It is here that I purposed to end my book. My first idea was to begin it with the account of Strickland's last years in Tahiti and with his horrible death, and then to go back and relate what I knew of his beginnings. This I meant to do, not from wilfulness, but because I wished to leave Strickland setting out with I know not what fancies in his lonely soul for the unknown islands which fired his imagination. I liked the picture of him starting at the age of forty-seven, when most men have already settled comfortably in a groove, for a new world. I saw him, the sea gray under the mistral and foam-flecked, watching the vanishing coast of France, which he was destined never to see again; and I thought there was something gallant in his bearing and dauntless in his soul. I wished so to end on a note of hope. It seemed to emphasise the unconquerable spirit of man. But I could not manage it. Somehow I could not get into my story, and after trying once or twice I had to give it up; I started from the beginning in the usual way, and made up my mind I could only tell what I knew of Strickland's life in the order in which I learnt the facts.

Those that I have now are fragmentary. I am in the position of a biologist who from a single bone must reconstruct not only the appearance of an extinct animal, but its habits. Strickland made no particular impression on the people who came in contact with him in Tahiti. To them he was no more than a beach-comber in constant need of money, remarkable only for the peculiarity that he painted pictures which seemed to them absurd; and it was not till he had been dead for some years and agents came from the dealers in Paris and Berlin to look for any pictures which might still remain on the island, that they had any idea that among them had dwelt a man of consequence. They remembered then that they could have bought for a song canvases which now were worth large sums, and they could not forgive themselves for the opportunity which had escaped them. There was a Jewish trader called Cohen, who had come by one of Strickland's pictures in a singular way. He was a little old Frenchman, with soft kind eyes and a pleasant smile, half trader and half seaman, who owned a cutter in which he wandered boldly among the Paumotus and the Marquesas, taking out trade goods and bringing back copra, shell, and pearls. I went to see him because I was told he had a large black pearl which he was willing to sell cheaply, and when I discovered that it was beyond my means I began to talk to him about Strickland. He had known him well.

"You see, I was interested in him because he was a painter, " he told me. "We don't get many painters in the islands, and I was sorry for him because he was such a bad one. I gave him his first job. I had a plantation on the peninsula, and I wanted a white overseer. You never get any work out of the natives unless you have a white man over them. I said to him: `You'll have plenty of time for painting, and you can earn a bit of money. ' I knew he was starving, but I offered him good wages. "

"I can't imagine that he was a very satisfactory overseer, " I said, smiling.

"I made allowances. I have always had a sympathy for artists. It is in our blood, you know. But he only remained a few months. When he had enough money to buy paints and canvases he left me. The place had got hold of him by then, and he wanted to get away into the bush. But I continued to see him now and then. He would turn up in Papeete every few months and stay a little while; he'd get money out of someone or other and then disappear again. It was on one of these visits that he came to me and asked for the loan of two hundred francs. He looked as if he hadn't had a meal for a week, and I hadn't the heart to refuse him. Of course, I never expected to see my money again. Well, a year later he came to see me once more, and he brought a picture with him. He did not mention the money he owed me, but he said: `Here is a picture of your plantation that I've painted for you. ' I looked at it. I did not know what to say, but of course I thanked him, and when he had gone away I showed it to my wife. "

"What was it like?" I asked.

"Do not ask me. I could not make head or tail of it. I never saw such a thing in my life. `What shall we do with it?' I said to my wife. `We can never hang it up, ' she said. `People would laugh at us. ' So she took it into an attic and put it away with all sorts of rubbish, for my wife can never throw anything away. It is her mania. Then, imagine to yourself, just before the war my brother wrote to me from Paris, and said: `Do you know anything about an English painter who lived in Tahiti? It appears that he was a genius, and his pictures fetch large prices. See if you can lay your hands on anything and send it to me. There's money to be made. ' So I said to my wife. `What about that picture that Strickland gave me?' Is it possible that it is still in the attic?' `Without doubt, ' she answered, ` for you know that I never throw anything away. It is my mania. ' We went up to the attic, and there, among I know not what rubbish that had been gathered during the thirty years we have inhabited that house, was the picture. I looked at it again, and I said: `Who would have thought that the overseer of my plantation on the peninsula, to whom I lent two hundred francs, had genius? Do you see anything in the picture?' `No, ' she said, `it does not resemble the plantation and I have never seen cocoa-nuts with blue leaves; but they are mad in Paris, and it may be that your brother will be able to sell it for the two hundred francs you lent Strickland. ' Well, we packed it up and we sent it to my brother. And at last I received a letter from him. What do you think he said? `I received your picture, ' he said, `and I confess I thought it was a joke that you had played on me. I would not have given the cost of postage for the picture. I was half afraid to show it to the gentleman who had spoken to me about it. Imagine my surprise when he said it was a masterpiece, and offered me thirty thousand francs. I dare say he would have paid more, but frankly I was so taken aback that I lost my head; I accepted the offer before I was able to collect myself. '"

Then Monsieur Cohen said an admirable thing.

"I wish that poor Strickland had been still alive. I wonder what he would have said when I gave him twenty-nine thousand eight hundred francs for his picture. "

这本书我本来准备就写到这里为止。我最初的计划是首先叙述一下思特里克兰德一生中最后几年是怎样在塔希提度过的，以及他悲惨的死亡，然后再回头来描写我所了解的他早年的生活。我预备这样做倒不是由于我的任性，而是因为想把思特里克兰德启程远航作为这本书的收尾；他那孤独的灵魂中怀着种种奇思遐想，终于向点燃起自己丰富想象的陌生的荒岛出发了。我喜欢这样一个画面：他活到四十七岁（到了这个年纪大多数人早已掉进舒适的生活沟槽里了）动身到天涯海角去寻找一个新世界；大海在凛冽的北风中一片灰蒙蒙，白沫四溅，他迷茫地盯视着逐渐消失、再也无法重见的法国海岸。我想他的这一行为含有某种豪迈的精神，他的灵魂里具有大无畏的勇气。我本来想让这本书结束的时候给人一线希望。我觉得这样也许能够突出思特里克兰德的不可征服的精神。但是我却写不好；不知为什么我不能把这些写下来，在试了一两次之后我还是放弃这样一个结构了。我走的还是老路子——从头儿开始。我决定按照我了解到的事实以先后顺序记叙我所知道的思特里克兰德的生平。

我掌握的事实只是一些断简残篇。我的处境很象一个生物学家，根据一根骨骼不仅要重新塑造出一个早已灭绝的生物的外貌，还要推测出它的生活习惯。思特里克兰德没有给那些在塔希提同他有接触的人留下什么特别的印象。在这些人眼睛里，他只不过是一个永远缺钱花的流浪汉，唯一与众不同的地方是他爱画一些他们认为是莫名其妙的画。直到他死了多年以后，巴黎和柏林的画商陆续派来几个代理人搜寻思特里克兰德可能散失在岛上的遗作时，这些人才多少认识到在他们当中一度生活过一位了不起的人物。他们这时想起来，当时只要花一点点钱就能买到今天已经价值连城的名画，他们白白让机会从眼皮底下溜掉，真是追悔莫及。塔希提有一位姓寇汉的犹太商人，手里存着思特里克兰德的一幅画；他得到这幅画的情况有一点不寻常。寇汉是个法国小老头，生着一对温柔、善良的眼睛，脸上总是堆着笑容；他一半是商人，一半是水手，自己有一只快艇，常常勇敢地往来于包莫图斯群岛、马克萨斯和塔希提群岛之间，运去当地需要的商品，载回来椰子干、蚌壳和珍珠。我去看他是因为有人告诉我他有一颗大黑珍珠要廉价出售。后来我发现他的要价超过我的支付能力，我便同他谈起思特里克兰德来。他同思特里克兰德很熟。

“你知道，我对他感兴趣是因为他是个画家，”他对我说，“很少有画家到我们这些岛上来，我很可怜他，因为我觉得他画的画很蹩脚。他的头一个工作就是我给他的。我在半岛上有一个种植园，需要一个白人监工。除非有个白人监督着他们，这些土人是绝不肯给你干活的。我对他说：‘你有的是时间画画儿，你还可以挣点钱。’我知道他正在挨饿，但是我给他的工资很高。”

“我想他不是一个令人满意的监工。”我笑着说。

“我对他的要求并不苛刻。我对艺术家总是同情的。我们一家人生来就是这样，你知道。但是他只干了几个月的活儿。等他攒够了钱，能够买油彩和画布的时候，他就想离开这地方，跑到荒林里去。但是我还是经常不断地能见到他。每过几个月他就到帕皮提来一次，待几天；他会从随便哪个人手里弄到点钱，于是又无影无踪了。正是在他这样一次访问时，他到我家里来，要向我借两百法郎。他的样子象是一个礼拜没吃一顿饱饭了，我不忍心拒绝他。当然了，我知道这笔钱我绝不会再要回来了。你猜怎么着，一年以后，他又来看我了，带着一幅画。他没提向我借钱的事，他只说：‘这是一幅你那座种植园的画，是我给你画的。’我看了看他的画。我不知道该说什么。当然了，我还是对他表示感谢。他走了以后，我把这幅画拿给我的妻子看。”

“他画得怎么样？”我问。

“别问我这个，我一点也看不懂。我活了一辈子也没见过这种画。‘这幅画咱们怎么办？’我问我的妻子说。‘什么时候也挂不出去，’她说，‘人家会笑掉大牙的，’就这样她把它拿到阁楼上，同各式各样的废物堆在一起。我的妻子什么东西也舍不得扔掉，这是她的习性。几年以后，你自己可以想象一下，正当大战爆发之前，我哥哥从巴黎给我写来一封信说：‘你是否听说过一个在塔希提住过的英国人？看来这人是个天才，他的画现在能卖大钱。看看你有没有办法弄到他画的任何东西，给我寄来。这件事很能赚钱。’于是我对我的妻子说：‘思特里克兰德给我的那张画还有没有？会不会仍然在阁楼上放着呢？’‘没错儿，’她回答说，‘你也知道，我什么东西都不扔。这是我的毛病。’我们两人走到阁楼上，这里堆着自从我们住到这所房子的第一天起积攒了三十年的各式各样的破烂货。那幅画就在这些我也弄不清楚到底都是些什么的废物堆里面。我又仔细看了看。我说：‘谁想得到，我的半岛上的种植园里的一个监工，一个向我借过两百法郎的人，居然是个伟大天才。你看得出这幅画哪点画得好吗？’‘看不出来，’她说，‘一点也不象咱们的种植园，再说我也从来没有见过椰子树长着蓝叶子。他们巴黎人简直发疯了，也说不定你哥哥能把那幅画卖两百法郎，正好能抵思特里克兰德欠我们的那笔债。’不管怎么说。我们还是把画包装好，给我哥哥寄去了。最后我收到了他的回信。你猜他信里面怎么说？‘画已收到，’他说，‘我必须承认，开始我还认为你在同我开玩笑。我真不应该出这笔寄费。我几乎没有胆量把它拿给同我谈过这件事的那位先生看。当他告诉我这是一件杰作，并出价三万法郎要购买它的时候，你可以想象到我是多么吃惊。我猜想他还肯出更多的钱。但是说老实话，这件事当时太出乎我的意料，弄得我简直晕头转向了。没等我脑子清醒过来以前，这笔生意已经拍板成交了。’”

接着，寇汉先生又说出几句着实令人起敬的话。

“我希望可怜的思特里克兰德还活着，我真想知道，在我把两万九千八百法郎卖画的钱交到他手里的时候，他会说什么。”

It is here that I purposed to end my book. My first idea was to begin it with the account of Strickland's last years in Tahiti and with his horrible death, and then to go back and relate what I knew of his beginnings. This I meant to do, not from wilfulness, but because I wished to leave Strickland setting out with I know not what fancies in his lonely soul for the unknown islands which fired his imagination. I liked the picture of him starting at the age of forty-seven, when most men have already settled comfortably in a groove, for a new world. I saw him, the sea gray under the mistral and foam-flecked, watching the vanishing coast of France, which he was destined never to see again; and I thought there was something gallant in his bearing and dauntless in his soul. I wished so to end on a note of hope. It seemed to emphasise the unconquerable spirit of man. But I could not manage it. Somehow I could not get into my story, and after trying once or twice I had to give it up; I started from the beginning in the usual way, and made up my mind I could only tell what I knew of Strickland's life in the order in which I learnt the facts.

Those that I have now are fragmentary. I am in the position of a biologist who from a single bone must reconstruct not only the appearance of an extinct animal, but its habits. Strickland made no particular impression on the people who came in contact with him in Tahiti. To them he was no more than a beach-comber in constant need of money, remarkable only for the peculiarity that he painted pictures which seemed to them absurd; and it was not till he had been dead for some years and agents came from the dealers in Paris and Berlin to look for any pictures which might still remain on the island, that they had any idea that among them had dwelt a man of consequence. They remembered then that they could have bought for a song canvases which now were worth large sums, and they could not forgive themselves for the opportunity which had escaped them. There was a Jewish trader called Cohen, who had come by one of Strickland's pictures in a singular way. He was a little old Frenchman, with soft kind eyes and a pleasant smile, half trader and half seaman, who owned a cutter in which he wandered boldly among the Paumotus and the Marquesas, taking out trade goods and bringing back copra, shell, and pearls. I went to see him because I was told he had a large black pearl which he was willing to sell cheaply, and when I discovered that it was beyond my means I began to talk to him about Strickland. He had known him well.

"You see, I was interested in him because he was a painter, " he told me. "We don't get many painters in the islands, and I was sorry for him because he was such a bad one. I gave him his first job. I had a plantation on the peninsula, and I wanted a white overseer. You never get any work out of the natives unless you have a white man over them. I said to him: `You'll have plenty of time for painting, and you can earn a bit of money. ' I knew he was starving, but I offered him good wages. "

"I can't imagine that he was a very satisfactory overseer, " I said, smiling.

"I made allowances. I have always had a sympathy for artists. It is in our blood, you know. But he only remained a few months. When he had enough money to buy paints and canvases he left me. The place had got hold of him by then, and he wanted to get away into the bush. But I continued to see him now and then. He would turn up in Papeete every few months and stay a little while; he'd get money out of someone or other and then disappear again. It was on one of these visits that he came to me and asked for the loan of two hundred francs. He looked as if he hadn't had a meal for a week, and I hadn't the heart to refuse him. Of course, I never expected to see my money again. Well, a year later he came to see me once more, and he brought a picture with him. He did not mention the money he owed me, but he said: `Here is a picture of your plantation that I've painted for you. ' I looked at it. I did not know what to say, but of course I thanked him, and when he had gone away I showed it to my wife. "

"What was it like?" I asked.

"Do not ask me. I could not make head or tail of it. I never saw such a thing in my life. `What shall we do with it?' I said to my wife. `We can never hang it up, ' she said. `People would laugh at us. ' So she took it into an attic and put it away with all sorts of rubbish, for my wife can never throw anything away. It is her mania. Then, imagine to yourself, just before the war my brother wrote to me from Paris, and said: `Do you know anything about an English painter who lived in Tahiti? It appears that he was a genius, and his pictures fetch large prices. See if you can lay your hands on anything and send it to me. There's money to be made. ' So I said to my wife. `What about that picture that Strickland gave me?' Is it possible that it is still in the attic?' `Without doubt, ' she answered, ` for you know that I never throw anything away. It is my mania. ' We went up to the attic, and there, among I know not what rubbish that had been gathered during the thirty years we have inhabited that house, was the picture. I looked at it again, and I said: `Who would have thought that the overseer of my plantation on the peninsula, to whom I lent two hundred francs, had genius? Do you see anything in the picture?' `No, ' she said, `it does not resemble the plantation and I have never seen cocoa-nuts with blue leaves; but they are mad in Paris, and it may be that your brother will be able to sell it for the two hundred francs you lent Strickland. ' Well, we packed it up and we sent it to my brother. And at last I received a letter from him. What do you think he said? `I received your picture, ' he said, `and I confess I thought it was a joke that you had played on me. I would not have given the cost of postage for the picture. I was half afraid to show it to the gentleman who had spoken to me about it. Imagine my surprise when he said it was a masterpiece, and offered me thirty thousand francs. I dare say he would have paid more, but frankly I was so taken aback that I lost my head; I accepted the offer before I was able to collect myself. '"

Then Monsieur Cohen said an admirable thing.

