耳边名著 | 中英字幕

I did not see Strickland for several weeks. I was disgusted with him, and if I had had an opportunity should have been glad to tell him so, but I saw no object in seeking him out for the purpose. I am a little shy of any assumption of moral indignation; there is always in it an element of self-satisfaction which makes it awkward to anyone who has a sense of humour. It requires a very lively passion to steel me to my own ridicule. There was a sardonic sincerity in Strickland which made me sensitive to anything that might suggest a pose.

But one evening when I was passing along the Avenue de Clichy in front of the cafe which Strickland frequented and which I now avoided, I ran straight into him. He was accompanied by Blanche Stroeve, and they were just going to Strickland's favourite corner.

"Where the devil have you been all this time?" said he. "I thought you must be away. "

His cordiality was proof that he knew I had no wish to speak to him. He was not a man with whom it was worth while wasting politeness.

"No, " I said; "I haven't been away. "

"Why haven't you been here?"

"There are more cafes in Paris than one, at which to trifle away an idle hour. "

Blanche then held out her hand and bade me good-evening. I do not know why I had expected her to be somehow changed; she wore the same gray dress that she wore so often, neat and becoming, and her brow was as candid, her eyes as untroubled, as when I had been used to see her occupied with her household duties in the studio.

"Come and have a game of chess, " said Strickland.

I do not know why at the moment I could think of no excuse. I followed them rather sulkily to the table at which Strickland always sat, and he called for the board and the chessmen. They both took the situation so much as a matter of course that I felt it absurd to do otherwise. Mrs. Stroeve watched the game with inscrutable face. She was silent, but she had always been silent. I looked at her mouth for an expression that could give me a clue to what she felt; I watched her eyes for some tell-tale flash, some hint of dismay or bitterness; I scanned her brow for any passing line that might indicate a settling emotion. Her face was a mask that told nothing. Her hands lay on her lap motionless, one in the other loosely clasped. I knew from what I had heard that she was a woman of violent passions; and that injurious blow that she had given Dirk, the man who had loved her so devotedly, betrayed a sudden temper and a horrid cruelty. She had abandoned the safe shelter of her husband's protection and the comfortable ease of a well-provided establishment for what she could not but see was an extreme hazard. It showed an eagerness for adventure, a readiness for the hand-to-mouth, which the care she took of her home and her love of good housewifery made not a little remarkable. She must be a woman of complicated character, and there was something dramatic in the contrast of that with her demure appearance.

I was excited by the encounter, and my fancy worked busily while I sought to concentrate myself on the game I was playing. I always tried my best to beat Strickland, because he was a player who despised the opponent he vanquished; his exultation in victory made defeat more difficult to bear. On the other hand, if he was beaten he took it with complete good-humour. He was a bad winner and a good loser. Those who think that a man betrays his character nowhere more clearly than when he is playing a game might on this draw subtle inferences.

When he had finished I called the waiter to pay for the drinks, and left them. The meeting had been devoid of incident. No word had been said to give me anything to think about, and any surmises I might make were unwarranted. I was intrigued. I could not tell how they were getting on. I would have given much to be a disembodied spirit so that I could see them in the privacy of the studio and hear what they talked about. I had not the smallest indication on which to let my imagination work.

我有好几个星期没有见到思特里克兰德。我非常厌恶他，如果有机会的话，我会当着面把我对他的看法告诉他，但是我也犯不上为了这件事特地到处去找他。我不太愿意摆出一副义愤填膺的架势来，这里面总有某种自鸣得意的成分，会叫一个有幽默感的人觉得你在装腔作势。除非我真的动起火来，我是不肯让别人拿自己当笑话看的。思特里克兰德惯会讽刺挖苦、不讲情面，在他面前我就更要小心戒备，绝不能让他觉得我是在故作姿态。

但是一天晚上，正当我经过克利舍路一家咖啡馆门前的时候（我知道这是思特里克兰德经常来的一家咖啡馆，最近一段时间我总是尽量躲着这个地方），我却和思特里克兰德撞了个满怀。勃朗什·施特略夫同他在一起，两人正在走向思特里克兰德最喜欢坐的一个角落去。

