“He had no beard when I knew him, but if he has grown one it might well be red. The man I’m thinking of only began painting five years ago.”
“That’s it. He’s a great artist.”
“Impossible.”
“Have I ever been mistaken?” Dirk asked me. “I tell you he has genius. I’m convinced of it. In a hundred years, if you and I are remembered at all, it will be because we knew Charles Strickland.”
I was astonished, and at the same time I was very much excited. I remembered suddenly my last talk with him.
“Where can one see his work?” I asked. “Is he having any success? Where is he living?”
“No; he has no success. I don’t think he’s ever sold a picture. When you speak to men about him they only laugh. But I know he’s a great artist. After all, they laughed at Manet. Corot never sold a picture. I don’t know where he lives, but I can take you to see him. He goes to a café in the Avenue de Clichy at seven o’clock every evening. If you like we’ll go there to-morrow.”
“I’m not sure if he’ll wish to see me. I think I may remind him of a time he prefers to forget. But I’ll come all the same. Is there any chance of seeing any of his pictures?”
“Not from him. He won’t show you a thing. There’s a little dealer I know who has two or three. But you mustn’t go without me; you wouldn’t understand. I must show them to you myself.”
“Dirk, you make me impatient,” said Mrs. Stroeve. “How can you talk like that about his pictures when he treated you as he did?” She turned to me. “Do you know, when some Dutch people came here to buy Dirk’s pictures he tried to persuade them to buy Strickland’s? He insisted on bringing them here to show.”