"I wish that poor Strickland had been still alive. I wonder what he would have said when I gave him twenty-nine thousand eight hundred francs for his picture. "

这本书我本来准备就写到这里为止。我最初的计划是首先叙述一下思特里克兰德一生中最后几年是怎样在塔希提度过的，以及他悲惨的死亡，然后再回头来描写我所了解的他早年的生活。我预备这样做倒不是由于我的任性，而是因为想把思特里克兰德启程远航作为这本书的收尾；他那孤独的灵魂中怀着种种奇思遐想，终于向点燃起自己丰富想象的陌生的荒岛出发了。我喜欢这样一个画面：他活到四十七岁（到了这个年纪大多数人早已掉进舒适的生活沟槽里了）动身到天涯海角去寻找一个新世界；大海在凛冽的北风中一片灰蒙蒙，白沫四溅，他迷茫地盯视着逐渐消失、再也无法重见的法国海岸。我想他的这一行为含有某种豪迈的精神，他的灵魂里具有大无畏的勇气。我本来想让这本书结束的时候给人一线希望。我觉得这样也许能够突出思特里克兰德的不可征服的精神。但是我却写不好；不知为什么我不能把这些写下来，在试了一两次之后我还是放弃这样一个结构了。我走的还是老路子——从头儿开始。我决定按照我了解到的事实以先后顺序记叙我所知道的思特里克兰德的生平。

我掌握的事实只是一些断简残篇。我的处境很象一个生物学家，根据一根骨骼不仅要重新塑造出一个早已灭绝的生物的外貌，还要推测出它的生活习惯。思特里克兰德没有给那些在塔希提同他有接触的人留下什么特别的印象。在这些人眼睛里，他只不过是一个永远缺钱花的流浪汉，唯一与众不同的地方是他爱画一些他们认为是莫名其妙的画。直到他死了多年以后，巴黎和柏林的画商陆续派来几个代理人搜寻思特里克兰德可能散失在岛上的遗作时，这些人才多少认识到在他们当中一度生活过一位了不起的人物。他们这时想起来，当时只要花一点点钱就能买到今天已经价值连城的名画，他们白白让机会从眼皮底下溜掉，真是追悔莫及。塔希提有一位姓寇汉的犹太商人，手里存着思特里克兰德的一幅画；他得到这幅画的情况有一点不寻常。寇汉是个法国小老头，生着一对温柔、善良的眼睛，脸上总是堆着笑容；他一半是商人，一半是水手，自己有一只快艇，常常勇敢地往来于包莫图斯群岛、马克萨斯和塔希提群岛之间，运去当地需要的商品，载回来椰子干、蚌壳和珍珠。我去看他是因为有人告诉我他有一颗大黑珍珠要廉价出售。后来我发现他的要价超过我的支付能力，我便同他谈起思特里克兰德来。他同思特里克兰德很熟。

“你知道，我对他感兴趣是因为他是个画家，”他对我说，“很少有画家到我们这些岛上来，我很可怜他，因为我觉得他画的画很蹩脚。他的头一个工作就是我给他的。我在半岛上有一个种植园，需要一个白人监工。除非有个白人监督着他们，这些土人是绝不肯给你干活的。我对他说：‘你有的是时间画画儿，你还可以挣点钱。’我知道他正在挨饿，但是我给他的工资很高。”

“我想他不是一个令人满意的监工。”我笑着说。

“我对他的要求并不苛刻。我对艺术家总是同情的。我们一家人生来就是这样，你知道。但是他只干了几个月的活儿。等他攒够了钱，能够买油彩和画布的时候，他就想离开这地方，跑到荒林里去。但是我还是经常不断地能见到他。每过几个月他就到帕皮提来一次，待几天；他会从随便哪个人手里弄到点钱，于是又无影无踪了。正是在他这样一次访问时，他到我家里来，要向我借两百法郎。他的样子象是一个礼拜没吃一顿饱饭了，我不忍心拒绝他。当然了，我知道这笔钱我绝不会再要回来了。你猜怎么着，一年以后，他又来看我了，带着一幅画。他没提向我借钱的事，他只说：‘这是一幅你那座种植园的画，是我给你画的。’我看了看他的画。我不知道该说什么。当然了，我还是对他表示感谢。他走了以后，我把这幅画拿给我的妻子看。”

“他画得怎么样？”我问。

“别问我这个，我一点也看不懂。我活了一辈子也没见过这种画。‘这幅画咱们怎么办？’我问我的妻子说。‘什么时候也挂不出去，’她说，‘人家会笑掉大牙的，’就这样她把它拿到阁楼上，同各式各样的废物堆在一起。我的妻子什么东西也舍不得扔掉，这是她的习性。几年以后，你自己可以想象一下，正当大战爆发之前，我哥哥从巴黎给我写来一封信说：‘你是否听说过一个在塔希提住过的英国人？看来这人是个天才，他的画现在能卖大钱。看看你有没有办法弄到他画的任何东西，给我寄来。这件事很能赚钱。’于是我对我的妻子说：‘思特里克兰德给我的那张画还有没有？会不会仍然在阁楼上放着呢？’‘没错儿，’她回答说，‘你也知道，我什么东西都不扔。这是我的毛病。’我们两人走到阁楼上，这里堆着自从我们住到这所房子的第一天起积攒了三十年的各式各样的破烂货。那幅画就在这些我也弄不清楚到底都是些什么的废物堆里面。我又仔细看了看。我说：‘谁想得到，我的半岛上的种植园里的一个监工，一个向我借过两百法郎的人，居然是个伟大天才。你看得出这幅画哪点画得好吗？’‘看不出来，’她说，‘一点也不象咱们的种植园，再说我也从来没有见过椰子树长着蓝叶子。他们巴黎人简直发疯了，也说不定你哥哥能把那幅画卖两百法郎，正好能抵思特里克兰德欠我们的那笔债。’不管怎么说。我们还是把画包装好，给我哥哥寄去了。最后我收到了他的回信。你猜他信里面怎么说？‘画已收到，’他说，‘我必须承认，开始我还认为你在同我开玩笑。我真不应该出这笔寄费。我几乎没有胆量把它拿给同我谈过这件事的那位先生看。当他告诉我这是一件杰作，并出价三万法郎要购买它的时候，你可以想象到我是多么吃惊。我猜想他还肯出更多的钱。但是说老实话，这件事当时太出乎我的意料，弄得我简直晕头转向了。没等我脑子清醒过来以前，这笔生意已经拍板成交了。’”

接着，寇汉先生又说出几句着实令人起敬的话。

“我希望可怜的思特里克兰德还活着，我真想知道，在我把两万九千八百法郎卖画的钱交到他手里的时候，他会说什么。”

The Chink's Head was a name the beach-combers gave to a wretched inn off the Rue Bouterie, kept by a one-eyed Chinaman, where for six sous you could sleep in a cot and for three on the floor. Here they made friends with others in as desperate condition as themselves, and when they were penniless and the night was bitter cold, they were glad to borrow from anyone who had earned a stray franc during the day the price of a roof over their heads. They were not niggardly, these tramps, and he who had money did not hesitate to share it among the rest. They belonged to all the countries in the world, but this was no bar to good-fellowship; for they felt themselves freemen of a country whose frontiers include them all, the great country of Cockaine.

"But I guess Strickland was an ugly customer when he was roused, " said Captain Nichols, reflectively. "One day we ran into Tough Bill in the Place, and he asked Charlie for the papers he'd given him. "

"`You'd better come and take them if you want them, ' says Charlie.

"He was a powerful fellow, Tough Bill, but he didn't quite like the look of Charlie, so he began cursing him. He called him pretty near every name he could lay hands on, and when Tough Bill began cursing it was worth listening to him. Well, Charlie stuck it for a bit, then he stepped forward and he just said: `Get out, you bloody swine. ' It wasn't so much what he said, but the way he said it. Tough Bill never spoke another word; you could see him go yellow, and he walked away as if he'd remembered he had a date. "

Strickland, according to Captain Nichols, did not use exactly the words I have given, but since this book is meant for family reading I have thought it better, at the expense of truth, to put into his mouth expressions familiar to the domestic circle.

Now, Tough Bill was not the man to put up with humiliation at the hands of a common sailor. His power depended on his prestige, and first one, then another, of the sailors who lived in his house told them that he had sworn to do Strickland in.

One night Captain Nichols and Strickland were sitting in one of the bars of the Rue Bouterie. The Rue Bouterie is a narrow street of one-storeyed houses, each house consisting of but one room; they are like the booths in a crowded fair or the cages of animals in a circus. At every door you see a woman. Some lean lazily against the side-posts, humming to themselves or calling to the passer-by in a raucous voice, and some listlessly read. They are French. Italian, Spanish, Japanese, coloured; some are fat and some are thin; and under the thick paint on their faces, the heavy smears on their eyebrows, and the scarlet of their lips, you see the lines of age and the scars of dissipation. Some wear black shifts and flesh-coloured stockings; some with curly hair, dyed yellow, are dressed like little girls in short muslin frocks. Through the open door you see a red-tiled floor, a large wooden bed, and on a deal table a ewer and a basin. A motley crowd saunters along the streets -- Lascars off a P. and O. , blond Northmen from a Swedish barque, Japanese from a man-of-war, English sailors, Spaniards, pleasant-looking fellows from a French cruiser, negroes off an American tramp. By day it is merely sordid, but at night, lit only by the lamps in the little huts, the street has a sinister beauty. The hideous lust that pervades the air is oppressive and horrible, and yet there is something mysterious in the sight which haunts and troubles you. You feel I know not what primitive force which repels and yet fascinates you. Here all the decencies of civilisation are swept away, and you feel that men are face to face with a sombre reality. There is an atmosphere that is at once intense and tragic.

In the bar in which Strickland and Nichols sat a mechanical piano was loudly grinding out dance music. Round the room people were sitting at table, here half a dozen sailors uproariously drunk, there a group of soldiers; and in the middle, crowded together, couples were dancing. Bearded sailors with brown faces and large horny hands clasped their partners in a tight embrace. The women wore nothing but a shift. Now and then two sailors would get up and dance together. The noise was deafening. People were singing, shouting, laughing; and when a man gave a long kiss to the girl sitting on his knees, cat-calls from the English sailors increased the din. The air was heavy with the dust beaten up by the heavy boots of the men, and gray with smoke. It was very hot. Behind the bar was seated a woman nursing her baby. The waiter, an undersized youth with a flat, spotty face, hurried to and fro carrying a tray laden with glasses of beer.

In a little while Tough Bill, accompanied by two huge negroes, came in, and it was easy to see that he was already three parts drunk. He was looking for trouble. He lurched against a table at which three soldiers were sitting and knocked over a glass of beer. There was an angry altercation, and the owner of the bar stepped forward and ordered Tough Bill to go. He was a hefty fellow, in the habit of standing no nonsense from his customers, and Tough Bill hesitated. The landlord was not a man he cared to tackle, for the police were on his side, and with an oath he turned on his heel. Suddenly he caught sight of Strickland. He rolled up to him. He did not speak. He gathered the spittle in his mouth and spat full in Strickland's face. Strickland seized his glass and flung it at him. The dancers stopped suddenly still. There was an instant of complete silence, but when Tough Bill threw himself on Strickland the lust of battle seized them all, and in a moment there was a confused scrimmage. Tables were overturned, glasses crashed to the ground. There was a hellish row. The women scattered to the door and behind the bar. Passers-by surged in from the street. You heard curses in every tongue the sound of blows, cries; and in the middle of the room a dozen men were fighting with all their might. On a sudden the police rushed in, and everyone who could made for the door. When the bar was more or less cleared, Tough Bill was lying insensible on the floor with a great gash in his head. Captain Nichols dragged Strickland, bleeding from a wound in his arm, his clothes in rags, into the street. His own face was covered with blood from a blow on the nose.

"I guess you'd better get out of Marseilles before Tough Bill comes out of hospital, " he said to Strickland, when they had got back to the Chink's Head and were cleaning themselves.

"This beats cock-fighting, " said Strickland.

I could see his sardonic smile.

Captain Nichols was anxious. He knew Tough Bill's vindictiveness. Strickland had downed the mulatto twice, and the mulatto, sober, was a man to be reckoned with. He would bide his time stealthily. He would be in no hurry, but one night Strickland would get a knife-thrust in his back, and in a day or two the corpse of a nameless beach-comber would be fished out of the dirty water of the harbour. Nichols went next evening to Tough Bill's house and made enquiries. He was in hospital still, but his wife, who had been to see him, said he was swearing hard to kill Strickland when they let him out.

A week passed.

"That's what I always say, " reflected Captain Nichols, "when you hurt a man, hurt him bad. It gives you a bit of time to look about and think what you'll do next. "

Then Strickland had a bit of luck. A ship bound for Australia had sent to the Sailors' Home for a stoker in place of one who had thrown himself overboard off Gibraltar in an attack of delirium tremens.

"You double down to the harbour, my lad, " said the Captain to Strickland, "and sign on. You've got your papers. "

Strickland set off at once, and that was the last Captain Nichols saw of him. The ship was only in port for six hours, and in the evening Captain Nichols watched the vanishing smoke from her funnels as she ploughed East through the wintry sea.

I have narrated all this as best I could, because I like the contrast of these episodes with the life that I had seen Strickland live in Ashley Gardens when he was occupied with stocks and shares; but I am aware that Captain Nichols was an outrageous liar, and I dare say there is not a word of truth in anything he told me. I should not be surprised to learn that he had never seen Strickland in his life, and owed his knowledge of Marseilles to the pages of a magazine.

“中国茅房”，这是一个流浪汉给一个独眼的中国人在布特里路附近开的一家鸡毛店起的名字。六个铜子可以睡在一张小床上，三个铜子儿可以打一宵地铺。他们在这里认识了不少同他们一样穷困潦倒的朋友，遇到他们分文不名、而夜里又天气奇冷的时候，他们会毫不犹豫地同哪个白天凑巧挣到一法郎的人借几文宿费。这些流浪汉并不吝啬，谁手头有钱都乐于同别人分享。他们来自世界各个地方，但是大家都很讲交情，并不因国籍不同而彼此见外，因为他们都觉得自己是一个国家——安乐乡的自由臣民；这个国家领土辽阔，把他们这些人全部囊括在自己的领域里。

“可是思特里克兰德要是生起气来，我看可不是好惹的，”尼柯尔斯船长回忆当时的情况说，“有一天我们在广场上碰见了硬汉子彼尔，彼尔想讨回他给查理斯的身份证明。”

“‘你要是想要，就自己来拿吧，’查理斯说。”

“彼尔是个身强力壮的大汉，但是被查理斯的样子给镇住了，他只是不住口地咒骂，所有能够用上的脏字眼儿都用到了。硬汉子彼尔开口骂人是很值得一听的事。开始的时候，查理斯不动声色地听着，过了一会儿，他往前迈了一步，只说了一句：‘滚蛋，你他妈的这只猪猡。’他骂的这句话倒没什么，重要的是他骂人的样子。硬汉子彼尔马上住了口，你可以看出来他胆怯了。他连忙转身走开，好象突然记起自己还有个约会似的。”

按照尼柯尔斯船长的叙述，思特里克兰德当时骂人的话同我写的并不一样，但既然这是一本供家庭阅读消遣的书，我觉得不妨违反一些真实性，还是改换几个雅俗共赏的字眼儿为好。

且说硬汉子彼尔并不是个受了普通水手侮辱而隐忍不发的人。他的权势完全靠着他的威信；一个住在他开的寄宿舍的水手对他俩说，彼尔发誓要把思特里克兰德干掉，后来又有另外一个人告诉他们同样的消息。

一天晚上，尼柯尔斯船长和思特里克兰德正坐在布特里路的一家酒吧间里。布特里路是一条狭窄的街道，两旁都是一间间的平房，每所房子只有一间小屋，就象拥挤的集市棚子或者马戏团的兽笼。每间屋子门口都可以看到一个女人。有的懒洋洋地靠着门框，或者哼着小曲，或者用沙哑的嗓子向过路人打招呼，也有的无精打采地看一本书。她们有的是法国人，有的是意大利人，有的是西班牙人，有的是日本人，也有的是黑人；有的胖，有的瘦；在厚厚的脂粉、乌黑的眼眉和猩红的唇脂下面，你可以看到岁月在她们脸上刻下的痕迹和堕落放荡留下的伤疤。她们有的人穿着黑色内衫和肉色长袜，有的头发卷曲、染成金黄颜色，穿着纱衣，打扮得象小女孩。从敞开的门外边，可以看到屋子里的红砖地，一张大木床，牌桌上摆着一只大口水罐和一个面盆。街头上形形色色的人踱来踱去——邮轮上的印度水手，瑞典三桅帆船上的金发的北欧人，军舰上的日本兵，英国水手，西班牙人，法国巡洋舰上英俊的水兵，美国货轮上的黑人。白天，这里污秽肮脏，但是到了夜里，在小屋子的灯光照耀下，这条街就有一种罪恶的魅力。弥漫在空中的丑恶的淫欲使人感到窒息，简直是可怕的，但是在这一切缠绕着你、激动着你的景象里却有某种神秘的东西。你觉得有一种人们并不了解的原始力量又让你厌恶，又深深地把你迷住。在这里，一切文明、体面都已荡然无存，人们面对的只是阴郁的现实，一种既热烈又悲哀的气氛笼罩着一切。