“你这么多天跑到哪儿去了？”他问我说，“我还以为你到外地去了呢。”

他对我这样殷勤正表示他知道得很清楚，我不愿意理他。但是你对思特里克兰德这种人根本不需要讲客套。

“没有，”我直截了当地说，“我没有到外地去。”

“为什么老没到这儿来了？”

“巴黎的咖啡馆不是只此一家，在哪儿不能消磨时间啊？”

勃朗什这时伸出手来同我打招呼。不知道为什么我本来认为她的样子一定会发生一些变化，但是我现在看到她仍然是老样子：穿的是过去经常穿的一件灰衣服，前额光洁明净，眼睛里没有一丝忧虑和烦恼，正象我过去看到她在施特略夫画室里操持家务时一模一样。

“来下盘棋吧。”思特里克兰德说。

我不懂为什么当时我会没想出一个借口回绝了他。我怀着一肚子闷气跟在他们后面，走到思特里克兰德的老座位前边。他叫侍者取来了棋盘和棋子。他们两个人对这次不期而遇一点也没有大惊小怪，我自然也只能装出一副若无其事的样子，不然就显得我太不通人情了。施特略夫太太看着我们下棋，从她脸上的表情丝毫也猜不透她心里想的是什么。她什么话也没说，但她根本就不是爱说话的人。我看着她的嘴，希望看到一个能使我猜测出她真实感情的神态；我打量着她的眼睛，寻找某种泄露她内心隐秘的闪光，表示惶惑或者痛苦的眼神；我打量着她的前额，看那上面会不会偶然出现一个皱纹，告诉我她正在衰减的热情。但她的面孔宛如一副面具，我在那上面丝毫也看不出她的真实思想。她的双手一动不动地摆在膝头上，一只手松松地握着另一只。从我所听到的一些事，我知道她的性情很暴烈，戴尔克那么全心全意地爱着她，她却狠狠地打了他一巴掌，这说明了她翻脸无情，心肠非常冷酷。她抛弃了自己丈夫庇护下的安乐窝，抛弃了温饱舒适的优裕生活，甘愿承担她自己也看得非常分明的风险患难。这说明了她喜欢追求冒险，肯于忍饥耐劳；后一种性格从她过去辛勤操理家务、热心家庭主妇的职责看来倒也不足为奇。看来她一定是一个性格非常复杂的女人，这同她那端庄娴静的外表倒构成了极富于戏剧性的对比。

这次与思特里克兰德和勃朗什不期而遇使我非常激动，勾起我无数奇思遐想。但是我还是拼命把精神集中在走棋上，使出全副本领，一定要把思特里克兰德击败。他非常看不起那些败在他手下的人；如果叫他取胜，他那种洋洋自得的样子简直叫你无地自容。但是在另一方面，如果他下输了，他倒也从来不发脾气。换言之，思特里克兰德只能输棋，不能赢棋。有人认为只有下棋的时候才能最清楚地观察一个人的性格，这倒是可以从思特里克兰德这人的例子取得一些微妙的推论。

下完棋以后，我把侍者叫来，付了酒账，便离开了他们。这次会面实在没有什么值得记述的地方，没有一句话可以使我追思、玩味，如果我有任何臆测，也毫无事实根据。但这反而更引起了我的好奇心。我实在摸不透这两人的关系。如果灵魂真能出窍的话，不论出什么代价我也得试一次；只有这样我才能在画室里看到他俩私下如何过活，才能听到他们交谈些什么。总之一句话，我没有可以供我的幻想力发挥作用的最小依据。

Next day, though I pressed him to remain, Stroeve left me. I offered to fetch his things from the studio, but he insisted on going himself; I think he hoped they had not thought of getting them together, so that he would have an opportunity of seeing his wife again and perhaps inducing her to come back to him. But he found his traps waiting for him in the porter's lodge, and the concierge told him that Blanche had gone out. I do not think he resisted the temptation of giving her an account of his troubles. I found that he was telling them to everyone he knew; he expected sympathy, but only excited ridicule.

