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suppose she had ever really cared for her husband； and what I had taken
for love was no more than the feminine response to caresses and comfort
which in the minds of most women passes for it。 It is a passive feeling
capable of being roused for any object； as the vine can grow on any tree；
and the wisdom of the world recognises its strength when it urges a girl to
marry the man who wants her with the assurance that love will follow。 It is
an emotion made up of the satisfaction in security； pride of property； the
pleasure of being desired； the gratification of a household； and it is only by
an amiable vanity that women ascribe to it spiritual value。 It is an
emotion which is defenceless against passion。 I suspected that Blanche
Stroeve's violent dislike of Strickland had in it from the beginning a vague
element of sexual attraction。 Who am I that I should seek to unravel the
mysterious intricacies of sex？ Perhaps Stroeve's passion excited without
satisfying that part of her nature； and she hated Strickland because she felt
in him the power to give her what she needed。 I think she was quite
sincere when she struggled against her husband's desire to bring him into
the studio； I think she was frightened of him； though she knew not why；
and I remembered how she had foreseen disaster。 I think in some curious
way the horror which she felt for him was a transference of the horror
which she felt for herself because he so strangely troubled her。 His
appearance was wild and uncouth； there was aloofness in his eyes and
sensuality in his mouth； he was big and strong； he gave the impression of
untamed passion； and perhaps she felt in him； too； that sinister element
which had made me think of those wild beings of the world's early history
when matter； retaining its early connection with the earth； seemed to
possess yet a spirit of its own。 If he affected her at all； it was inevitable
that she should love or hate him。 She hated him。
And then I fancy that the daily intimacy with the sick man moved her
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strangely。 She raised his head to give him food； and it was heavy against
her hand； when she had fed him she wiped his sensual mouth and his red
beard。 She washed his limbs； they were covered with thick hair； and
when she dried his hands； even in his weakness they were strong and
sinewy。 His fingers were long； they were the capable； fashioning fingers of
the artist； and I know not what troubling thoughts they excited in her。 He
slept very quietly； without a movement； so that he might have been dead；
and he was like some wild creature of the woods； resting after a long chase；
and she wondered what fancies passed through his dreams。 Did he dream
of the nymph flying through the woods of Greece with the satyr in hot
pursuit？ She fled； swift of foot and desperate； but he gained on her step by
step； till she felt his hot breath on her neck； and still she fled silently； and
silently he pursued； and when at last he seized her was it terror that thrilled
her heart or was it ecstasy？
Blanche Stroeve was in the cruel grip of appetite。 Perhaps she hated
Strickland still； but she hungered for him； and everything that had made up
her life till then became of no account。 She ceased to be a woman；
complex； kind and petulant； considerate and thoughtless； she was a
Maenad。 She was desire。
But perhaps this is very fanciful； and it may be that she was merely
bored with her husband and went to Strickland out of a callous curiosity。
She may have had no particular feeling for him； but succumbed to his wish
from propinquity or idleness； to find then that she was powerless in a snare
of her own contriving。 How did I know what were the thoughts and
emotions behind that placid brow and those cool gray eyes？
But if one could be certain of nothing in dealing with creatures so
incalculable as human beings； there were explanations of Blanche
Stroeve's behaviour which were at all events plausible。 On the other
hand； I did not understand Strickland at all。 I racked my brain； but could
in no way account for an action so contrary to my conception of him。 It
was not strange that he should so heartlessly have betrayed his friends'
confidence； nor that he hesitated not at all to gratify a whim at the cost of
another's misery。 That was in his character。 He was a man without any
conception of gratitude。 He had no compassion。 The emotions
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common to most of us simply did not exist in him； and it was as absurd to
blame him for not feeling them as for blaming the tiger because he is
fierce and cruel。 But it was the whim I could not understand。
I could not believe that Strickland had fallen in love with Blanche
Stroeve。 I did not believe him capable of love。 That is an emotion in
which tenderness is an essential part； but Strickland had no tenderness
either for himself or for others； there is in love a sense of weakness； a
desire to protect； an eagerness to do good and to give pleasure if not
unselfishness； at all events a selfishness which marvellously conceals itself；
it has in it a certain diffidence。 These were not traits which I could imagine
in Strickland。 Love is absorbing； it takes the lover out of himself； the most
clear…sighted； though he may know； cannot realise that his love will cease；
it gives body to what he knows is illusion； and； knowing it is nothing else；
he loves it better than reality。 It makes a man a little more than himself；
and at the same time a little less。 He ceases to be himself。 He is no
longer an individual； but a thing； an instrument to some purpose foreign to
his ego。 Love is never quite devoid of sentimentality； and Strickland was
the least inclined to that infirmity of any man I have known。 I could not
believe that he would ever suffer that possession of himself which love is；
he could never endure a foreign yoke。 I believed him capable of
uprooting from his heart； though it might be with agony； so that he was left
battered and ensanguined； anything that came between himself and that
uncomprehended craving that urged him constantly to he knew not what。
If I have succeeded at all in giving the complicated impression that
Strickland made on me； it will not seem outrageous to say that I felt he
was at once too great and too small for love。
But I suppose that everyone's conception of the passion is formed on
his own idiosyncrasies； and it is different with every different person。 A
man like Strickland would love in a manner peculiar to himself。 It was
vain to seek the analysis of his emotion。
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Chapter XXXI
Next day； though I pressed him to remain； Stroeve left me。 I offered
to fetch his things from the studio； but he insisted on going himself； I think
he hoped they had not thought of getting them together； so that he would
have an opportunity of seeing his wife again and perhaps inducing her to
come back to him。 But he found his traps waiting for him in the porter's
lodge； and the concierge told him that Blanche had gone out。 I do not think
he resisted the temptation of giving her an account of his troubles。 I
found that he was telling them to everyone he knew； he expected
sympathy； but only excited ridicule。
He bore himself most unbecomingly。 Knowing at what time his wife
did her shopping； one day； unable any longer to bear not seeing her； he
waylaid her in the street。 She would not speak to him； but he insisted on
speaking to her。 He splut