在思特里克兰德和尼柯尔斯坐的酒吧间里摆着一架自动钢琴，机械地演奏着喧噪聒耳的舞曲。屋子四周人们围坐在小桌旁边，这边六七个水手已经喝得半醉，吵吵嚷嚷，那边坐着的是一群士兵。屋子中央人们正一对对地挤在一起跳舞。留着大胡子、面色黝黑的水手用粗硬的大手使劲搂着自己的舞伴。女人们身上只穿着内衫。不时地也有两个水手站起来互相搂着跳舞。喧闹的声音震耳欲聋。没有一个人不在喝，不在叫，不在高声大笑；当一个人使劲吻了一下坐在他膝头上的女人时，英国的水手中就有人嘘叫，更增加了屋子的嘈杂。男人们的大靴子扬起的尘土和口里喷出的烟雾弄得屋子乌烟瘴气。空气又闷又热。卖酒的柜台后面坐着一个女人在给孩子喂奶。一个身材矮小、生着一张长满雀斑的扁脸年轻侍者，托着摆满啤酒杯子的托盘不住脚地走来走去。

过了不大一会儿工夫，硬汉子彼尔在两个高大黑人的陪同下走了进来。一眼就可以看出，他已经有七八分醉意了。他正在故意寻衅闹事。一进门彼尔就东倒西歪地撞在一张台子上，把一杯啤酒打翻了。坐在这张桌子边上的是三个士兵，双方马上争吵起来。酒吧间老板走出来，叫硬汉子彼尔走出去。老板脾气暴烈，从来不容顾客在他的酒馆闹事。硬汉子彼尔气焰有些收敛，他不太敢同酒吧间老板冲突，因为老板有警察作后盾。彼尔骂了一句，掉转了身躯。忽然，他一眼看见了思特里克兰德。他摇摇晃晃地走到思特里克兰德前边，一句话不说，嘬了一口唾沫，直啐到思特里克兰德脸上。思特里克兰德抄起酒杯，向他扔去。跳舞的人都停了下来。有那么一分钟，整个酒吧间变得非常安静，一点声音也没有。但是等硬汉子彼尔扑到思特里克兰德身上的时候，所有的人的斗志都变得激昂起来。刹那间，酒吧间开始了一场混战。啤酒台子打翻了，玻璃杯在地上摔得粉碎。双方厮打得越来越厉害。女人们躲到门边和柜台后面去，过路的行人从街头涌进来。只听见到处一片咒骂声、拳击声、喊叫声，屋子中间，一打左右的人打得难解难分。突然间，警察冲了进来，所有的人都争先恐后地往门外窜。当酒吧间里多少清静下来以后，只见硬汉子彼尔人事不醒地躺在地上，头上裂了个大口子。尼柯尔斯船长拽着思特里克兰德逃到外面街上，思特里克兰德的胳臂淌着血，衣服撕得一条一条的。尼柯尔斯船长也是满脸血污；他的鼻子挨了一拳。

“我看在硬汉子彼尔出院以前，你还是离开马赛吧，”当他俩回到“中国茅房”开始清洗的时候，他对思特里克兰德说。

“真比斗鸡还热闹，”思特里克兰德说。

我仿佛看到了他脸上讥嘲的笑容。

尼柯尔斯船长非常担心。他知道硬汉子彼尔是睚眦必报的。思特里克兰德叫这个混血儿丢了大脸，彼尔头脑清醒的时候，是要小心提防的。他不会马上就动手，他会暗中等待一个适宜时机。早晚有一天夜里，思特里克兰德的脊背上会叫人捅上一刀，一两天以后，从港口的污水里会捞上一具无名流浪汉的尸体。第二天晚上尼柯尔斯到硬汉子彼尔家里去打听了一下。彼尔仍然住在医院里，但是他妻子已经去看过他。据他妻子说，彼尔赌天誓日说，他一出院就要结果思特里克兰德的性命。

又过了一个星期。

“我总是说，”尼柯尔斯船长继续回忆当时的情况，“要打人就把他打得厉厉害害的。这会给你一点时间，思考一下下一步该怎么办。”

这以后思特里克兰德交了一步好运。一艘开往澳大利亚的轮船到水手之家去要一名司炉，原来的司炉因为神经错乱在直布罗陀附近投海自杀了。

“你一分钟也别耽误，伙计，立刻到码头去，”船长对思特里克兰德说，“赶快签上你的名字。你是有证明文件的。”

思特里克兰德马上就出发了。尼柯尔斯船长从此再也没有同他见面。这艘轮船在码头只停泊了六小时，傍晚时分，尼柯尔斯船长看着轮船烟囱冒出的黑烟逐渐稀薄，轮船正在寒冬的海面上乘风破浪向东驶去。

我尽量把这些故事叙述得生动一些，因为我喜欢拿这一段经历同他住在伦敦阿施里花园时的生活进行对比，当时他忙着做股票生意，那时的生活我是亲眼见过的。但是我也非常清楚，尼柯尔斯船长是个大言不惭的牛皮大王，他告诉我的这些事也有可能没有一句是真话。今后我如果发现思特里克兰德在世的时候根本不认识他，他对马赛的知识完全来自一本杂志，我是一点也不会感到吃惊的。

I have tried to put some connection into the various things Captain Nichols told me about Strickland, and I here set them down in the best order I can. They made one another's acquaintance during the latter part of the winter following my last meeting with Strickland in Paris. How he had passed the intervening months I do not know, but life must have been very hard, for Captain Nichols saw him first in the Asile de Nuit. There was a strike at Marseilles at the time, and Strickland, having come to the end of his resources, had apparently found it impossible to earn the small sum he needed to keep body and soul together.

The Asile de Nuit is a large stone building where pauper and vagabond may get a bed for a week, provided their papers are in order and they can persuade the friars in charge that they are workingmen. Captain Nichols noticed Strickland for his size and his singular appearance among the crowd that waited for the doors to open; they waited listlessly, some walking to and fro, some leaning against the wall, and others seated on the curb with their feet in the gutter; and when they filed into the office he heard the monk who read his papers address him in English. But he did not have a chance to speak to him, since, as he entered the common-room, a monk came in with a huge Bible in his arms, mounted a pulpit which was at the end of the room, and began the service which the wretched outcasts had to endure as the price of their lodging. He and Strickland were assigned to different rooms, and when, thrown out of bed at five in the morning by a stalwart monk, he had made his bed and washed his face, Strickland had already disappeared. Captain Nichols wandered about the streets for an hour of bitter cold, and then made his way to the Place Victor Gelu, where the sailor-men are wont to congregate. Dozing against the pedestal of a statue, he saw Strickland again. He gave him a kick to awaken him.

"Come and have breakfast, mate, " he said.

"Go to hell, " answered Strickland.

I recognised my friend's limited vocabulary, and I prepared to regard Captain Nichols as a trustworthy witness.

"Busted?" asked the Captain.

"Blast you, " answered Strickland.

"Come along with me. I'll get you some breakfast. "

After a moment's hesitation, Strickland scrambled to his feet, and together they went to the Bouchee de Pain, where the hungry are given a wedge of bread, which they must eat there and then, for it is forbidden to take it away; and then to the Cuillere de Soupe, where for a week, at eleven and four, you may get a bowl of thin, salt soup. The two buildings are placed far apart, so that only the starving should be tempted to make use of them. So they had breakfast, and so began the queer companionship of Charles Strickland and Captain Nichols.

They must have spent something like four months at Marseilles in one another's society. Their career was devoid of adventure, if by adventure you mean unexpected or thrilling incident, for their days were occupied in the pursuit of enough money to get a night's lodging and such food as would stay the pangs of hunger. But I wish I could give here the pictures, coloured and racy, which Captain Nichols' vivid narrative offered to the imagination. His account of their discoveries in the low life of a seaport town would have made a charming book, and in the various characters that came their way the student might easily have found matter for a very complete dictionary of rogues. But I must content myself with a few paragraphs. I received the impression of a life intense and brutal, savage, multicoloured, and vivacious. It made the Marseilles that I knew, gesticulating and sunny, with its comfortable hotels and its restaurants crowded with the well-to-do, tame and commonplace. I envied men who had seen with their own eyes the sights that Captain Nichols described.

When the doors of the Asile de Nuit were closed to them, Strickland and Captain Nichols sought the hospitality of Tough Bill. This was the master of a sailors' boarding-house, a huge mulatto with a heavy fist, who gave the stranded mariner food and shelter till he found him a berth. They lived with him a month, sleeping with a dozen others, Swedes, negroes, Brazilians, on the floor of the two bare rooms in his house which he assigned to his charges; and every day they went with him to the Place Victor Gelu, whither came ships' captains in search of a man. He was married to an American woman, obese and slatternly, fallen to this pass by Heaven knows what process of degradation, and every day the boarders took it in turns to help her with the housework. Captain Nichols looked upon it as a smart piece of work on Strickland's part that he had got out of this by painting a portrait of Tough Bill. Tough Bill not only paid for the canvas, colours, and brushes, but gave Strickland a pound of smuggled tobacco into the bargain. For all I know, this picture may still adorn the parlour of the tumbledown little house somewhere near the Quai de la Joliette, and I suppose it could now be sold for fifteen hundred pounds. Strickland's idea was to ship on some vessel bound for Australia or New Zealand, and from there make his way to Samoa or Tahiti. I do not know how he had come upon the notion of going to the South Seas, though I remember that his imagination had long been haunted by an island, all green and sunny, encircled by a sea more blue than is found in Northern latitudes. I suppose that he clung to Captain Nichols because he was acquainted with those parts, and it was Captain Nichols who persuaded him that he would be more comfortable in Tahiti.

"You see, Tahiti's French, " he explained to me. "And the French aren't so damned technical. "

I thought I saw his point.

Strickland had no papers, but that was not a matter to disconcert Tough Bill when he saw a profit (he took the first month's wages of the sailor for whom he found a berth), and he provided Strickland with those of an English stoker who had providentially died on his hands. But both Captain Nichols and Strickland were bound East, and it chanced that the only opportunities for signing on were with ships sailing West. Twice Strickland refused a berth on tramps sailing for the United States, and once on a collier going to Newcastle. Tough Bill had no patience with an obstinacy which could only result in loss to himself, and on the last occasion he flung both Strickland and Captain Nichols out of his house without more ado. They found themselves once more adrift.

Tough Bill's fare was seldom extravagant, and you rose from his table almost as hungry as you sat down, but for some days they had good reason to regret it. They learned what hunger was. The Cuillere de Soupe and the Asile de Nuit were both closed to them, and their only sustenance was the wedge of bread which the Bouchee de Pain provided. They slept where they could, sometimes in an empty truck on a siding near the station, sometimes in a cart behind a warehouse; but it was bitterly cold, and after an hour or two of uneasy dozing they would tramp the streets again. What they felt the lack of most bitterly was tobacco, and Captain Nichols, for his part, could not do without it; he took to hunting the "Can o' Beer, " for cigarette-ends and the butt-end of cigars which the promenaders of the night before had thrown away.

"I've tasted worse smoking mixtures in a pipe, " he added, with a philosophic shrug of his shoulders, as he took a couple of cigars from the case I offered him, putting one in his mouth and the other in his pocket.

Now and then they made a bit of money. Sometimes a mail steamer would come in, and Captain Nichols, having scraped acquaintance with the timekeeper, would succeed in getting the pair of them a job as stevedores. When it was an English boat, they would dodge into the forecastle and get a hearty breakfast from the crew. They took the risk of running against one of the ship's officers and being hustled down the gangway with the toe of a boot to speed their going.

"There's no harm in a kick in the hindquarters when your belly's full, " said Captain Nichols, "and personally I never take it in bad part. An officer's got to think about discipline. "

I had a lively picture of Captain Nichols flying headlong down a narrow gangway before the uplifted foot of an angry mate, and, like a true Englishman, rejoicing in the spirit of the Mercantile Marine.

There were often odd jobs to be got about the fish-market. Once they each of them earned a franc by loading trucks with innumerable boxes of oranges that had been dumped down on the quay. One day they had a stroke of luck: one of the boarding-masters got a contract to paint a tramp that had come in from Madagascar round the Cape of Good Hope, and they spent several days on a plank hanging over the side, covering the rusty hull with paint. It was a situation that must have appealed to Strickland's sardonic humour. I asked Captain Nichols how he bore himself during these hardships.

"Never knew him say a cross word, " answered the Captain. "He'd be a bit surly sometimes, but when we hadn't had a bite since morning, and we hadn't even got the price of a lie down at the Chink's, he'd be as lively as a cricket. "

I was not surprised at this. Strickland was just the man to rise superior to circumstances, when they were such as to occasion despondency in most; but whether this was due to equanimity of soul or to contradictoriness it would be difficult to say.

我试图把尼柯尔斯船长给我讲的一些有关思特里克兰德的事连贯起来，下面我将尽量按照事情发生的先后次序记载。他们两人是我同思特里克兰德在巴黎最后会面的那年冬末认识的。思特里克兰德和尼柯尔斯船长相遇以前的一段日子是怎么过的，我一点也不清楚；但是他的生活肯定非常潦倒，因为尼柯尔斯船长第一次看到他是在夜宿店里。当时马赛正发生一场罢工，思特里克兰德已经到了山穷水尽的地步，显然连勉强赖以糊口的一点钱也挣不到了。

夜宿店是一幢庞大的石头建筑物，穷人和流浪汉，凡是持有齐全的身份证明并能让负责这一机构的修道士相信他本是干活吃饭的人，都能在这里寄宿一个星期。尼柯尔斯在等着寄宿舍开门的一群人里面注意到思特里克兰德，因为斯特里克兰德身躯高大样子又非常古怪，非常引人注目。这些人没精打采地在门外等候着，有的来回踱步，有的懒洋洋地靠着墙，也有的坐在马路牙子上，两脚伸在水沟里。最后，当所有的人们排着队走进了办公室，尼柯尔斯船长听见检查证件的修道士同思特里克兰德谈话用的是英语。但是他并没有机会同思特里克兰德说话，因为人们刚一走进公共休息室，马上就走来一位捧着一本大《圣经》的传教士，登上屋子一头的讲台，布起道来；作为住宿的代价，这些可怜的流浪者必须耐心地忍受着。尼柯尔斯船长和思特里克兰德没有分配在同一间屋子里，第二天清晨五点钟，一个高大粗壮的教士把投宿的人们从床上赶下来，等到尼柯尔斯整理好床铺、洗过脸以后，思特里克兰德已经没影了。尼柯尔斯船长在寒冷刺骨的街头徘徊了一个钟头，最后走到一个水手们经常聚会的地方——维克多·耶鲁广场。他在广场上又看见了思特里克兰德，思特里克兰德正靠着一座石雕像的底座打盹。他踢了思特里克兰德一脚，把他从梦中踢醒。

“来跟我吃早饭去，朋友。”他说。

“去你妈的。”思特里克兰德说。

我一听就是我那位老朋友的语气，这时我决定把尼柯尔斯船长看作是一位可以信任的证人了。

“一个子儿也没有了吧？”船长又问。

“滚你的蛋。”思特里克兰德说。

“跟我来。我给你弄顿早饭吃。”

犹豫了一会儿，思特里克兰德从地上爬起来，两个人向一处施舍面包的救济所走去。饿饭的人可以在那里得到一块面包，但是必须当时吃掉，不准拿走。吃完面包，他们又到一个施舍汤的救济所，每天十一点到四点可以在那里得到一碗盐水稀汤，但不能连续领取一个星期。这两个机构中间隔着一大段路，除非实在饿得要命，谁也懒得跑两个地方。他们就这样吃了早饭，查理斯·思特里克兰德同尼柯尔斯船长也就这样交上了朋友。

这两个人大概在马赛一起度过四个月。他俩的生活没有什么奇遇——如果奇遇意味着一件意料之外或者令人激动的事；因为他们的时间完全用在为了生活四处奔波上，他们要想弄到些钱晚间找个寻宿的地方，更要买些吃的东西对付辘辘饥肠。我真希望我能画出几幅绚丽多彩的图画，把尼柯尔斯船长的生动叙述在我想象中唤起的一幅幅画面也让读者看到。他叙述他们两人在这个海港的下层生活中的种种冒险完全可以写成一本极有趣味的书，从他们遇到的形形色色的人物身上，一个研究民俗学的人也可以找到足够的材料编纂一本有关流浪汉的大辞典。但是在这本书里我却只能用不多几段文字描写他们这一段生活。我从他的谈话得到的印象是：马赛的生活既紧张又粗野，丰富多采，鲜明生动。相形之下，我所了解的马赛——人群杂沓、阳光灿烂，到处是舒适的旅馆和挤满了有钱人的餐馆——简直变得平淡无奇、索然寡味了。那些亲眼见过尼柯尔斯船长描绘给我听的景象的人真是值得羡慕啊。