He bore himself most unbecomingly. Knowing at what time his wife did her shopping, one day, unable any longer to bear not seeing her, he waylaid her in the street. She would not speak to him, but he insisted on speaking to her. He spluttered out words of apology for any wrong he had committed towards her; he told her he loved her devotedly and begged her to return to him. She would not answer; she walked hurriedly, with averted face. I imagined him with his fat little legs trying to keep up with her. Panting a little in his haste, he told her how miserable he was; he besought her to have mercy on him; he promised, if she would forgive him, to do everything she wanted. He offered to take her for a journey. He told her that Strickland would soon tire of her. When he repeated to me the whole sordid little scene I was outraged. He had shown neither sense nor dignity. He had omitted nothing that could make his wife despise him. There is no cruelty greater than a woman's to a man who loves her and whom she does not love; she has no kindness then, no tolerance even, she has only an insane irritation. Blanche Stroeve stopped suddenly, and as hard as she could slapped her husband's face. She took advantage of his confusion to escape, and ran up the stairs to the studio. No word had passed her lips.

When he told me this he put his hand to his cheek as though he still felt the smart of the blow, and in his eyes was a pain that was heartrending and an amazement that was ludicrous. He looked like an overblown schoolboy, and though I felt so sorry for him, I could hardly help laughing.

Then he took to walking along the street which she must pass through to get to the shops, and he would stand at the corner, on the other side, as she went along. He dared not speak to her again, but sought to put into his round eyes the appeal that was in his heart. I suppose he had some idea that the sight of his misery would touch her. She never made the smallest sign that she saw him. She never even changed the hour of her errands or sought an alternative route. I have an idea that there was some cruelty in her indifference. Perhaps she got enjoyment out of the torture she inflicted. I wondered why she hated him so much.

I begged Stroeve to behave more wisely. His want of spirit was exasperating.

"You're doing no good at all by going on like this, " I said. "I think you'd have been wiser if you'd hit her over the head with a stick. She wouldn't have despised you as she does now. "

I suggested that he should go home for a while. He had often spoken to me of the silent town, somewhere up in the north of Holland, where his parents still lived. They were poor people. His father was a carpenter, and they dwelt in a little old red-brick house, neat and clean, by the side of a sluggish canal. The streets were wide and empty; for two hundred years the place had been dying, but the houses had the homely stateliness of their time. Rich merchants, sending their wares to the distant Indies, had lived in them calm and prosperous lives, and in their decent decay they kept still an aroma of their splendid past. You could wander along the canal till you came to broad green fields, with windmills here and there, in which cattle, black and white, grazed lazily. I thought that among those surroundings, with their recollections of his boyhood, Dirk Stroeve would forget his unhappiness. But he would not go.

"I must be here when she needs me, " he repeated. "It would be dreadful if something terrible happened and I were not at hand. "

"What do you think is going to happen?" I asked.

"I don't know. But I'm afraid. "

I shrugged my shoulders.

For all his pain, Dirk Stroeve remained a ridiculous object. He might have excited sympathy if he had grown worn and thin. He did nothing of the kind. He remained fat, and his round, red cheeks shone like ripe apples. He had great neatness of person, and he continued to wear his spruce black coat and his bowler hat, always a little too small for him, in a dapper, jaunty manner. He was getting something of a paunch, and sorrow had no effect on it. He looked more than ever like a prosperous bagman. It is hard that a man's exterior should tally so little sometimes with his soul. Dirk Stroeve had the passion of Romeo in the body of Sir Toby Belch. He had a sweet and generous nature, and yet was always blundering; a real feeling for what was beautiful and the capacity to create only what was commonplace; a peculiar delicacy of sentiment and gross manners. He could exercise tact when dealing with the affairs of others, but none when dealing with his own. What a cruel practical joke old Nature played when she flung so many contradictory elements together, and left the man face to face with the perplexing callousness of the universe.

