the moon and sixpence(月球和六便士)-第39章
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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
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carefully washed。 The knives and forks were put away in a drawer。
Under a cover were the remains of a piece of cheese； and in a tin box was
a crust of bread。 She had done her marketing from day to day； buying
only what was strictly 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 pang 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 standing 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 apron the apron hung
on a peg 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 drawn over
the great window； and he pulled them quickly back； but a sob 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 deliberately artistic。 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
tarnished； 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
surmounted 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
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Rome； and placed so as to make the most of their decorative 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 appreciation 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 nude。 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 downwards； 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 gasp。 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 jealousy and rage seized
him； and he cried out hoarsely； he was inarticulate； he clenched 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 hack the picture to pieces； it should not exist another minute。 He
could see nothing that would serve his purpose； he rummaged about his
painting things； somehow he could not find a thing； he was frantic。 At
last he came upon what he sought； a large scraper； and he pounced on it
with a cry of triumph。 He seized it as though it were a dagger； 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
brandished it。 He lifted his arm as though to strike； and then； opening his
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hand； let it fall with a clatter 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 awe。 I had
nearly committed a dreadful crime。 I moved a little to see it better； and
my foot knocked against the scraper。 I shuddered。〃
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 passionate sensuality which had in it something
miraculous； it was not only the solidity； so that you felt extraordinarily the
weight of the body； there was also a spirituality； troubling and new； which
led