当夜宿店对他们下了逐客令以后，思特里克兰德同尼柯尔斯船长就在硬汉子彼尔那里找到另外一处歇夜的地方。硬汉子彼尔是一家水手寄宿舍的老板，是一个身躯高大、生着一对硬拳头的黑白混血儿。他给暂时失业的水手们提供食宿，直到在船上给他们找到工作为止。思特里克兰德同尼柯尔斯船长在他这里住了一个月，同十来个别的人，瑞典人、黑人、巴西人，一起睡在寄宿舍两间屋子的地板上。这两间屋子什么家具也没有，彼尔就分配他们住在这里。每天他都带着这些人到维克多·耶鲁广场去，轮船的船长需要雇用什么人都到这个地方来。这个混血儿的老婆是一个非常邋遢的美国胖女人，谁也不知道这个美国人怎么会堕落到这一地步。寄宿的人每天轮流帮助她做家务事。思特里克兰德给硬汉子彼尔画了一张肖像作为食宿的报酬，尼柯尔斯船长认为这对思特里克兰德来讲是一件占了大便宜的事。彼尔不但出钱给他买了画布、油彩和画笔，而且还给了他一磅偷运上岸的烟草。据我所知，这幅画今天可能还挂在拉·柔那特码头附近一所破旧房子的客厅里，我估计现在可能值一千五百英镑了。思特里克兰德的计划是先搭一条去澳大利亚或新西兰的轮船，然后再转途去萨摩亚或者塔希提。我不知道他怎么会动念要到南太平洋去，虽然我还记得他早就幻想到一个充满阳光的绿色小岛，到一个四围一片碧波、海水比北半球任何海洋更蓝的地方去。我想他所以攀住尼柯尔斯船长不放也是因为尼柯尔斯熟悉这一地区，最后劝他到塔希提，认为这个地方比其他任何地方都更舒服，也完全是尼柯尔斯的主意。

“你知道，塔希提是法国领土，”尼柯尔斯对我解释说，“法国人办事不他妈的那么机械。”

我想我明白他说这句话的意思。

思特里克兰德没有证件，但是硬汉子彼尔只要有利可图（他替哪个水手介绍工作都要把人家第一个月的工资扣去），对这一点是不以为意的。凑巧有一个英国籍的司炉住在他这里的时候死掉了，他就把这个人的证明文件给了思特里克兰德。但是尼柯尔斯船长同思特里克兰德两个人都要往东走，而当时需要雇用水手的船恰好都是西行的。有两次驶往美国的货轮上需要人干活都被思特里克兰德拒绝了，另外还有一艘到纽卡斯尔的煤船他也不肯去。思特里克兰德这种拗脾气结果只能叫硬汉子彼尔吃亏，最后他失去了耐性，一脚把思特里克兰德同尼柯尔斯船长两个人一起踢出了大门。这两个人又一次流落到街头。

硬汉子彼尔寄宿舍的饭菜从来也称不上丰盛，吃过饭从餐桌旁站起来跟刚坐下一样饿得慌，但是尽管如此，有好几天两个人对那里的伙食还是怀念不已。他们这次真正尝到挨饿是什么滋味了。施舍菜汤的地方同夜宿舍都已经对他们关了门，现在他们赖以果腹的只剩下面包施舍处给的一小片面包了。夜里，他们能在哪儿睡觉就在哪儿睡觉，有时候在火车站岔道上一个空车皮里，有时候在货站后面一辆卡车里。但是天气冷得要命，常常是迷迷糊糊地打一两个钟头的盹儿就得到街上走一阵暖和暖和身体。他们最难受的是没有烟抽，尼柯尔斯船长没有烟简直活不下去，于是他就开始到小啤酒馆去捡那些头天晚上夜游的人扔的烟屁股和雪茄头。

“我的烟斗就是比这更不是味儿的杂八凑烟也抽过，”他加添了一句，自我解嘲地耸了耸肩膀。在他说这句话的时候又从我递过去的烟盒里拿了两支雪茄，一支衔在嘴上，一支揣在口袋里。

偶然他们也有机会挣到一点儿钱。有时候一艘邮轮开进港，尼柯尔斯船长同雇用计时员攀上交情，会给两人找个临时装卸工的活儿。如果是一艘英国船，他们会溜进前甲板下面的舱房里，在水手那里饱餐一顿。当然，这样做要冒一定的风险，如果遇见船上的高级船员，他们就要从跳板上被赶下来，为了催他们动作快一些，屁股后面还要挨一靴子。

“一个人只要肚子吃饱，屁股叫人踢一脚算不得什么，”尼柯尔斯船长说，“拿我个人说，我是从来不生气的。高级船员理应考虑船上的风纪的。”

我的脑子里活生生地出现一幅图画：一个气冲冲的大副飞起一脚，尼柯尔斯船长脑袋朝下地从窄窄的跳板上滚下来；象一个真正的英国人那样，他对英国商船队的这种纪律严明的精神非常高兴。

在鱼市场里也不时能够找点零活儿干。还有一次，卡车要把堆在码头上的许多筐桔子运走，思特里克兰德同尼柯尔斯船长帮助装车，每人挣了一法郎。有一天两人很走运：一条从马达加斯加绕过好望角开来的货轮需要上油漆，一个开寄宿店的老板弄到包工合同，他们两个人一连几天站在悬在船帮旁边的一条木板上，往锈迹斑斑的船壳上涂油漆。这件差事肯定很投合思特里克兰德的惯受讽嘲的脾气。我向尼柯尔斯船长打听，在那困顿的日子里，思特里克兰德有什么反应。

“从来没听他说过一句丧气话，”船长回答说，“有时候他有点儿闷闷不乐，但是就是在我们整天吃不到一口饭，连在中国佬那里歇宿的房钱都弄不到手的时候，他仍然象蛐蛐一样欢蹦乱跳。”

我对此并不觉得惊奇。思特里克兰德正是超然于周围环境之外的人，就是在最沮丧的情况下也是如此。这到底是由于心灵的宁静还是矛盾对立，那是难以说清的。

Had not been in Tahiti long before I met Captain Nichols. He came in one morning when I was having breakfast on the terrace of the hotel and introduced himself. He had heard that I was interested in Charles Strickland, and announced that he was come to have a talk about him. They are as fond of gossip in Tahiti as in an English village, and one or two enquiries I had made for pictures by Strickland had been quickly spread. I asked the stranger if he had breakfasted.

"Yes; I have my coffee early, " he answered, "but I don't mind having a drop of whisky. "

I called the Chinese boy.

"You don't think it's too early?" said the Captain.

"You and your liver must decide that between you, " I replied.

"I'm practically a teetotaller, " he said, as he poured himself out a good half-tumbler of Canadian Club.

When he smiled he showed broken and discoloured teeth. He was a very lean man, of no more than average height, with gray hair cut short and a stubbly gray moustache. He had not shaved for a couple of days. His face was deeply lined, burned brown by long exposure to the sun, and he had a pair of small blue eyes which were astonishingly shifty. They moved quickly, following my smallest gesture, and they gave him the look of a very thorough rogue. But at the moment he was all heartiness and good-fellowship. He was dressed in a bedraggled suit of khaki, and his hands would have been all the better for a wash.

"I knew Strickland well, " he said, as he leaned back in his chair and lit the cigar I had offered him. "It's through me he came out to the islands. "

"Where did you meet him?" I asked.

"In Marseilles. "

"What were you doing there?"

He gave me an ingratiating smile.

"Well, I guess I was on the beach. "

My friend's appearance suggested that he was now in the same predicament, and I prepared myself to cultivate an agreeable acquaintance. The society of beach-combers always repays the small pains you need be at to enjoy it. They are easy of approach and affable in conversation. They seldom put on airs, and the offer of a drink is a sure way to their hearts. You need no laborious steps to enter upon familiarity with them, and you can earn not only their confidence, but their gratitude, by turning an attentive ear to their discourse. They look upon conversation as the great pleasure of life, thereby proving the excellence of their civilisation, and for the most part they are entertaining talkers. The extent of their experience is pleasantly balanced by the fertility of their imagination. It cannot be said that they are without guile, but they have a tolerant respect for the law, when the law is supported by strength. It is hazardous to play poker with them, but their ingenuity adds a peculiar excitement to the best game in the world. I came to know Captain Nichols very well before I left Tahiti, and I am the richer for his acquaintance. I do not consider that the cigars and whisky he consumed at my expense (he always refused cocktails, since he was practically a teetotaller), and the few dollars, borrowed with a civil air of conferring a favour upon me, that passed from my pocket to his, were in any way equivalent to the entertainment he afforded me. I remained his debtor. I should be sorry if my conscience, insisting on a rigid attention to the matter in hand, forced me to dismiss him in a couple of lines.

I do not know why Captain Nichols first left England. It was a matter upon which he was reticent, and with persons of his kind a direct question is never very discreet. He hinted at undeserved misfortune, and there is no doubt that he looked upon himself as the victim of injustice. My fancy played with the various forms of fraud and violence, and I agreed with him sympathetically when he remarked that the authorities in the old country were so damned technical. But it was nice to see that any unpleasantness he had endured in his native land had not impaired his ardent patriotism. He frequently declared that England was the finest country in the world, sir, and he felt a lively superiority over Americans, Colonials, Dagos, Dutchmen, and Kanakas.

But I do not think he was a happy man. He suffered from dyspepsia, and he might often be seen sucking a tablet of pepsin; in the morning his appetite was poor; but this affliction alone would hardly have impaired his spirits. He had a greater cause of discontent with life than this. Eight years before he had rashly married a wife. There are men whom a merciful Providence has undoubtedly ordained to a single life, but who from wilfulness or through circumstances they could not cope with have flown in the face of its decrees. There is no object more deserving of pity than the married bachelor. Of such was Captain Nichols. I met his wife. She was a woman of twenty-eight, I should think, though of a type whose age is always doubtful; for she cannot have looked different when she was twenty, and at forty would look no older. She gave me an impression of extraordinary tightness. Her plain face with its narrow lips was tight, her skin was stretched tightly over her bones, her smile was tight, her hair was tight, her clothes were tight, and the white drill she wore had all the effect of black bombazine. I could not imagine why Captain Nichols had married her, and having married her why he had not deserted her. Perhaps he had, often, and his melancholy arose from the fact that he could never succeed. However far he went and in howsoever secret a place he hid himself, I felt sure that Mrs. Nichols, inexorable as fate and remorseless as conscience, would presently rejoin him. He could as little escape her as the cause can escape the effect.

The rogue, like the artist and perhaps the gentleman, belongs to no class. He is not embarrassed by the sans gene of the hobo, nor put out of countenance by the etiquette of the prince. But Mrs. Nichols belonged to the well-defined class, of late become vocal, which is known as the lower-middle. Her father, in fact, was a policeman. I am certain that he was an efficient one. I do not know what her hold was on the Captain, but I do not think it was love. I never heard her speak, but it may be that in private she had a copious conversation. At any rate, Captain Nichols was frightened to death of her. Sometimes, sitting with me on the terrace of the hotel, he would become conscious that she was walking in the road outside. She did not call him; she gave no sign that she was aware of his existence; she merely walked up and down composedly. Then a strange uneasiness would seize the Captain; he would look at his watch and sigh.

"Well, I must be off, " he said.

Neither wit nor whisky could detain him then. Yet he was a man who had faced undaunted hurricane and typhoon, and would not have hesitated to fight a dozen unarmed niggers with nothing but a revolver to help him. Sometimes Mrs. Nichols would send her daughter, a pale-faced, sullen child of seven, to the hotel.

"Mother wants you, " she said, in a whining tone.

"Very well, my dear, " said Captain Nichols.

He rose to his feet at once, and accompanied his daughter along the road. I suppose it was a very pretty example of the triumph of spirit over matter, and so my digression has at least the advantage of a moral.

我在塔希提没有待几天便见到了尼柯尔斯船长。一天早晨，我正在旅馆的露台上吃早饭，他走进来，作了自我介绍。他听说我对查理斯·斯特里克兰德感兴趣，便毛遂自荐，来找我谈谈思特里克兰德的事。塔希提的居民同英国乡下人一样，很喜欢聊天，我随便向一两个人打听了一下思特里克兰德的画儿，这消息很快就传到每个人的耳朵里去了。我问这位陌生的来客是否吃过早点。

“吃过了，我一起床就喝过咖啡了，”他回答说，“但是喝一口威士忌我并不反对。”

我把旅馆的中国侍者喊过来。

“你是不是认为现在喝酒太早了点？”船长说。

“这该由你同你自己的肝脏做出决定，”我回答说。

“我其实是个戒酒主义者，”他一边给自己斟了大半杯加拿大克拉伯牌威士忌，一边说。

尼柯尔斯船长笑的时候露出一口很不整齐的发黑的牙齿，他生得瘦小枯干，身材不到中等，花白的头发剪得很短，嘴上是乱扎扎的白胡子碴。尼柯尔斯船长已经有好几天没有刮脸了。他的脸上皱纹很深，因为长年暴露在阳光下，晒得黎黑。他生着一双小蓝眼睛，目光游移不定；随着我的手势，他的眼睛很快地转来转去，叫人一望而知是个社会上的老油子。但是这时候他对我却是一片热诚和真情实意。他身上穿的一套卡其衣裤邋里邋遢，两只手也早该好好洗一洗了。

“我同思特里克兰德很熟，”他说，他身体往椅子背上一靠，点上我递给他的雪茄烟。“他到这个地方来还是通过我的关系。”

“你最早是在什么地方遇到他的？”我问。

“马赛。”

“你在马赛做什么？”

他象要讨好我似地赔了个笑脸。

“呃，我当时没在船上，境遇很糟。”

从我这位朋友的仪表来看，今天他的境遇一点也不比那时好；我决定同他交个朋友。同这些在南海群岛的流浪汉相处，尽管得付出一点小代价，但总不会叫你吃亏的。这些人很容易接近，谈起话来很殷勤。他们很少摆架子，只要一杯水酒，就一定能把他们的心打动。要想同他们混熟，用不着走一段艰辛的路途，只要对他们的闲扯洗耳恭听，他们就不但对你非常信任，而且还会对你满怀感激。他们把谈话看做是生活的最大乐趣，用以证明自己出色的修养。这些人大多数谈话都很有风趣。他们的阅历很广，又善于运用丰富的想象力。不能说这些人没有某种程度的欺诈，但是他们对法律还是非常容忍，尽量遵守，只要法律有强大靠山的时候。同他们玩牌是件危险的勾当，但是他们那种头脑敏捷会使这一最有趣的游戏平添了极大的刺激。在我离开塔希提之前，已经同尼柯尔斯船长混得很熟了，我同他的这段交情只有使我的经验更加丰富。尽管我招待了他许多雪茄和威士忌（他从来不喝鸡尾酒，因为他实际上是个戒酒主义者），尽管他带着一副施恩于人的温文有礼的神气向我借钱，好几块银币从我的口袋转到了他的口袋里去，我还是觉得他让我享受到的乐趣大大超过了我付出的代价。自始至终他都是我的债主。如果我听从作者的良心，不肯走离本题，只用几行简单的文字就把尼柯尔斯打发掉，我会感到对不起他的。

我不知道尼柯尔斯船长最初为什么要离开英国。这是一个他讳莫如深的话题；对于象他这样的人直接问这类事也是很不谨慎的。从他的话语里听得出来，他曾经受了不白之冤。毫无疑问，他把自己看作是执法不公的牺牲品。我的想象却总爱把他同某种诈骗或暴行联系起来。当他谈到英国当局执法过于机械时，我非常同情地表示同意。令人高兴的是，即使他在家乡有过什么不愉快的遭遇，他的爱国热情却并未因此受到任何损伤。他常对我说，英国是全世界最了不起的国家，他觉得自己比哪国人都优越得多，不管什么美国人、殖民地人、达哥人、荷兰人，或是卡纳加人，全不在他眼里。