第二天，虽然我尽力挽留，施特略夫还是走了。我建议我替他回家去取行李，但是他坚持要自己去。我想他可能希望他们并没有把他的东西收拾起来，这样他就有机会再见自己的妻子一面，说不定还能劝说她回到自己的身边来。但是事实并不象他所料想的那样，他的一些零星用品已经放在门房，等着他取走，而勃朗什，据看门人告诉他，已经出门走了。我想施特略夫如果有机会的话，是不会不把自己的苦恼向她倾诉一番的。我发现他不论碰到哪个相识的人都把自己的不幸遭遇唠叨给人家听；他希望别人同情他，但是却只引起人们的嘲笑。

他的行径很失体统。他知道他的妻子每天什么时候出去买东西，有一天，迫不及待地想见到她，便在街上把她拦住。虽然勃朗什不理他，他还是没完没了同她讲话。他为自己做的任何一件对不起她的事向她道歉，告诉她自己如何真心爱她，请求她再回到自己身边。勃朗什一句话也不回答，脸扭向一边，飞快地向前赶路，我想象得出施特略夫怎样迈动着一双小短腿，使劲在后面追赶的样子。他一边跑一边喘气，继续唠叨个没完。他告诉她自己如何痛苦，请求她可怜自己；他发誓赌咒，只要她能原谅他，他什么事都愿意替她做。他答应要带她去旅行。他告诉她思特里克兰德不久就会厌倦了她。当施特略夫对我回述这幕令人作呕的丑戏时，我真是气坏了。这个人真是又没有脑子、又失掉作丈夫的尊严。凡是叫他妻子鄙视的事，他一件没漏地都做出来了。女人对一个仍然爱着她、可是她已经不再爱的男人可以表现得比任何人都残忍；她对他不只不仁慈，而且根本不能容忍，她成了一团毫无理智的怒火。勃朗什·施特略夫倏地站住了，用尽全身力气在她丈夫脸上掴了一掌。趁他张皇失措的当儿，她急忙走开，三步并作两步地登上画室的楼梯。自始至终她一句话也没有说。

他一边给我讲这段故事，一边用手摸着脸，好象那火辣辣的痛劲儿到现在还没有过去似的。他的眼睛流露着痛苦而迷惘的神色，他的痛苦让人看着心酸，而他的迷惘又有些滑稽。他活脱儿是个挨了训的小学生；尽管我觉得他很可怜，却禁不住好笑。

这以后他就在勃朗什到商店买东西的必经之路上往返徘徊，当他见到勃朗什走过的时候，就在街对面墙角一站。他不敢再同她搭话了，只是用一对圆眼睛盯着她，尽量把心里的祈求和哀思用眼神表露出来。我猜想他可能认为勃朗什会被他的一副可怜相打动。但是她却从来没有任何看到他的表示。她甚至连买东西的时间也不改变，也从来不改变一下路线。我估计她这种冷漠含有某种残忍的成分，说不定她感到这样痛苦折磨他是一种乐趣。我真不懂她为什么对他这样恨之入骨。

我劝说施特略夫放聪明一些。他这样没有骨气叫旁观的人都气得要命。

“你这样下去一点也没有好处，”我说，“依我看，你更应该做的倒是劈头盖脸地揍她一顿，她就不会照现在这样看不起你了。”

我建议叫他回老家去住些天。他常常同我提到他的老家，荷兰北部某个地方的一个寂静的城镇，他的父母至今仍然住在那里。他们都是穷苦人，他父亲是个木匠。他家住在一幢古老的小红砖房里，干净、整齐，房子旁是一条水流徐缓的运河。那里的街道非常宽阔，寂静无人。两百年来，这个地方日渐荒凉、冷落，但是城镇里房屋却仍然保持着当年的朴实而雄伟的气象。富有的商人把货物发往遥远的东印度群岛去，在这些房子里安静地过着优裕的生活；如今这些人家虽已衰败，但仍然闪烁着往日繁华的余辉。你可以沿着运河徜徉，直到走上一片片宽广的绿色原野，黑白斑驳的牛只懒洋洋地在上面吃草。我想在这样一个充满童年回忆的环境里，戴尔克·施特略夫是可以忘掉他这次的不幸的。但是他却不要回去。

“我一定得留在这儿，她什么时候需要我就可以找到我，”他又重复他已经对我讲过的话。“如果发生了什么不好的事，我又不在她身边，那就太可怕了。”

“你想会发生什么事呢？”我问他。

“我不知道。但是我害怕。”

