said。
I knocked。 There was no answer。 I tried the handle； and found the
door unlocked。 I walked in； and Stroeve followed me。 The room was in
darkness。 I could only see that it was an attic； with a sloping roof； and
a faint glimmer； no more than a less profound obscurity； came from a
skylight。
〃Strickland；〃 I called。
There was no answer。 It was really rather mysterious； and it seemed
to me that Stroeve； standing just behind； was trembling in his shoes。 For
a moment I hesitated to strike a light。 I dimly perceived a bed in the corner；
and I wondered whether the light would disclose lying on it a dead body。
〃Haven't you got a match； you fool？〃
Strickland's voice； coming out of the darkness； harshly； made me start。
Stroeve cried out。
〃Oh； my God； I thought you were dead。〃
I struck a match； and looked about for a candle。 I had a rapid glimpse
of a tiny apartment； half room； half studio； in which was nothing but a bed；
canvases with their faces to the wall； an easel； a table； and a chair。 There
was no carpet on the floor。 There was no fire…place。 On the table；
crowded with paints； palette…knives； and litter of all kinds； was the end of
a candle。 I lit it。 Strickland was lying in the bed； uncomfortably
because it was too small for him； and he had put all his clothes over him
for warmth。 It was obvious at a glance that he was in a high fever。
Stroeve； his voice cracking with emotion； went up to him。
〃Oh； my poor friend； what is the matter with you？ I had no idea you
were ill。 Why didn't you let me know？ You must know I'd have done
anything in the world for you。 Were you thinking of what I said？ I didn't
mean it。 I was wrong。 It was stupid of me to take offence。〃
〃Go to hell；〃 said Strickland。
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〃Now； be reasonable。 Let me make you comfortable。 Haven't you
anyone to look after you？〃
He looked round the squalid attic in dismay。 He tried to arrange the
bed…clothes。 Strickland； breathing laboriously； kept an angry silence。
He gave me a resentful glance。 I stood quite quietly； looking at him。
〃If you want to do something for me； you can get me some milk；〃 he
said at last。 〃I haven't been able to get out for two days。〃 There was an
empty bottle by the side of the bed； which had contained milk； and in a
piece of newspaper a few crumbs。
〃What have you been having？〃 I asked。
〃Nothing。〃
〃For how long？〃 cried Stroeve。 〃Do you mean to say you've had
nothing to eat or drink for two days？ It's horrible。〃
〃I've had water。〃
His eyes dwelt for a momen