然而我认为他生活得并不幸福。他长期患消化不良症，嘴里经常含着一片胃蛋白酶药片。每天上午他的胃口都不很好，但是如果只是这一病痛还不致于使他的精神受到伤害。他的生活还有一桩更大的不幸：八年以前他轻率地同一个女人结了婚。有一些男人，慈悲的天意注定叫他们终生作个单身汉，但是他们有的人由于任性，有的人由于拗不过环境，却违背了上帝的意旨。再没有谁比这种结了婚的单身汉更叫人可怜了。尼柯尔斯船长就是这样一个人。我看见过他的老婆；我想，她的年龄不过二十七八岁，但是她是那种永远让人摸不清究竟多大岁数的女人，这种人二十岁的时候不比现在样子年轻，到了四十岁也不会显得更老。她给我的印象是皮紧肉瘦，一张并不标致的面孔紧绷绷的，嘴唇只是薄薄的一条线，全身皮肤都紧包着骨头。她轻易不露笑容，头发紧贴在头上，衣服瘦瘦的，白斜纹料子看去活象是黑色的邦巴辛毛葛。我想象不出，为什么尼柯尔斯船长要同她结婚，既然结了婚为什么又不把她甩掉。也许他已经不止一次这样做过，他的悲哀就来源于哪次都没有成功。不论他跑多么远，不论他藏身多么隐秘，尼柯尔斯太太就象命运一样无可逃避，象良心一样毫无怜悯，马上就会来到他身边。他逃不脱她，就象有因必有果一样。

社会油子和艺术家或者绅士相同，是不属于哪一个阶级的；无业游民的粗野无礼既不会使他感到难堪，王公贵人的繁文缛节也不会叫他感到拘束。但是尼柯尔斯太太却出身于一个最近名声渐着的阶层，就是人们称之为中下层（这个名称叫得好！）的社会阶层。她的父亲是个警察，而且我敢说还非常精明能干。我不知道她为什么要抓住船长不放，我不相信是因为爱情。我从来没听她开口讲过话，也许同她丈夫单独在一起的时候她的话很多。不管怎么说，尼柯尔斯船长怕她怕得要死。有时候他同我坐在旅馆的露台上会突然意识到自己的老婆正在外面马路上走动，她从来不叫他，她好象根本不知道他在这里，只是安详自若地在街头踱来踱去。这时候船长就浑身不安起来；他看了看表，长叹一口气。

“唉，我该走了。”他说。

在这种时候，说笑话也好，喝威士忌也好，再也没有什么能把他留住了。要知道，尼柯尔斯船长本是个经十二级风暴也面不改色的人，只要有一把手枪，就是一打黑人上来，他也有胆量对付。有时尼柯尔斯太太也派他们的女儿，一个面色苍白、总是耷拉着脸的七岁孩子，到旅馆来。

“妈妈找你。”她带着哭音地说。

“好，好，亲爱的孩子。”尼柯尔斯船长说。

他马上站起身来，陪同女儿走回家去。我想这是精神战胜物质的一个极好的例证，所以我这段文章虽然写得走了题，却还是具有一些教训意义的。

I have said already that but for the hazard of a journey to Tahiti I should doubtless never have written this book. It is thither that after many wanderings Charles Strickland came, and it is there that he painted the pictures on which his fame most securely rests. I suppose no artist achieves completely the realisation of the dream that obsesses him, and Strickland, harassed incessantly by his struggle with technique, managed, perhaps, less than others to express the vision that he saw with his mind's eye; but in Tahiti the circumstances were favourable to him; he found in his surroundings the accidents necessary for his inspiration to become effective, and his later pictures give at least a suggestion of what he sought. They offer the imagination something new and strange. It is as though in this far country his spirit, that had wandered disembodied, seeking a tenement, at last was able to clothe itself in flesh. To use the hackneyed phrase, here he found himself.

It would seem that my visit to this remote island should immediately revive my interest in Strickland, but the work I was engaged in occupied my attention to the exclusion of something that was irrelevant, and it was not till I had been there some days that I even remembered his connection with it. After all, I had not seen him for fifteen years, and it was nine since he died. But I think my arrival at Tahiti would have driven out of my head matters of much more immediate importance to me, and even after a week I found it not easy to order myself soberly. I remember that on my first morning I awoke early, and when I came on to the terrace of the hotel no one was stirring. I wandered round to the kitchen, but it was locked, and on a bench outside it a native boy was sleeping. There seemed no chance of breakfast for some time, so I sauntered down to the water-front. The Chinamen were already busy in their shops. The sky had still the pallor of dawn, and there was a ghostly silence on the lagoon. Ten miles away the island of Murea, like some high fastness of the Holy Grail, guarded its mystery.

I did not altogether believe my eyes. The days that had passed since I left Wellington seemed extraordinary and unusual. Wellington is trim and neat and English; it reminds you of a seaport town on the South Coast. And for three days afterwards the sea was stormy. Gray clouds chased one another across the sky. Then the wind dropped, and the sea was calm and blue. The Pacific is more desolate than other seas; its spaces seem more vast, and the most ordinary journey upon it has somehow the feeling of an adventure. The air you breathe is an elixir which prepares you for the unexpected. Nor is it vouchsafed to man in the flesh to know aught that more nearly suggests the approach to the golden realms of fancy than the approach to Tahiti. Murea, the sister isle, comes into view in rocky splendour, rising from the desert sea mysteriously, like the unsubstantial fabric of a magic wand. With its jagged outline it is like a Monseratt of the Pacific, and you may imagine that there Polynesian knights guard with strange rites mysteries unholy for men to know. The beauty of the island is unveiled as diminishing distance shows you in distincter shape its lovely peaks, but it keeps its secret as you sail by, and, darkly inviolable, seems to fold itself together in a stony, inaccessible grimness. It would not surprise you if, as you came near seeking for an opening in the reef, it vanished suddenly from your view, and nothing met your gaze but the blue loneliness of the Pacific.

Tahiti is a lofty green island, with deep folds of a darker green, in which you divine silent valleys; there is mystery in their sombre depths, down which murmur and plash cool streams, and you feel that in those umbrageous places life from immemorial times has been led according to immemorial ways. Even here is something sad and terrible. But the impression is fleeting, and serves only to give a greater acuteness to the enjoyment of the moment. It is like the sadness which you may see in the jester's eyes when a merry company is laughing at his sallies; his lips smile and his jokes are gayer because in the communion of laughter he finds himself more intolerably alone. For Tahiti is smiling and friendly; it is like a lovely woman graciously prodigal of her charm and beauty; and nothing can be more conciliatory than the entrance into the harbour at Papeete. The schooners moored to the quay are trim and neat, the little town along the bay is white and urbane, and the flamboyants, scarlet against the blue sky, flaunt their colour like a cry of passion. They are sensual with an unashamed violence that leaves you breathless. And the crowd that throngs the wharf as the steamer draws alongside is gay and debonair; it is a noisy, cheerful, gesticulating crowd. It is a sea of brown faces. You have an impression of coloured movement against the flaming blue of the sky. Everything is done with a great deal of bustle, the unloading of the baggage, the examination of the customs; and everyone seems to smile at you. It is very hot. The colour dazzles you.

我在前面已经说过，如果不是由于偶然的机缘到了塔希提，我是肯定不会写这本书的。查理斯·思特里克兰德经过多年浪迹最后流落到的地方正是塔希提；也正是在这里他创作出使他永远名垂画史的画幅。我认为哪个艺术家也不可能把昼夜萦绕在他心头的梦境全部付诸实现，思特里克兰德为掌握绘画的技巧，艰苦奋斗、日夜处于痛苦的煎熬里，但同其他画家比较起来，他表现自己幻想中图景的能力可能更差，只有到了塔希提以后，思特里克兰德才找到顺利的环境。在这里，他在自己周围处处可以看到为使自己的灵感开花结果不可或缺的事物，他晚年的图画至少告诉了我们他终生追寻的是什么，让我们的幻想走入一个新鲜的、奇异的境界。仿佛是，思特里克兰德的精神一直脱离了他的躯体到处漫游，到处寻找寄宿，最后，在这个遥远的土地上，终于进入了一个躯壳。用一句陈腐的话说，他在这里可谓“得其所哉”。

我一踏上这个偏远的岛屿，就应该立刻恢复对思特里克兰德的兴趣，这似乎是一件很自然的事；但事实是，我手头的工作却占据了我的全部精神，根本无暇顾及与此无关的事；直到在塔希提住了几天以后，我才想到这个地方同思特里克兰德的关系。我毕竟同他分手已经十五年了，他逝世也已有九年之久了。现在回想当时的情况，在我到塔希提之后，不论手头的事多么重要，我本来应该立刻把它抛诸脑后的；但事实却不是这样，甚至一周以后我仍然无法从冗杂的事务中脱身出来。我还记得头一天早上，我醒得很早。当我走到旅馆的露台上时，周围一点动静也没有。我围着厨房转了一圈，厨房的门还上着锁，门外一条长凳上，一个本地人，旅馆的一个侍者，睡得正酣，看来一时我还吃不上早饭。于是我漫步到滨海的街道上。侨居在这里的中国人已经在他们开的店铺里忙碌起来了。天空仍然呈现出黎明时分的苍白，环礁湖上笼罩着死一样的沉寂。十英里之外，莫里阿岛伫立在海面上，象是一座圣杯形状的巍峨要塞，深锁着自己的全部秘密。

我不太敢相信自己的眼睛。自从离开威灵顿以后，日子似乎过得非常奇特。威灵顿整齐有序，富于英国风味，使人想到英国南岸的一座滨海城市。这以后我在海上航行了三天，波浪滔天，乌云在空中互相追逐。三天以后风停了，大海变得非常寂静，一片碧蓝。太平洋看来比别的海洋更加荒凉，烟波浩渺，即使在这个水域上作一次最普通的旅行也带有冒险意味。你吸到胸中的空气象是补身的甘香酒，叫你精神振奋，准备经历一些你从来未料到的事。但是你除了知道已经驶进塔希提，朦胧中感到走近一块黄金的国土外，它绝不向你泄露别的秘密。与塔希提构成姊妹岛的莫里阿岛进入你的视野，危崖高耸，绚烂壮丽，突然从茫茫的海水里神秘地一跃而出，象魔棍召唤出的一幅虚无飘渺的彩锦。莫里阿巉岩嶙峋，有如蒙特塞拉特岛①被移植到太平洋中。面对这幅景象，你会幻想波利尼西亚的武士正在那里进行奇特的宗教仪式，用以阻止世俗凡人了解某些秘密。当距离逐渐缩小，美丽的峰峦形状愈加真切时，莫里阿岛的美丽便完全呈现出来，但是在你的船只从它旁边驶过时，你会发现它仍然重门深锁，把自己闭合为一堆人们无法接近的阴森可怖的巨石，没有人能闯入它那幽森的奥秘中去。谁也不会感到惊奇：只要船只驶到近处，想在珊瑚礁寻觅一个入口，它就会突然从人们的视线里消失，映入你眼帘的仍是太平洋一片茫茫碧波。

①蒙特塞拉特岛是英属西印度群岛中的一个岛屿。

塔希提却是另外一番景象，它是一个高耸海面的绿葱葱的岛屿，暗绿色的深褶使你猜到那是一条条寂静的峡谷。这些幽深的沟壑有一种神秘气氛，凄冷的溪流在它深处琤琤鸣溅，你会感到，在这些浓荫郁郁的地方，远自太古以来生活就一直按照古老的习俗绵绵不息地延续到现在。塔希提也存在着某些凄凉、可怖的东西。但这种印象并没有长久留在你的脑中，这只能使你更加敏锐地感到当前生活的欢乐。这就象一群兴高采烈的人在听一个小丑打浑，正在捧腹大笑时，会在小丑的眼睛里看到凄凉的眼神一样；小丑的嘴唇在微笑，他的笑话越来越滑稽，因为在他逗人发笑的时候他更加感到自己无法忍受的孤独。因为塔希提正在微笑，它一边微笑一边对你表现出无限的情谊，它象一个美丽的妇人，既娴雅又浪漫地向你展示她的全部美貌和魅力，特别是在船只刚刚进入帕皮提港口的时候，你简直感到心醉神驰。泊在码头边的双桅帆船每一艘都那么整齐、干净，海湾环抱着的这座小城洁白、文雅，而法国火焰式建筑物在蔚蓝的天空下却红得刺目，象激情的呼喊一般，极力炫示自己鲜艳的色彩。它们是肉感的，简直大胆到不顾廉耻的地步，叫你看了目瞪口呆。当轮船靠近码头时，蜂拥到岸边的人群兴高彩烈而又彬彬有礼。他们一片笑语喧哗，人人挥舞着手臂。从轮船上望去，这是一个棕色面孔的海洋。你会感到炎炎碧空下，色彩在炫目地旋转移动。不论从船上往下卸行李也好，海关检查也好，做任何事都伴随着大声喧闹，而每个人都象在向你微笑。天气非常热。绚烂的颜色耀得你睁不开眼睛。

A certain importance attaches to the views on art of painters, and this is the natural place for me to set down what I know of Strickland's opinions of the great artists of the past. I am afraid I have very little worth noting. Strickland was not a conversationalist, and he had no gift for putting what he had to say in the striking phrase that the listener remembers. He had no wit. His humour, as will be seen if I have in any way succeeded in reproducing the manner of his conversation, was sardonic. His repartee was rude. He made one laugh sometimes by speaking the truth, but this is a form of humour which gains its force only by its unusualness; it would cease to amuse if it were commonly practised.

Strickland was not, I should say, a man of great intelligence, and his views on painting were by no means out of the ordinary. I never heard him speak of those whose work had a certain analogy with his own -- of Cezanne, for instance, or of Van Gogh; and I doubt very much if he had ever seen their pictures. He was not greatly interested in the Impressionists. Their technique impressed him, but I fancy that he thought their attitude commonplace. When Stroeve was holding forth at length on the excellence of Monet, he said: "I prefer Winterhalter. " But I dare say he said it to annoy, and if he did he certainly succeeded.

I am disappointed that I cannot report any extravagances in his opinions on the old masters. There is so much in his character which is strange that I feel it would complete the picture if his views were outrageous. I feel the need to ascribe to him fantastic theories about his predecessors, and it is with a certain sense of disillusion that I confess he thought about them pretty much as does everybody else. I do not believe he knew El Greco. He had a great but somewhat impatient admiration for Velasquez. Chardin delighted him, and Rembrandt moved him to ecstasy. He described the impression that Rembrandt made on him with a coarseness I cannot repeat. The only painter that interested him who was at all unexpected was Brueghel the Elder. I knew very little about him at that time, and Strickland had no power to explain himself. I remember what he said about him because it was so unsatisfactory.

"He's all right, " said Strickland. "I bet he found it hell to paint. "

When later, in Vienna, I saw several of Peter Brueghel's pictures, I thought I understood why he had attracted Strickland's attention. Here, too, was a man with a vision of the world peculiar to himself. I made somewhat copious notes at the time, intending to write something about him, but I have lost them, and have now only the recollection of an emotion. He seemed to see his fellow-creatures grotesquely, and he was angry with them because they were grotesque; life was a confusion of ridiculous, sordid happenings, a fit subject for laughter, and yet it made him sorrowful to laugh. Brueghel gave me the impression of a man striving to express in one medium feelings more appropriate to expression in another, and it may be that it was the obscure consciousness of this that excited Strickland's sympathy. Perhaps both were trying to put down in paint ideas which were more suitable to literature.

Strickland at this time must have been nearly forty-seven.