我耸了耸肩膀。

尽管在这样大的痛苦里，戴尔克·施特略夫的样子仍然让人看着发笑。如果他削瘦了、憔悴了，也许会引起人们同情的。但是他却一点儿也不见瘦。他仍然是肥肥胖胖的，通红的圆脸蛋象两只熟透了的苹果。他一向干净、利落，现在他还是穿着那件整整齐齐的黑外套，一顶略小一些的圆顶硬礼帽非常洒脱地顶在头上。他的肚子正在发胖，也一点儿没受这次伤心事的影响。他比以往任何时候都更象一个生意兴隆的商贩了。有时候一个人的外貌同他的灵魂这么不相称，这实在是一件苦不堪言的事。施特略夫就是这样：他心里有罗密欧的热情，却生就一副托比·培尔契爵士①的形体。他的禀性仁慈、慷慨，却不断闹出笑话来：他对美的东西从心眼里喜爱，但自己却只能创造出平庸的东西；他的感情非常细腻，但举止却很粗俗。他在处理别人的事务时很有手腕，但自己的事却弄得一团糟。大自然在创造这个人的时候，在他身上揉捏了这么多相互矛盾的特点，叫他面对着令他迷惑不解的冷酷人世，这是一个多么残忍的玩笑啊。

①莎士比亚戏剧《第十二夜》中人物。

But the bed I made up for myself was sufficiently uncomfortable to give me a wakeful night, and I thought a good deal of what the unlucky Dutchman had told me. I was not so much puzzled by Blanche Stroeve's action, for I saw in that merely the result of a physical appeal. I do not suppose she had ever really cared for her husband, and what I had taken for love was no more than the feminine response to caresses and comfort which in the minds of most women passes for it. It is a passive feeling capable of being roused for any object, as the vine can grow on any tree; and the wisdom of the world recognises its strength when it urges a girl to marry the man who wants her with the assurance that love will follow. It is an emotion made up of the satisfaction in security, pride of property, the pleasure of being desired, the gratification of a household, and it is only by an amiable vanity that women ascribe to it spiritual value. It is an emotion which is defenceless against passion. I suspected that Blanche Stroeve's violent dislike of Strickland had in it from the beginning a vague element of sexual attraction. Who am I that I should seek to unravel the mysterious intricacies of sex? Perhaps Stroeve's passion excited without satisfying that part of her nature, and she hated Strickland because she felt in him the power to give her what she needed. I think she was quite sincere when she struggled against her husband's desire to bring him into the studio; I think she was frightened of him, though she knew not why; and I remembered how she had foreseen disaster. I think in some curious way the horror which she felt for him was a transference of the horror which she felt for herself because he so strangely troubled her. His appearance was wild and uncouth; there was aloofness in his eyes and sensuality in his mouth; he was big and strong; he gave the impression of untamed passion; and perhaps she felt in him, too, that sinister element which had made me think of those wild beings of the world's early history when matter, retaining its early connection with the earth, seemed to possess yet a spirit of its own. If he affected her at all, it was inevitable that she should love or hate him. She hated him.

And then I fancy that the daily intimacy with the sick man moved her strangely. She raised his head to give him food, and it was heavy against her hand; when she had fed him she wiped his sensual mouth and his red beard. She washed his limbs; they were covered with thick hair; and when she dried his hands, even in his weakness they were strong and sinewy. His fingers were long; they were the capable, fashioning fingers of the artist; and I know not what troubling thoughts they excited in her. He slept very quietly, without a movement, so that he might have been dead, and he was like some wild creature of the woods, resting after a long chase; and she wondered what fancies passed through his dreams. Did he dream of the nymph flying through the woods of Greece with the satyr in hot pursuit? She fled, swift of foot and desperate, but he gained on her step by step, till she felt his hot breath on her neck; and still she fled silently, and silently he pursued, and when at last he seized her was it terror that thrilled her heart or was it ecstasy?

Blanche Stroeve was in the cruel grip of appetite. Perhaps she hated Strickland still, but she hungered for him, and everything that had made up her life till then became of no account. She ceased to be a woman, complex, kind and petulant, considerate and thoughtless; she was a Maenad. She was desire.

