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〃Will you let me see your pictures？〃
〃Why should I？〃
〃I might feel inclined to buy one。〃
〃I might not feel inclined to sell one。〃
〃Are you making a good living？〃 I asked； smiling。
He chuckled。
〃Do I look it？〃
〃You look half starved。〃
〃I am half starved。〃
〃Then come and let's have a bit of dinner。〃
〃Why do you ask me？〃
〃Not out of charity；〃 I answered coolly。 〃I don't really care a
twopenny damn if you starve or not。〃
His eyes lit up again。
〃Come on； then；〃 he said； getting up。 〃I'd like a decent meal。〃
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Chapter XXI
I let him take me to a restaurant of his choice； but on the way I
bought a paper。 When we had ordered our dinner； I propped it against a
bottle of St。 Galmier and began to read。 We ate in silence。 I felt him
looking at me now and again； but I took no notice。 I meant to force him
to conversation。
〃Is there anything in the paper？〃 he said； as we approached the end of
our silent meal。
I fancied there was in his tone a slight note of exasperation。
〃I always like to read the on the drama；〃 I said。
I folded the paper and put it down beside me。
〃I've enjoyed my dinner；〃 he remarked。
〃I think we might have our coffee here； don't you？〃
〃Yes。〃
We lit our cigars。 I smoked in silence。 I noticed that now and then
his eyes rested on me with a faint smile of amusement。 I waited patiently。
〃What have you been up to since I saw you last？〃 he asked at length。
I had not very much to say。 It was a record of hard work and of little
adventure； of experiments in this direction and in that； of the gradual
acquisition of the knowledge of books and of men。 I took care to ask
Strickland nothing about his own doings。 I showed not the least interest in
him； and at last I was rewarded。 He began to talk of himself。 But with
his poor gift of expression he gave but indications of what he had gone
through； and I had to fill up the gaps with my own imagination。 It was
tantalising to get no more than hints into a character that interested me so
much。 It was like making one's way through a mutilated manuscript。 I
received the impression of a life which was a bitter struggle against every
sort of difficulty； but I realised that much which would have seemed
horrible to most people did not in the least affect him。 Strickland was
distinguished from most Englishmen by his perfect indifference to comfort；
it did not irk him to live always in one shabby room； he had no need to be
surrounded by beautiful things。 I do not suppose he had ever noticed
how dingy was the paper on the wall of the room in which on my first visit
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I found him。 He did not want arm…chairs to sit in； he really felt more at
his ease on a kitchen chair。 He ate with appetite； but was indifferent to
what he ate； to him it was only food that he devoured to still the pangs of
hunger； and when no food was to be had he seemed capable of doing
without。 I learned that for six months he had lived on a loaf of bread and
a bottle of milk a day。 He was a sensual man； and yet was indifferent to
sensual things。 He looked upon privation as no hardship。 There was
something impressive in the manner in which he lived a life wholly of the
spirit。
When the small sum of money which he brought with him from
London came to an end he suffered from no dismay。 He sold no pictures；
I think he made little attempt to sell any； he set about finding some way to
make a bit of money。 He told me with grim humour of the time he had
spent acting as guide to Cockneys who wanted to see the night side of life
in Paris； it was an occupation that appealed to his sardonic temper and
somehow or other he had acquired a wide acquaintance with the more
disreputable quarters of the city。 He told me of the long hours he spent
walking about the Boulevard de la Madeleine on the look…out for
Englishmen； preferably the worse for liquor； who desired to see things
which the law forbade。 When in luck he was able to make a tidy sum； but
the shabbiness of his clothes at last frightened the sight…seers； and he could
not find people adventurous enough to trust themselves to him。 Then he
happened on a job to translate the advertisements of patent medicines
which were sent broadcast to the medical profession in England。 During
a strike he had been employed as a house…painter。
Meanwhile he had never ceased to work at his art； but； soon tiring of
the studios； entirely by himself。 He had never been so poor that he could
not buy canvas and paint； and really he needed nothing else。 So far as I
could make out； he painted with great difficulty； and in his unwillingness
to accept help from anyone lost much time in finding out for himself the
solution of technical problems which preceding generations had already
worked out one by one。 He was aiming at something； I knew not what；
and perhaps he hardly knew himself； and I got again more strongly the
impression of a man possessed。 He did not seem quite sane。 It seemed
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to me that he would not show his pictures because he was really not
interested in them。 He lived in a dream； and the reality meant nothing to
him。 I had the feeling that he worked on a canvas with all the force of his
violent personality； oblivious of everything in his effort to get what he saw
with the mind's eye； and then； having finished； not the picture perhaps； for
I had an idea that he seldom brought anything to completion； but the
passion that fired him； he lost all care for it。 He was never satisfied with
what he had done； it seemed to him of no consequence compared with the
vision that obsessed his mind。
〃Why don't you ever send your work to exhibitions？〃 I asked。 〃I
should have thought you'd like to know what people thought about it。〃
〃Would you？〃
I cannot describe the unmeasurable contempt he put into the two
words。
〃Don't you want fame？ It's something that most artists haven't been
indifferent to。〃
〃Children。 How can you care for the opinion of the crowd； when you
don't care twopence for the opinion of the individual？〃
〃We're not all reasonable beings；〃 I laughed。
〃Who makes fame？ Critics； writers； stockbrokers； women。〃
〃Wouldn't it give you a rather pleasing sensation to think of people you
didn't know and had never seen receiving emotions； subtle and passionate；
from the work of your hands？ Everyone likes power。 I can't imagine a
more wonderful exercise of it than to move the souls of men to pity or
terror。〃
〃Melodrama。〃
〃Why do you mind if you paint well or badly？〃
〃I don't。 I only want to paint what I see。〃
〃I wonder if I could write on a desert island； with the certainty that no
eyes but mine would ever see what I had written。〃
Strickland did not speak for a long time； but his eyes shone strangely；
as though he saw something that kindled his soul to ecstasy。
〃Sometimes I've thought of an island lost in a boundless sea； where I
could live in some hidden valley； among strange trees； in silence。 There I
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think I could find what I want。〃
He did not express himself quite like this。 He used gestures instead
of adjectives； and he halted。 I have put into my own words what I think
he wanted to say。
〃Looking back on t