对于其他大师的绘画艺术看法如何，是一件相当重要的事；我在这里自然要记叙一下思特里克兰德对过去一些伟大艺术家的意见。我怕值得我写下的东西实在不多。思特里克兰德不善讲话，他根本不会把自己想要说的用精辟的言辞讲出来，给听的人留下较深的印象。他说话没有风趣。如果说我多少还成功地记录下他的一些话语，从中可以看出他的某些幽默感，这种幽默也主要表现为冷嘲热讽。他辩驳别人话的时候非常粗野，有时候由于直言不讳，会叫你发笑；但是这些话之所以让你觉得滑稽，只是因为他的话说得不多。如果他一开口就是这样的话，人们也就不觉得有什么好笑的了。

我应该说，思特里克兰德并不是一个智力超群的人，他对于绘画的见解也丝毫没有什么独到之处。我从来没有听他谈论过那些绘画风格与他类似的画家，例如塞尚，凡·高等人；我很怀疑他是否看过这些画家的作品。他对于印象派画家似乎不怎么感兴趣，这些人的技巧留给他一定的印象，但是我猜想他也许认为他们对待艺术的态度是平庸无奇的。有一次施特略夫正仔细评论莫奈的卓越艺术，思特里克兰德突然插口说：“我更喜欢温特尔哈尔特①。”我敢说他说这句是有意气一气施特略夫；如果他确实有这个意思，他算成功了。

①弗朗兹·伊可萨维尔·温特尔哈尔特（1805？—1873），德国宫廷画家。

我感到很失望，不能写下他在评论一些老派画家时的谬论。他的性格既然如此怪异，如果他在品评绘画时也有一些奇谈怪论，我笔下的这个形象就更加完美了。我觉得我很需要叫他对过去的一些画家发表些荒诞的理论，但是我还是得讲老实话，他同一般人一样，对这些画家也是赞不绝口，这叫我非常失望。我看他根本不知道谁是埃尔·格列柯。他对委拉斯凯兹相当敬佩，尽管怀有某种厌烦不耐的情绪。他喜欢夏尔丹，伦勃朗则使他感到入迷。他给我讲伦勃朗的绘画给他的印象时，用的语言极其粗鄙，我在这里无法引述。谁也想不到他最喜爱的一位画家竟是老布鲁盖尔②。我当时对老布鲁盖尔不太了解，而思特里克兰德也没有能力表达自己。我之所以记得他对布鲁盖尔的评论是因为他这句话实在太词不达意了。

②彼得·布鲁盖尔（1522？—1569），佛兰德斯画家；其子扬·布鲁盖尔（1568—1625）亦为画家。

“他的画不错，”思特里克兰德说，“我敢说他发现画画儿是件受罪的事。”

后来我在维也纳看过彼得·布鲁盖尔的几幅画以后，我想我才懂得为什么这位画家引起了思特里克兰德的注意。这是另一个对世界怀着自己独特幻觉的画家。我当时作了大量笔记，准备将来写一本关于布鲁盖尔的书，但是这些材料后来都遗失了，留下来的只是一种感情的回忆。在布鲁盖尔的眼睛里，人们的形象似乎是怪诞的，他对人们这种怪诞的样子非常气愤；生活不过是一片混乱，充满了各种可笑的、龌龊的事情，它只能给人们提供笑料，但是他笑的时候却禁不住满心哀伤。布鲁盖尔给我的印象是，他想用一种手段努力表达只适合于另一种方式表达的感情，思特里克兰德之所以对他同情，说不定正是朦胧中意识到这一点。也许这两个人都在努力用绘画表现出更适合于通过文学表达的意念。

思特里克兰德这时大概已经四十七岁了。

Here lies the unreality of fiction. For in men, as a rule, love is but an episode which takes its place among the other affairs of the day, and the emphasis laid on it in novels gives it an importance which is untrue to life. There are few men to whom it is the most important thing in the world, and they are not very interesting ones; even women, with whom the subject is of paramount interest, have a contempt for them. They are flattered and excited by them, but have an uneasy feeling that they are poor creatures. But even during the brief intervals in which they are in love, men do other things which distract their mind; the trades by which they earn their living engage their attention; they are absorbed in sport; they can interest themselves in art. For the most part, they keep their various activities in various compartments, and they can pursue one to the temporary exclusion of the other. They have a faculty of concentration on that which occupies them at the moment, and it irks them if one encroaches on the other. As lovers, the difference between men and women is that women can love all day long, but men only at times.

With Strickland the sexual appetite took a very small place. It was unimportant. It was irksome. His soul aimed elsewhither. He had violent passions, and on occasion desire seized his body so that he was driven to an orgy of lust, but he hated the instincts that robbed him of his self-possession. I think, even, he hated the inevitable partner in his debauchery. When he had regained command over himself, he shuddered at the sight of the woman he had enjoyed. His thoughts floated then serenely in the empyrean, and he felt towards her the horror that perhaps the painted butterfly, hovering about the flowers, feels to the filthy chrysalis from which it has triumphantly emerged. I suppose that art is a manifestation of the sexual instinct. It is the same emotion which is excited in the human heart by the sight of a lovely woman, the Bay of Naples under the yellow moon, and the Entombment of Titian. It is possible that Strickland hated the normal release of sex because it seemed to him brutal by comparison with the satisfaction of artistic creation. It seems strange even to myself, when I have described a man who was cruel, selfish, brutal and sensual, to say that he was a great idealist. The fact remains.

He lived more poorly than an artisan. He worked harder. He cared nothing for those things which with most people make life gracious and beautiful. He was indifferent to money. He cared nothing about fame. You cannot praise him because he resisted the temptation to make any of those compromises with the world which most of us yield to. He had no such temptation. It never entered his head that compromise was possible. He lived in Paris more lonely than an anchorite in the deserts of Thebes. He asked nothing his fellows except that they should leave him alone. He was single-hearted in his aim, and to pursue it he was willing to sacrifice not only himself -- many can do that -- but others. He had a vision.

Strickland was an odious man, but I still think be was a great one.

小说之所以不真实正在这里。一般说来，爱情在男人身上只不过是一个插曲，是日常生活中许多事务中的一件事，但是小说却把爱情夸大了，给予它一个违反生活真实性的重要的地位。尽管也有很少数男人把爱情当作世界上的头等大事，但这些人常常是一些索然寡味的人；即便对爱情感到无限兴趣的女人，对这类男子也不太看得起。女人会被这样的男人吸引，会被他们奉承得心花怒放，但是心里却免不了有一种不安的感觉——这些人是一种可怜的生物。男人们即使在恋爱的短暂期间，也不停地干一些别的事分散自己的心思：赖以维持生计的事务吸引了他们的注意力；他们沉湎于体育活动；他们还可能对艺术感到兴趣。在大多数情况下，他们把自己的不同活动分别安排在不同的间隔里，在进行一种活动时，可以暂时把另一种完全排除。他们有本领专心致志进行当时正在从事的活动；如果一种活动受到另一种侵犯，他们会非常恼火。作为坠入情网的人来说，男人同女人的区别是：女人能够整天整夜谈恋爱，而男人却只能有时有晌儿地干这种事。

性的饥渴在思特里克兰德身上占的地位很小，很不重要，或勿宁说，叫他感到很嫌恶。他的灵魂追求的是另外一种东西。他的感情非常强烈，有时候欲念会把他抓住，逼得他纵情狂欢一阵，但是对这种剥夺了他宁静自持的本能他是非常厌恶的。我想他甚至讨厌他在淫逸放纵中那必不可少的伴侣；在他重新控制住自己以后，看到那个他发泄情欲的女人，他甚至会不寒而栗。他的思想这时会平静地飘浮在九天之上，他对那个女人感到又嫌恶又可怕，也许那感觉就象一只翩翩飞舞于花丛中的蝴蝶，见到它胜利地蜕身出来的肮脏的蛹壳一样。我认为艺术也是性本能的一种流露。一个漂亮的女人、金黄的月亮照耀下的那不勒斯海湾，或者提香①的名画《墓穴》，在人们心里勾起的是同样的感情。很可能思特里克兰德讨厌通过性行为发泄自己的感情（这本来是很正常的），因为他觉得同通过艺术创造取得自我满足相比，这是粗野的。在我描写这样一个残忍、自私、粗野、肉欲的人时，竟把他写成是个精神境界极高的人，我自己也觉得奇怪。但是我认为这是事实。

①提香（1490—1576），意大利威尼斯派画家。

作为一个艺术家，他的生活比任何其他艺术家都更困苦。他工作得比其他艺术家也更艰苦。大多数人认为会把生活装点得更加优雅、美丽的那些东西，思特里克兰德是不屑一顾的。对于名和利他都无动于衷。我们大多数人受不住各种引诱，总要对世俗人情做一些让步；你却无法赞扬思特里克兰德抵拒得住这些诱惑，因为对他说来，这种诱惑是根本不存在的。他的脑子里从来没有想到要做任何妥协、让步。他住在巴黎，比住在底比斯沙漠里的隐士生活还要孤独。对于别的人他没有任何要求，只求人家别打扰他。他一心一意追求自己的目标，为了达到这个目的他不仅甘愿牺牲自己——这一点很多人还是能做到的——，而且就是牺牲别人也在所不惜。他自己有一个幻境。

思特里克兰德是个惹人嫌的人，但是尽管如此，我还是认为他是一个伟大的人。

Looking back, I realise that what I have written about Charles Strickland must seem very unsatisfactory. I have given incidents that came to my knowledge, but they remain obscure because I do not know the reasons that led to them. The strangest, Strickland's determination to become a painter, seems to be arbitrary; and though it must have had causes in the circumstances of his life, I am ignorant of them. From his own conversation I was able to glean nothing. If I were writing a novel, rather than narrating such facts as I know of a curious personality, I should have invented much to account for this change of heart. I think I should have shown a strong vocation in boyhood, crushed by the will of his father or sacrificed to the necessity of earning a living; I should have pictured him impatient of the restraints of life; and in the struggle between his passion for art and the duties of his station I could have aroused sympathy for him. I should so have made him a more imposing figure. Perhaps it would have been possible to see in him a new Prometheus. There was here, maybe, the opportunity for a modern version of the hero who for the good of mankind exposes himself to the agonies of the damned. It is always a moving subject.

On the other hand, I might have found his motives in the influence of the married relation. There are a dozen ways in which this might be managed. A latent gift might reveal itself on acquaintance with the painters and writers whose society his wife sought; or domestic incompatability might turn him upon himself; a love affair might fan into bright flame a fire which I could have shown smouldering dimly in his heart. I think then I should have drawn Mrs. Strickland quite differently. I should have abandoned the facts and made her a nagging, tiresome woman, or else a bigoted one with no sympathy for the claims of the spirit. I should have made Strickland's marriage a long torment from which escape was the only possible issue. I think I should have emphasised his patience with the unsuitable mate, and the compassion which made him unwilling to throw off the yoke that oppressed him. I should certainly have eliminated the children.

An effective story might also have been made by bringing him into contact with some old painter whom the pressure of want or the desire for commercial success had made false to the genius of his youth, and who, seeing in Strickland the possibilities which himself had wasted, influenced him to forsake all and follow the divine tyranny of art. I think there would have been something ironic in the picture of the successful old man, rich and honoured, living in another the life which he, though knowing it was the better part, had not had the strength to pursue.

The facts are much duller. Strickland, a boy fresh from school, went into a broker's office without any feeling of distaste. Until he married he led the ordinary life of his fellows, gambling mildly on the Exchange, interested to the extent of a sovereign or two on the result of the Derby or the Oxford and Cambridge Race. I think he boxed a little in his spare time. On his chimney-piece he had photographs of Mrs. Langtry and Mary Anderson. He read Punch and the Sporting Times. He went to dances in Hampstead.

It matters less that for so long I should have lost sight of him. The years during which he was struggling to acquire proficiency in a difficult art were monotonous, and I do not know that there was anything significant in the shifts to which he was put to earn enough money to keep him. An account of them would be an account of the things he had seen happen to other people. I do not think they had any effect on his own character. He must have acquired experiences which would form abundant material for a picaresque novel of modern Paris, but he remained aloof, and judging from his conversation there was nothing in those years that had made a particular impression on him. Perhaps when he went to Paris he was too old to fall a victim to the glamour of his environment. Strange as it may seem, he always appeared to me not only practical, but immensely matter-of-fact. I suppose his life during this period was romantic, but he certainly saw no romance in it. It may be that in order to realise the romance of life you must have something of the actor in you; and, capable of standing outside yourself, you must be able to watch your actions with an interest at once detached and absorbed. But no one was more single-minded than Strickland. I never knew anyone who was less self-conscious. But it is unfortunate that I can give no description of the arduous steps by which he reached such mastery over his art as he ever acquired; for if I could show him undaunted by failure, by an unceasing effort of courage holding despair at bay, doggedly persistent in the face of self-doubt, which is the artist's bitterest enemy, I might excite some sympathy for a personality which, I am all too conscious, must appear singularly devoid of charm. But I have nothing to go on. I never once saw Strickland at work, nor do I know that anyone else did. He kept the secret of his struggles to himself. If in the loneliness of his studio he wrestled desperately with the Angel of the Lord he never allowed a soul to divine his anguish.

When I come to his connection with Blanche Stroeve I am exasperated by the fragmentariness of the facts at my disposal. To give my story coherence I should describe the progress of their tragic union, but I know nothing of the three months during which they lived together. I do not know how they got on or what they talked about. After all, there are twenty-four hours in the day, and the summits of emotion can only be reached at rare intervals. I can only imagine how they passed the rest of the time. While the light lasted and so long as Blanche's strength endured, I suppose that Strickland painted, and it must have irritated her when she saw him absorbed in his work. As a mistress she did not then exist for him, but only as a model; and then there were long hours in which they lived side by side in silence. It must have frightened her. When Strickland suggested that in her surrender to him there was a sense of triumph over Dirk Stroeve, because he had come to her help in her extremity, he opened the door to many a dark conjecture. I hope it was not true. It seems to me rather horrible. But who can fathom the subtleties of the human heart? Certainly not those who expect from it only decorous sentiments and normal emotions. When Blanche saw that, notwithstanding his moments of passion, Strickland remained aloof, she must have been filled with dismay, and even in those moments I surmise that she realised that to him she was not an individual, but an instrument of pleasure; he was a stranger still, and she tried to bind him to herself with pathetic arts. She strove to ensnare him with comfort and would not see that comfort meant nothing to him. She was at pains to get him the things to eat that he liked, and would not see that he was indifferent to food. She was afraid to leave him alone. She pursued him with attentions, and when his passion was dormant sought to excite it, for then at least she had the illusion of holding him. Perhaps she knew with her intelligence that the chains she forged only aroused his instinct of destruction, as the plate-glass window makes your fingers itch for half a brick; but her heart, incapable of reason, made her continue on a course she knew was fatal. She must have been very unhappy. But the blindness of love led her to believe what she wanted to be true, and her love was so great that it seemed impossible to her that it should not in return awake an equal love.

But my study of Strickland's character suffers from a greater defect than my ignorance of many facts. Because they were obvious and striking, I have written of his relations to women; and yet they were but an insignificant part of his life. It is an irony that they should so tragically have affected others. His real life consisted of dreams and of tremendously hard work.

回过头来看一下，我发现我写的关于查理斯·思特里克兰德的这些事似乎很难令人满意。我把自己知道的一些事情记载下来，但是我写得并不清楚，因为我不了解它们发生的真实原因。最令人费解的莫过于思特里克兰德为什么决心要做画家这件事，看来简直没有什么道理可寻。尽管从他的生活环境一定找得出原因来，我却一无所知。从他的谈话里我任何线索也没有获得。如果我是在写一部小说，而不是叙述我知道的一个性格怪异的人的真人真事，我就会编造一些原因，解释他生活上的这一突变。我会描写他童年时期就感到绘画是自己的天职，但迫于父亲的严命或者必须为谋生奔走，这个梦想遭到破灭；我也可以描写他如何对生活的桎梏感到痛恨，写他对艺术的热爱与生活的职责间的矛盾冲突，用以唤起读者对他的同情。这样我就可以把思特里克兰德这个人写得更加令人敬畏。或许人们能够在他身上看到另一个普罗米修斯。我也许会塑造一个为了替人类造福甘心忍受痛苦折磨的当代英雄。这永远是一个动人心弦的主题。

另外，我也可以从思特里克兰德的婚姻关系中找到他立志绘画的动机。我可以有十几种方法处理这个故事：因为他妻子喜欢同文艺界人士来往，他也有缘结识一些文人和画家，因而唤醒了那隐伏在他身上的艺术才能；也可能是家庭不和睦使他把精力转到自己身上；再不然也可以归结于爱情，譬如说，我可以写一下他心中早就埋着热爱艺术的火种，因为爱上一个女人，一下子把闷火扇成熊熊的烈焰。我想，如果这样写的话，思特里克兰德太太在我笔下也就要以另一副面貌出现了。我将不得不把事实篡改一下，把她写成一个唠唠叨叨、惹人生厌的女人，再不然就是性格褊狭，根本不了解精神的需求。思特里克兰德婚后生活是一场无尽无休的痛苦煎熬，离家出走将是他的唯一出路。我想我将在思特里克兰德如何委曲求全这件事上多费些笔墨，他如何心存怜悯，不愿贸然甩掉折磨他的枷锁。这样写，我当然就不会提他们的两个孩子了。

如果想把故事写得真实感人，我还可以虚构一个老画家，叫思特里克兰德同他发生关系。这个老画家由于饥寒所迫，也可能是为了追逐虚名，糟蹋了自己青年时代所具有的天才，他后来在思特里克兰德身上看到了自己虚掷的才华，他影响了思特里克兰德，叫他抛弃了人世间的荣华，献身于神圣的艺术。我会着力描写一下这位成功的老人，又阔绰又有名望，但是他知道这不是真正的生活，他自己所无力寻求的，他要在这个年轻人身上体验到；我想这种构思未尝没有讽刺意味。