But perhaps this is very fanciful; and it may be that she was merely bored with her husband and went to Strickland out of a callous curiosity. She may have had no particular feeling for him, but succumbed to his wish from propinquity or idleness, to find then that she was powerless in a snare of her own contriving. How did I know what were the thoughts and emotions behind that placid brow and those cool gray eyes?

But if one could be certain of nothing in dealing with creatures so incalculable as human beings, there were explanations of Blanche Stroeve's behaviour which were at all events plausible. On the other hand, I did not understand Strickland at all. I racked my brain, but could in no way account for an action so contrary to my conception of him. It was not strange that he should so heartlessly have betrayed his friends' confidence, nor that he hesitated not at all to gratify a whim at the cost of another's misery. That was in his character. He was a man without any conception of gratitude. He had no compassion. The emotions common to most of us simply did not exist in him, and it was as absurd to blame him for not feeling them as for blaming the tiger because he is fierce and cruel. But it was the whim I could not understand.

I could not believe that Strickland had fallen in love with Blanche Stroeve. I did not believe him capable of love. That is an emotion in which tenderness is an essential part, but Strickland had no tenderness either for himself or for others; there is in love a sense of weakness, a desire to protect, an eagerness to do good and to give pleasure -- if not unselfishness, at all events a selfishness which marvellously conceals itself; it has in it a certain diffidence. These were not traits which I could imagine in Strickland. Love is absorbing; it takes the lover out of himself; the most clear-sighted, though he may know, cannot realise that his love will cease; it gives body to what he knows is illusion, and, knowing it is nothing else, he loves it better than reality. It makes a man a little more than himself, and at the same time a little less. He ceases to be himself. He is no longer an individual, but a thing, an instrument to some purpose foreign to his ego. Love is never quite devoid of sentimentality, and Strickland was the least inclined to that infirmity of any man I have known. I could not believe that he would ever suffer that possession of himself which love is; he could never endure a foreign yoke. I believed him capable of uprooting from his heart, though it might be with agony, so that he was left battered and ensanguined, anything that came between himself and that uncomprehended craving that urged him constantly to he knew not what. If I have succeeded at all in giving the complicated impression that Strickland made on me, it will not seem outrageous to say that I felt he was at once too great and too small for love.

But I suppose that everyone's conception of the passion is formed on his own idiosyncrasies, and it is different with every different person. A man like Strickland would love in a manner peculiar to himself. It was vain to seek the analysis of his emotion.

但是我给自己安设的床铺却很不舒服，整整一夜我也没睡着，只是翻来覆去思索这个不幸的荷兰人对我讲的故事。勃朗什·施特略夫的行为还是容易解释的，我认为她做出那种事来只不过是屈服于肉体的诱惑。她对自己的丈夫从来就没有什么感情，过去我认为她爱施特略夫，实际上只是男人的爱抚和生活的安适在女人身上引起的自然反应。大多数女人都把这种反应当做爱情了。这是一种对任何一个人都可能产生的被动的感情，正象藤蔓可以攀附在随便哪株树上一样。因为这种感情可以叫一个女孩子嫁给任何一个需要她的男人，相信日久天长便会对这个人产生爱情，所以世俗的见解便断定了它的力量。但是说到底，这种感情是什么呢？它只不过是对有保障的生活的满足，对拥有家资的骄傲，对有人需要自己沾沾自喜，和对建立起自己的家庭洋洋得意而已；女人们禀性善良、喜爱虚荣，因此便认为这种感情极富于精神价值。但是在冲动的热情前面，这种感情是毫无防卫能力的。我怀疑勃朗什·施特略夫之所以非常不喜欢思特里克兰德，从一开始便含有性的诱惑因素在内，可是性的问题是极其复杂的，我有什么资格妄图解开这个谜呢？或许施特略夫对她的热情只能刺激起，却未能满足她这一部分天性，她讨厌思特里克兰德是因为她感到他具有满足她这一需求的力量。当她拼命阻拦自己丈夫，不叫他把思特里克兰德带回家来的时候，我认为她还是真诚的；她被这个人吓坏了，尽管她自己也不知道为什么要怕他。我也记得她曾预言过思特里克兰德会带来灾难和不幸。我想，她对思特里克兰德的恐惧是她对自己的恐惧的一种奇怪的移植，因为他叫她迷惑不解，心烦意乱。思特里克兰德生得粗野不驯，眼睛深邃冷漠，嘴型给人以肉欲感，他的身体高大、壮硕，这一些都给人以热情狂放的印象。也许她同我一样，在他身上感到某种邪恶的气质；这种气质使我想到宇宙初辟时的那些半人半兽的生物，那时宇宙万物同大地还保持着原始的联系，尽管是物质，却仿佛仍然具有精神的性质。如果思特里克兰德激发起她的感情来，不是爱就是恨，二者必居其一。当时她对思特里克兰德感到的是恨。