但是事实却远没有我想象的这么动人。思特里克兰德一出校门就投身于一家经纪人的事务所，他对这种生活并没有什么反感。直到结婚，他过的就是从事这一行业的人那种平凡庸碌的生活，在交易所干几宗输赢不大的投机买卖，关注着达尔贝赛马或者牛津、剑桥比赛的结果，充其量不过一两镑钱的赌注。我猜想思特里克兰德在工作之余可能还练习练习击拳；壁炉架上摆着朗格瑞夫人①同玛丽·安德逊②的照片；读的是《笨拙》杂志和《体育时代》；到汉普斯台德去参加舞会。

①原名爱米丽·夏洛特·勒·布利顿（1852～1929），英国演员，以美貌著称，后嫁与爱德华·朗格瑞。

②玛丽·安德逊（1859—1940），美国女演员。

有很长一段时间我没有再见到过他，这一点关系也没有。这些年间，他一直在努力奋斗，力图掌握一门极其困难的艺术，生活是非常单调的；有时为了挣钱糊口，他不得不采取一些权宜的手段，我认为这也并没有什么值得大书特书的地方。即使我能够把他这一段生活记载下来，也不过是他所见到的发生在别人身上的各种事件的记录。我不认为他在这一段时间内的经历对他自己的性格有任何影响。如果要写一部以现代巴黎为背景的冒险小说，他倒可能积累了丰富的素材。但是他对周围的事物始终采取一种超然物外的态度；从他的谈话判断，这几年里面并没有发生任何给他留下特别印象的事。很可能在他去巴黎的时候，年纪已经太大，光怪陆离的环境对他已经没有引诱力了。说来也许有些奇怪，我总觉得他这个人不仅非常实际，而且简直可以说是木头木脑的。我想他这一段生活是很富于浪漫情调的，但是他自己却绝对没有看到任何浪漫的色彩。或许一个人如果想体会到生活中的浪漫情调就必须在某种程度上是一个演员；而要想跳出自身之外，则必须能够对自己的行动抱着一种既超然物外又沉浸于其中的兴趣。但是思特里克兰德却是个心无二用的人，在这方面谁也比不上他。我不知道哪个人象他那样总是强烈地意识到自己的存在。不幸的是，我无法描写他在取得艺术成就的艰苦征途上勤奋的脚步；因为，如果我能写一下他如何屡经失败毫不气馁，如何满怀勇气奋斗不息，从不悲观失望，如何在艺术家的劲敌——信心发生动摇的时刻，仍然不屈不挠地艰苦斗争，也许我能使读者对这样一个枯燥乏味的人物（这一点我是非常清楚的）产生一些同情。但是我却毫无事实根据进行一方面的描述。我从来没有看见过思特里克兰德工作的情形，而且我知道不只是我，任何其他人也都没有见过他如何绘画。他的一部斗争史是他个人的秘密。如果在他独处于画室中曾经同上帝的天使进行过剧烈的搏斗，他是从来没让任何人了解到他的痛苦的。

当我开始叙述他同勃朗什·施特略夫的关系时，我也深为自己掌握材料不足所苦。为了把我的故事说得有头有尾，我应该描写一下他们这一悲剧性的结合是如何发展的，但是我对他俩三个月的同居生活却一无所知。我不知道他们如何相处，也不知道他们平常谈一些什么。不管怎么说，一天是有二十四小时的，感情的高峰只是在稀有的时刻才达到的现象。其他的时间是怎么过的，我只能借助自己的想象力。在光线没有暗淡下来以前，只要勃朗什的气力还能支持住，我想思特里克兰德总是不停笔地作画。我想勃朗什对他这样沉溺于自己的绘画中，一定感到非常气恼。整个这段时间，她只是他的模特儿，他根本没有想到她的情妇的角色。此外，就是相对无言的漫长的时刻，对她说来，也一定是件怪可怕的事。思特里克兰德曾对我透露，勃朗什献身给他，带有某种向戴尔克·施特略夫报复的感情在内，因为戴尔克是在她丢尽了脸面的时候把她搭救起来的；思特里克兰德泄露的这个秘密为许多玄妙的臆想打开了门户。我希望思特里克兰德的话并不真实；我觉得这有点儿太可怕了。但是话又说回来，谁能理解人心的奥秘呢？那些只希望从人心里寻到高尚的情操和正常感情的人肯定是不会理解的。当勃朗什发现思特里克兰德除了偶尔迸发出一阵热情以外，总是离她远远的，心里一定非常痛苦；而我猜想，即使在那些短暂的时刻，她也知道得很清楚，思特里克兰德不过只把她当作自己取乐的工具，而不把她当人看待。他始终是一个陌生人，她用一切可怜的手段拼命想把他系牢在自己身边。她试图用舒适的生活网罗住他，殊不知他对安逸的环境丝毫也不介意。她费尽心机给他弄合他口味的东西吃，却看不到他吃什么东西部无所谓。她害怕叫他独自一个人待着，总是不断地对他表示关心、照护，当他的热情酣睡的时候，就想尽各种方法唤醒它，因为这样她至少还可以有一种把他把持在手的假象。也许她的智慧告诉她，她铸造的这些链条只不过刺激起他的天性想把它砸断，正象厚玻璃会使人看着手痒痒，想捡起半块砖来似的。但是她的心却不听理智的劝告，总是逼着她沿着一条她自己也知道必然通向毁灭的路上滑下去。她一定非常痛苦，但是爱情的盲目性却叫她相信自己的追求是真实的，叫她相信自己的爱情是伟大的，不可能不在他身上唤起同样的爱情来还答她。

但是我对思特里克兰德的性格的分析，除了因为有许多事实我不了解外，却还有另外一个更为严重的缺憾。因为他同女人的关系非常明显，也着实有令人震骇的地方，我就如实地记载下来，但实际上这只是他生活中一个非常微不足道的部分。尽管这种关系惨痛地影响了别的人，那也不过是命运对人生的嘲弄。实际上，思特里克兰德的真正生活既包括了梦想，也充满了极为艰辛的工作的。

I did not know why Strickland had suddenly offered to show them to me. I welcomed the opportunity. A man's work reveals him. In social intercourse he gives you the surface that he wishes the world to accept, and you can only gain a true knowledge of him by inferences from little actions, of which he is unconscious, and from fleeting expressions, which cross his face unknown to him. Sometimes people carry to such perfection the mask they have assumed that in due course they actually become the person they seem. But in his book or his picture the real man delivers himself defenceless. His pretentiousness will only expose his vacuity. The lathe painted to look like iron is seen to be but a lathe. No affectation of peculiarity can conceal a commonplace mind. To the acute observer no one can produce the most casual work without disclosing the innermost secrets of his soul.

As I walked up the endless stairs of the house in which Strickland lived, I confess that I was a little excited. It seemed to me that I was on the threshold of a surprising adventure. I looked about the room with curiosity. It was even smaller and more bare than I remembered it. I wondered what those friends of mine would say who demanded vast studios, and vowed they could not work unless all the conditions were to their liking.

"You'd better stand there, " he said, pointing to a spot from which, presumably, he fancied I could see to best advantage what he had to show me.

"You don't want me to talk, I suppose, " I said.

"No, blast you; I want you to hold your tongue. "

He placed a picture on the easel, and let me look at it for a minute or two; then took it down and put another in its place. I think he showed me about thirty canvases. It was the result of the six years during which he had been painting. He had never sold a picture. The canvases were of different sizes. The smaller were pictures of still-life and the largest were landscapes. There were about half a dozen portraits.

"That is the lot, " he said at last.

I wish I could say that I recognised at once their beauty and their great originality. Now that I have seen many of them again and the rest are familiar to me in reproductions, I am astonished that at first sight I was bitterly disappointed. I felt nothing of the peculiar thrill which it is the property of art to give. The impression that Strickland's pictures gave me was disconcerting; and the fact remains, always to reproach me, that I never even thought of buying any. I missed a wonderful chance. Most of them have found their way into museums, and the rest are the treasured possessions of wealthy amateurs. I try to find excuses for myself. I think that my taste is good, but I am conscious that it has no originality. I know very little about painting, and I wander along trails that others have blazed for me. At that time I had the greatest admiration for the impressionists. I longed to possess a Sisley and a Degas, and I worshipped Manet. His Olympia seemed to me the greatest picture of modern times, and Le Dejeuner sur l'Herbe moved me profoundly. These works seemed to me the last word in painting.

I will not describe the pictures that Strickland showed me. Descriptions of pictures are always dull, and these, besides, are familiar to all who take an interest in such things. Now that his influence has so enormously affected modern painting, now that others have charted the country which he was among the first to explore, Strickland's pictures, seen for the first time, would find the mind more prepared for them; but it must be remembered that I had never seen anything of the sort. First of all I was taken aback by what seemed to me the clumsiness of his technique. Accustomed to the drawing of the old masters, and convinced that Ingres was the greatest draughtsman of recent times, I thought that Strickland drew very badly. I knew nothing of the simplification at which he aimed. I remember a still-life of oranges on a plate, and I was bothered because the plate was not round and the oranges were lop-sided. The portraits were a little larger than life-size, and this gave them an ungainly look. To my eyes the faces looked like caricatures. They were painted in a way that was entirely new to me. The landscapes puzzled me even more. There were two or three pictures of the forest at Fontainebleau and several of streets in Paris: my first feeling was that they might have been painted by a drunken cabdriver. I was perfectly bewildered. The colour seemed to me extraordinarily crude. It passed through my mind that the whole thing was a stupendous, incomprehensible farce. Now that I look back I am more than ever impressed by Stroeve's acuteness. He saw from the first that here was a revolution in art, and he recognised in its beginnings the genius which now all the world allows.

But if I was puzzled and disconcerted, I was not unimpressed. Even I, in my colossal ignorance, could not but feel that here, trying to express itself, was real power. I was excited and interested. I felt that these pictures had something to say to me that was very important for me to know, but I could not tell what it was. They seemed to me ugly, but they suggested without disclosing a secret of momentous significance. They were strangely tantalising. They gave me an emotion that I could not analyse. They said something that words were powerless to utter. I fancy that Strickland saw vaguely some spiritual meaning in material things that was so strange that he could only suggest it with halting symbols. It was as though he found in the chaos of the universe a new pattern, and were attempting clumsily, with anguish of soul, to set it down. I saw a tormented spirit striving for the release of expression.

I turned to him.

"I wonder if you haven't mistaken your medium, " I said.

"What the hell do you mean?"

"I think you're trying to say something, I don't quite know what it is, but I'm not sure that the best way of saying it is by means of painting. "

When I imagined that on seeing his pictures I should get a clue to the understanding of his strange character I was mistaken. They merely increased the astonishment with which he filled me. I was more at sea than ever. The only thing that seemed clear to me -- and perhaps even this was fanciful -- was that he was passionately striving for liberation from some power that held him. But what the power was and what line the liberation would take remained obscure. Each one of us is alone in the world. He is shut in a tower of brass, and can communicate with his fellows only by signs, and the signs have no common value, so that their sense is vague and uncertain. We seek pitifully to convey to others the treasures of our heart, but they have not the power to accept them, and so we go lonely, side by side but not together, unable to know our fellows and unknown by them. We are like people living in a country whose language they know so little that, with all manner of beautiful and profound things to say, they are condemned to the banalities of the conversation manual. Their brain is seething with ideas, and they can only tell you that the umbrella of the gardener's aunt is in the house.

The final impression I received was of a prodigious effort to express some state of the soul, and in this effort, I fancied, must be sought the explanation of what so utterly perplexed me. It was evident that colours and forms had a significance for Strickland that was peculiar to himself. He was under an intolerable necessity to convey something that he felt, and he created them with that intention alone. He did not hesitate to simplify or to distort if he could get nearer to that unknown thing he sought. Facts were nothing to him, for beneath the mass of irrelevant incidents he looked for something significant to himself. It was as though he had become aware of the soul of the universe and were compelled to express it.

Though these pictures confused and puzzled me, I could not be unmoved by the emotion that was patent in them; and, I knew not why, I felt in myself a feeling that with regard to Strickland was the last I had ever expected to experience. I felt an overwhelming compassion.

"I think I know now why you surrendered to your feeling for Blanche Stroeve, " I said to him.

"Why?"

"I think your courage failed. The weakness of your body communicated itself to your soul. I do not know what infinite yearning possesses you, so that you are driven to a perilous, lonely search for some goal where you expect to find a final release from the spirit that torments you. I see you as the eternal pilgrim to some shrine that perhaps does not exist. I do not know to what inscrutableNirvana you aim. Do you know yourself? Perhaps it is Truth and Freedom that youseek, and for a moment you thought that you might find release in Love. I thinkyour tired soul sought rest in a woman's arms, and when you found no rest thereyou hated her. You had no pity for her, because you have no pity for yourself.And you killed her out of fear, because you trembled still at the danger youhad barely escaped. "

He smiled drylyand pulled his beard.

"You are adreadful sentimentalist, my poor friend. "

A week later I heard by chance that Strickland hadgone to Marseilles. I never saw him again.

我不知道为什么思特里克兰德突然主动提出来要让我看他的画，但是对这样一个机会我是非常欢迎的。作品最能泄露一个人的真实思想和感情。在交际应酬中，一个人只让你看到他希望别人接受他的一些表面现象，你只能借助他无意中作出的一些小动作，借助不知不觉中掠过他脸上的一些表情对他作出正确的了解。有些时候，人们把一副假面装得逼真，时间久了，他们真会变成他们装扮的这样一个人了。但是在他写的书、画的画里面，他却毫无防范地把自己显露出来。如果他作势唬人，那只能暴露出他的空虚。他那些涂了油漆冒充铁板的木条还会看出来只不过是木条。假充具有独特的个性无法掩盖平凡庸俗的性格。对于一个目光敏锐的观察者，即使一个人信笔一挥的作品也完全可以泄露他灵魂深处的隐秘。

我必须承认，当我走上思特里克兰德住处的无穷无尽的楼梯时，我感到有一些兴奋。我似乎马上就要步入一场奇异的冒险。我好奇地环顾了一下他的小屋子。这间屋子好象比我记忆中的更小、家具什物也更少了。我有些朋友总需要宽大的画室，坚持要条件必备才能作画，我倒想知道他们对这间画室作何感想。

“你最好站在这儿，”他指着一块地方说，他可能认为在他把画拿给我看的时候，这是一个最适合观赏的角度。

“我想你不愿意我说话吧，”我说。

“这还用问，他妈的。我要你闭住你的嘴巴。”

他把一幅画放在画架上，叫我看一两分钟，然后取下来再放上另一张。我估计他一共给我看了三十来张。这是他作画以来六年的成绩。他一张也没有出售。画幅小一些的是静物，最大的是风景。有半打左右是人物、肖像。

“就是这些，”最后他说。

我真希望当时我就能看出这些画如何美、具有如何伟大的独创的风格。这些画里面有许多幅我后来又有机会重新欣赏过，另外一些通过复制品我也非常熟悉了；我真有些奇怪，当我初次看画的时候，为什么居然感到非常失望。我当时丝毫也没有感到艺术品本应该给我的那种奇异的激动。我看到思特里克兰德的绘画，只有一种惶惑不安的感觉；实际上，我当时根本没有想到要购买一幅，这是我永远不能原谅自己的。我真是失去了一个大好的机会。这些画大多数后来都被博物院收买去了，其余的则成为有钱的艺术爱好者的珍藏品。我努力给自己找一些辩解。我认为我还是有鉴赏力的，只不过我认识到自己缺少创见。我对于绘画了解得不多，我只是沿着别人替我开辟的路径走下去。当时我最佩服的是印象派画家，渴望弄到一张西斯莱①或德加②的作品，另外，我对马奈也非常崇拜，他的那幅《奥林庇亚》我觉得是当代最伟大的绘画，《草地上的早餐》也使我非常感动。我认为在当代绘画中再也没有别的作品能超过这几幅画了。

①阿尔弗雷德。西斯莱（1839—1899），法国画家。

②埃德迦。德加（1834—1917），法国画家。

我不准备描写思特里克兰德拿给我看的那些画了。对绘画进行描述是一件枯燥乏味的事，再说，所有热衷此道的人对这些画早已了如指掌了。今天，当思特里克兰德对近代绘画已经产生了这么大的影响，当他同少数几个人首先探索的那块蛮荒之地已经测绘了详细地图之后，再有谁第一次看到他的画，早已有了心理准备了，而我则是破题儿第一遭看见这类作品，这一事实请读者务必记住。首先，我感到震骇的是他画法的笨拙。我看惯了的那些古老画师的作品，并且坚信安格尔是近代最伟大的画家，因此就认为思特里克兰德画得非常拙劣。我根本不了解他所追求的简朴。我还记得他画的一张静物，一只盘子上放着几只桔子，我发现他画的盘子并不圆，桔子两边也不对称，我就感到迷惑不解。他画的头像比真人略大一些，给人以粗笨的感觉。在我的眼睛里，这些头像画得象是一些漫画，他的画法对我说来也完全是新奇的。我更看不懂的是那些风景画。有两三张画的是枫丹白露的树林，另外一些是巴黎市街；我的第一个感觉是，这些画好象是出自一个喝醉酒的马车夫的手笔。我完全被弄糊涂了。他用的色彩我也觉得出奇地粗犷。我当时心想，这些绘画简直是一出没有谁能理解的滑稽戏。现在回想起来，施特略夫当时真称得起独具慧眼了。他从一开始就看到这是绘画史上的一个革命，今天全世界都已承认的伟大天才，他早在最初的那些年代就已辨视出来了。

但是即使说思特里克兰德的画当时使我感到困惑莫解，却不能说这些画没有触动我。尽管我对他的技巧懵然无知，我还是感到他的作品有一种努力要表现自己的真正力量。我感到兴奋，也对这些画很感兴趣。我觉得他的画好象要告诉我一件什么事，对我说来，了解这件事是非常重要的，但我又说不出来那究竟是什么。这些画我觉得一点不美，但它们却暗示给我——是暗示而不是泄露——一个极端重要的秘密。这些画奇怪地逗弄着我。它们引起我一种我无法分析的感情。它们诉说着一件语言无力表达的事。我猜想，思特里克兰德在有形的事物上模模糊糊地看到某种精神意义，这种意义非常奇异，他只能用很不完善的符号勉强把它表达出来。仿佛是他在宇宙的一片混乱中找到了一个新的图案，正在笨拙地把它描摹下来，因为力不从心，心灵非常痛苦。我看到的是一个奋力寻求表现手段的备受折磨的灵魂。

“我怀疑，你的手段是否选择对了。”我说。

“你说的是什么意思？”

“我想你是在努力表达些什么。虽然我不太清楚你想要表达的是什么，但我很怀疑，绘画对你说是不是最好的表达方法。”

我曾经幻想，看过他的图画以后，我也许多少能够了解一些他的奇怪的性格，现在我知道我的想法错了。他的画只不过更增加了他已经在我心中引起的惊诧。我比没看画以前更加迷惘了。只有一件事我觉得我是清楚的——也许连这件事也是我的幻想——，那就是，他正竭尽全力想挣脱掉某种束缚着他的力量。但是这究竟是怎样一种力量，他又将如何寻求解脱，我一直弄不清楚。我们每个人生在世界上都是孤独的。每个人都被囚禁在一座铁塔里，只能靠一些符号同别人传达自己的思想；而这些符号并没有共同的价值，因此它们的意义是模糊的、不确定的。我们非常可怜地想把自己心中的财富传送给别人，但是他们却没有接受这些财富的能力。因此我们只能孤独地行走，尽管身体互相依傍却并不在一起，既不了解别的人也不能为别人所了解。我们好象住在异国的人。对于这个国家的语言懂得非常少，虽然我们有各种美妙的、深奥的事情要说，却只能局限于会话手册上那几句陈腐、平庸的话。我们的脑子里充满了各种思想，而我们能说的只不过是象“园丁的姑母有一把伞在屋子里”这类话。

他的这些画给我的最后一个印象是他为了表现某一精神境界所作的惊人的努力。我认为，要想解释他的作品为什么使我这样惶惑莫解，也必须从这一角度去寻找答案。对于思特里克兰德，色彩和形式显然具有一种独特的意义。他几乎无法忍受地感到必须把自己的某种感受传达给别人；这是他进行创作的唯一意图。只要他觉得能够接近他追寻的事物，采用简单的线条也好，画得歪七扭八也好，他一点儿也不在乎。他根本不考虑真实情况，因为他要在一堆互不相关的偶然的现象下面寻找他自己感到意义重大的事物。他好象已经抓到了宇宙的灵魂，一定要把它表现出来不可。

尽管这些画使我困惑、混乱，我却不能不被它们特有的热情所触动。我觉得看过这些画以后心里产生了一种感情，我绝没想到对思特里克兰德会有这样一种感情——我感到非常非常同情他。

“我想我现在懂得了，你为什么屈从于对勃朗什。施特略夫的感情了，”我对他说。

“为什么？”

“我想你失掉勇气了。你肉体的软弱感染了你的灵魂。我不知道是怎样一种无限思慕之情把你攫在手中，逼着你走上一条危险的、孤独的道路，你一直在寻找一个地方，希望到达那里就可以使自己从那折磨着你的精灵手里解放出来。我觉得你很象一个终生跋涉的香客，不停地寻找一座可能根本不存在的神庙。我不知道你寻求的是什么不可思议的涅槃。你自己知道吗？也许你寻找的是真理同自由，在一个短暂的时间里你认为或许能在爱情中获得解脱。我想，你的疲倦的灵魂可能期望在女人的怀抱里求得休憩，当你在那里没能找到的时候，你就开始恨她了。你对她一点也不怜悯，因为你对自己就不怜悯。你把她杀死是因为惧怕，因为你还为你刚刚逃脱的危险而索索发抖呢。”

他揪着自己的胡子干笑了一下。

“你真是个可怕的感伤主义者，可怜的朋友。”

一个星期以后，我偶然听说他已经到马赛去了。我再也没有看见过他。

"I don't want love. I haven't time for it. It's weakness. I am a man, and sometimes I want a woman. When I've satisfied my passion I'm ready for other things. I can't overcome my desire, but I hate it; it imprisons my spirit; I look forward to the time when I shall be free from all desire and can give myself without hindrance to my work. Because women can do nothing except love, they've given it a ridiculous importance. They want to persuade us that it's the whole of life. It's an insignificant part. I know lust. That's normal and healthy. Love is a disease. Women are the instruments of my pleasure; I have no patience with their claim to be helpmates, partners, companions. "

I had never heard Strickland speak so much at one time. He spoke with a passion of indignation. But neither here nor elsewhere do I pretend to give his exact words; his vocabulary was small, and he had no gift for framing sentences, so that one had to piece his meaning together out of interjections, the expression of his face, gestures and hackneyed phrases.

"You should have lived at a time when women were chattels and men the masters of slaves, " I said.

"It just happens that I am a completely normal man. "

I could not help laughing at this remark, made in all seriousness; but he went on, walking up and down the room like a caged beast, intent on expressing what he felt, but found such difficulty in putting coherently.

"When a woman loves you she's not satisfied until she possesses your soul. Because she's weak, she has a rage for domination, and nothing less will satisfy her. She has a small mind, and she resents the abstract which she is unable to grasp. She is occupied with material things, and she is jealous of the ideal. The soul of man wanders through the uttermost regions of the universe, and she seeks to imprison it in the circle of her account-book. Do you remember my wife? I saw Blanche little by little trying all her tricks. With infinite patience she prepared to snare me and bind me. She wanted to bring me down to her level; she cared nothing for me, she only wanted me to be hers. She was willing to do everything in the world for me except the one thing I wanted: to leave me alone. "

I was silent for a while.

"What did you expect her to do when you left her?"

"She could have gone back to Stroeve, " he said irritably. "He was ready to take her. "

"You're inhuman, " I answered. "It's as useless to talk to you about these things as to describe colours to a man who was born blind. "

He stopped in front of my chair, and stood looking down at me with an expression in which I read a contemptuous amazement.

"Do you really care a twopenny damn if Blanche Stroeve is alive or dead?"

I thought over his question, for I wanted to answer it truthfully, at all events to my soul.

"It may be a lack of sympathy in myself if it does not make any great difference to me that she is dead. Life had a great deal to offer her. I think it's terrible that she should have been deprived of it in that cruel way, and I am ashamed because I do not really care. "

"You have not the courage of your convictions. Life has no value. Blanche Stroeve didn't commit suicide because I left her, but because she was a foolish and unbalanced woman. But we've talked about her quite enough; she was an entirely unimportant person. Come, and I'll show you my pictures. "

He spoke as though I were a child that needed to be distracted. I was sore, but not with him so much as with myself. I thought of the happy life that pair had led in the cosy studio in Montmartre, Stroeve and his wife, their simplicity, kindness, and hospitality; it seemed to me cruel that it should have been broken to pieces by a ruthless chance; but the cruellest thing of all was that in fact it made no great difference. The world went on, and no one was a penny the worse for all that wretchedness. I had an idea that Dirk, a man of greater emotional reactions than depth of feeling, would soon forget; and Blanche's life, begun with who knows what bright hopes and what dreams, might just as well have never been lived. It all seemed useless and inane.

Strickland had found his hat, and stood looking at me.

"Are you coming?"

"Why do you seek my acquaintance?" I asked him. "You know that I hate and despise you. "

He chuckled good-humouredly.

"Your only quarrel with me really is that I don't care a twopenny damn what you think about me. "

I felt my cheeks grow red with sudden anger. It was impossible to make him understand that one might be outraged by his callous selfishness. I longed to pierce his armour of complete indifference. I knew also that in the end there was truth in what he said. Unconsciously, perhaps, we treasure the power we have over people by their regard for our opinion of them, and we hate those upon whom we have no such influence. I suppose it is the bitterest wound to human pride. But I would not let him see that I was put out.

"Is it possible for any man to disregard others entirely?" I said, though more to myself than to him. "You're dependent on others for everything in existence. It's a preposterous attempt to try to live only for yourself and by yourself. Sooner or later you'll be ill and tired and old, and then you'll crawl back into the herd. Won't you be ashamed when you feel in your heart the desire for comfort and sympathy? You're trying an impossible thing. Sooner or later the human being in you will yearn for the common bonds of humanity. "

"Come and look at my pictures. "

"Have you ever thought of death?"

"Why should I? It doesn't matter. "

I stared at him. He stood before me, motionless, with a mocking smile in his eyes; but for all that, for a moment I had an inkling of a fiery, tortured spirit, aiming at something greater than could be conceived by anything that was bound up with the flesh. I had a fleeting glimpse of a pursuit of the ineffable. I looked at the man before me in his shabby clothes, with his great nose and shining eyes, his red beard and untidy hair; and I had a strange sensation that it was only an envelope, and I was in the presence of a disembodied spirit.

"Let us go and look at your pictures, " I said.

“我不需要爱情。我没有时间搞恋爱。这是人性的一个弱点。我是个男人，有时候我需要一个女性。但是一旦我的情欲得到了满足，我就准备做别的事了。我无法克服自己的欲望，我恨它，它囚禁着我的精神。我希望将来能有一天，我会不再受欲望的支配，不再受任何阻碍地全心投到我的工作上去。因为女人除了谈情说爱不会干别的，所以她们把爱情看得非常重要，简直到了可笑的地步。她们还想说服我们，叫我们也相信人的全部生活就是爱情。实际上爱情是生活中无足轻重的一部分。我只懂得情欲。这是正常的，健康的。爱情是一种疾病。女人是我享乐的工具，我对她们提出什么事业的助手、生活的侣伴这些要求非常讨厌。”

思特里克兰德从来没有对我一次讲这么多话。他说话的时候带着一肚子的怒气。但是不论是这里或是在其他地方，我都不想把我写下来的假充为他的原话。思特里克兰德的词汇量很少，也没有组织句子的能力，所以一定得把他的惊叹词、他的面部表情、他的手势同一些平凡陈腐的词句串联起来才能弄清楚他的意思。

“你应该生活在妇女是奴隶、男人是奴隶主的时代。”我说。

“偏偏我生来是一个完全正常的男人。”

他一本正经地说了这么一句话，不由得又使我笑起来。他却毫不在意地只顾说下去，一边在屋子里走来走去。但是尽管他全神贯注地努力想把自己感觉到的表达出来，却总是辞不达意。

“要是一个女人爱上了你，除非连你的灵魂也叫她占有了，她是不会感到满足的。因为女人是软弱的，所以她们具有非常强烈的统治欲，不把你完全控制在手就不甘心。女人的心胸狭窄，对那些她理解不了的抽象东西非常反感。她们满脑子想的都是物质的东西，所以对于精神和理想非常妒忌。男人的灵魂在宇宙的最遥远的地方邀游，女人却想把它禁锢在家庭收支的账簿里。你还记得我的妻子吗？我发觉勃朗什一点一点地施展起我妻子的那些小把戏来。她以无限的耐心准备把我网罗住，捆住我的手脚。她要把我拉到她那个水平上；她对我这个人一点也不关心，唯一想的是叫我依附于她。为了我，世界上任何事情她都愿意做，只有一件事除外：不来打搅我。”

我沉默了一会儿。

“你离开她以后想到她要做什么吗？”

“她满可以回到施特略夫身边去的，”他气冲冲地说，“施特略夫巴不得她回去的。”

“你不通人性，”我回答说。“同你谈这些事一点用也没有，就象跟瞎子形容颜色一样。”

他在我的椅子前边站住，低下头来望着我；我看出来他脸上的表情满含轻蔑，又充满了惊诧。

“勃朗什·施特略夫活着也好，死了也好，难道你真的那么关心吗？”

我想了想他提出的这个问题，因为我想真实地回答，无论如何一定要是我的真实思想。

“如果说她死了对我一点儿也无所谓，那我也未免太没有人心了。生活能够给她的东西很多，她这样残酷地被剥夺去生命，我认为是一件非常可怕的事。但是我也觉得很惭愧，因为说实在的，我并不太关心。”

“你没有勇气坦白承认你真正的思想。生命并没有什么价值。勃朗什·施特略夫自杀并不是因为我抛弃了她，而是因为她太傻，因为她精神不健全。但是咱们谈论她已经够多的了，她实在是个一点也不重要的角色。来吧，我让你看看我的画。”

他说话的样子，倒好象我是个小孩子，需要他把我的精神岔开似的。我气得要命，但与其说是对他倒不如说对我自己。我回想起这一对夫妻——施特略夫同他的妻子，在蒙特玛特尔区一间舒适的画室中过的幸福生活，他们两人淳朴、善良、殷勤好客，这种生活竟由于一件无情的偶然事件被打得粉碎，我觉得这真是非常残忍的；但是最最残忍的还是，这件事对别人并没有什么影响。人们继续生活下去，谁也没有因为这个悲剧而活得更糟。我猜想，就连戴尔克不久也会把这件事遗忘，因为尽管他反应强烈，一时悲恸欲绝，感情却没有深度。至于勃朗什自己，不论她最初步入生活时曾怀有何等美妙的希望与梦想，死了以后，同她根本没有降临人世又有什么两样？一切都是空虚的，没有意义的。

思特里克兰德拿起了帽子，站在那里看着我。

“你来吗？”

“你为什么要同我来往？”我问他，“你知道我讨厌你，鄙视你。”

他咯咯地笑了笑，一点也没有恼怒。

“你同我吵嘴，实际上是因为我根本不在乎你对我的看法。”

我感到自己的面颊气得通红。你根本无法使他了解，他的冷酷、自私能叫人气得火冒三丈。我恨不得一下子刺穿了他那副冷漠的甲胄。但是我也知道，归根结底，他的话也不无道理。虽然我们没有明确意识到，说不定我们还是非常重视别人看重不看重我们的意见、我们在别人身上是否有影响力的；如果我们对一个人的看法受到他的重视，我们就沾沾自喜，如果他对这种意见丝毫也不理会，我们就讨厌他。我想这就是自尊心中最厉害的创伤。但是我并不想叫思特里克兰德看出我这种气恼。

“一个人可能完全不理会别人吗？”我说，与其说是问他还不如说是问我自己，“生活中无论什么事都和别人息息相关，要想只为自己、孤零零地一个人活下去是个十分荒谬的想法。早晚有一天你会生病，会变得老态龙钟，到那时候你还得爬着回去找你的同伙。当你感到需要别人的安慰和同情的时候，你不羞愧吗？你现在要做的是一件根本不可能的事。你身上的人性早晚会渴望同其他的人建立联系的。”

“去看看我的画吧！”

“你想到过死吗？”

“何必想到死？死有什么关系？”

我凝望着他。他一动不动地站在我面前，眼睛里闪着讥嘲的笑容。但是尽管他脸上是这种神情，一瞬间我好象还是看到一个受折磨的、炽热的灵魂正在追逐某种远非血肉之躯所能想象的伟大的东西。我瞥见的是对某种无法描述的事物的热烈追求。我凝视着站在我面前的这个人，衣服褴褛，生着一个大鼻子和炯炯发光的眼睛，火红的胡须，蓬乱的头发。我有一个奇怪的感觉，这一切只不过是个外壳，我真正看到的是一个脱离了躯体的灵魂。

“好吧，去看看你的画吧。”我说。