接着我又想象，她日夜同病人厮守，一定逐渐产生了一种奇怪的感情。她托着病人的头喂他食物，他的头沉甸甸地倚在她手上；在他吃过东西以后，她揩抹他的富于肉欲的嘴唇和火红的胡子。她给他揩拭四肢，他的手臂和大腿覆盖着一层浓密的汗毛。当她给他擦手的时候，尽管他病得非常虚弱，她也感觉得出它们如何结实有力。他的手指生得长长的，是艺术家那类能干的、善于塑造的手指。我无法知道它们在她心里引起什么样慌乱的思想。他非常宁静地睡在那里，一动也不动，几乎和死人一样，他象是森林里的一头野兽，在一阵猛烈追猎后躺在那里休息；她在好奇地猜测，他正在经历什么奇异的梦境呢？他是不是梦到了一个林泽的女神正在希腊的森林里飞奔，森林之神塞特尔在后面紧追不舍？她拼命地逃跑，双腿如飞，但是塞特尔还是一步一步地离她越来越近，连他吹在她脖子上的热辣辣的呼吸她都感觉出来了。但是她仍然一声不出地向前飞跑，他也一声不出地紧紧追赶；最后，当她被他抓到手里的时候，使她浑身颤抖的是恐惧呢，还是狂喜呢？

如饥似渴的欲念毫不留情地把勃朗什·施特略夫抓在手里。也许她仍然恨着思特里克兰德，但是她却渴望得到他，在这以前构成她生活的那一切现在都变得一文不值了。她不再是一个女性了，不再是一个性格复杂的女性——既善良又乖戾，既谨慎又轻率；她成了迈那德①，成了欲念的化身。

①希腊神话中酒神的女祭司。

但是也许这都是我的臆测；可能她不过对自己的丈夫感到厌倦，只是出于好奇心（并无任何热情在内）才去我的思特里克兰德。可能她对他并没有特殊的感情，她之屈从于思特里克兰德的欲念只是由于两人日夜厮守、由于她厌烦无聊，而一旦同他接近以后，却发现陷入了自己编织的罗网里。在她那平静的前额和冷冷的灰色的眼睛后面隐匿着什么思想和感情，我怎能知道呢？

然而，尽管在探讨象人这样无从捉摸的生物时，我们什么也不敢肯定，但对于勃朗什·施特略夫的行为还有一些解释是完全说得通的。另一方面，我对思特里克兰德却一点也不了解。他这次的行为与我平日对他的理解格格不入，我苦苦思索，无论如何也无法解释。他毫无心肝地辜负了朋友对他的信任，为了自己一时兴之所至，给别人带来莫大的痛苦，这都不足为奇，因为这都是他性格的一部分。他既不知感恩，也毫无怜悯心肠。我们大多数人所共有的那些感情在他身上都不存在；如果责备他没有这些感情，就象责备老虎凶暴残忍一样荒谬。我所不能解释的是为什么他突然动了施特略夫的念头。

我不能相信思特里克兰德会爱上了勃朗什·施特略夫。我根本不相信这个人会爱上一个人。在爱这种感情中主要成分是温柔，但思特里克兰德却不论对自己或对别人都不懂得温柔。爱情中需要有一种软弱无力的感觉，要有体贴爱护的要求，有帮助别人、取悦别人的热情——如果不是无私，起码是巧妙地遮掩起来的自私；爱情包含着某种程度的腼腆怯懦。而这些性格特点都不是我在思特里克兰德身上所能找到的。爱情要占据一个人莫大的精力，它要一个人离开自己的生活专门去做一个爱人。即使头脑最清晰的人，从道理上他可能知道，在实际中却不会承认爱情有一天会走到尽头。爱情赋予他明知是虚幻的事物以实质形体，他明知道这一切不过是镜花水月，爱它却远远超过喜爱真实。它使一个人比原来的自我更丰富了一些，同时又使他比原来的自我更狭小了一些。他不再是一个人，他成了追求某一个他不了解的目的的一件事物、一个工具。爱情从来免不了多愁善感，而思特里克兰德却是我认识的人中最不易犯这种病症的人。我不相信他在任何时候会害那种爱情的通病——如醉如痴、神魂颠倒；他从来不能忍受外界加给他的任何桎梏。如果有任何事物妨碍了他那无人能理解的热望（这种热望无时或止地刺激着他，叫他奔向一个他自己也不清楚的目标），我相信他会毫不犹疑把它从心头上连根拔去，即使忍受莫大痛苦，弄得遍体鳞伤、鲜血淋漓也在所不惜。如果我写下的我对思特里克兰德的这些复杂印象还算得正确的话，我想下面的断语读者也不会认为悖理：我觉得思特里克兰德这个人既伟大、又渺小，是不会同别人发生爱情的。

但是爱情这个概念，归根结底，因人而异；每个人都根据自己的不同癖性有不同的理解。因此，象思特里克兰德这样一个人一定也有他自己的独特的恋爱方式。要想分析他的感情实在是一件徒然的事。

I kept silence for a little while, thinking of what Stroeve had told me. I could not stomach his weakness, and he saw my disapproval. "You know as well as I do how Strickland lived, " he said tremulously. "I couldn't let her live in those circumstances -- I simply couldn't. "

"That's your business, " I answered.

"What would you have done?" he asked.

"She went with her eyes open. If she had to put up with certain inconveniences it was her own lookout. "

"Yes; but, you see, you don't love her. "

"Do you love her still?"

"Oh, more than ever. Strickland isn't the man to make a woman happy. It can't last. I want her to know that I shall never fail her. "

"Does that mean that you're prepared to take her back?"

"I shouldn't hesitate. Why, she'll want me more than ever then. When she's alone and humiliated and broken it would be dreadful if she had nowhere to go. "

He seemed to bear no resentment. I suppose it was commonplace in me that I felt slightly outraged at his lack of spirit. Perhaps he guessed what was in my mind, for he said:

"I couldn't expect her to love me as I loved her. I'm a buffoon. I'm not the sort of man that women love. I've always known that. I can't blame her if she's fallen in love with Strickland. "

"You certainly have less vanity than any man I've ever known, " I said.

"I love her so much better than myself. It seems to me that when vanity comes into love it can only be because really you love yourself best. After all, it constantly happens that a man when he's married falls in love with somebody else; when he gets over it he returns to his wife, and she takes him back, and everyone thinks it very natural. Why should it be different with women?"

"I dare say that's logical, " I smiled, "but most men are made differently, and they can't. "

But while I talked to Stroeve I was puzzling over the suddenness of the whole affair. I could not imagine that he had had no warning. I remembered the curious look I had seen in Blanche Stroeve's eyes; perhaps its explanation was that she was growing dimly conscious of a feeling in her heart that surprised and alarmed her.

"Did you have no suspicion before to-day that there was anything between them?" I asked.

He did not answer for a while. There was a pencil on the table, and unconsciously he drew a head on the blotting-paper.

"Please say so, if you hate my asking you questions, " I said.

"It eases me to talk. Oh, if you knew the frightful anguish in my heart. " He threw the pencil down. "Yes, I've known it for a fortnight. I knew it before she did. "

"Why on earth didn't you send Strickland packing?"

"I couldn't believe it. It seemed so improbable. She couldn't bear the sight of him. It was more than improbable; it was incredible. I thought it was merely jealousy. You see, I've always been jealous, but I trained myself never to show it; I was jealous of every man she knew; I was jealous of you. I knew she didn't love me as I loved her. That was only natural, wasn't it? But she allowed me to love her, and that was enough to make me happy. I forced myself to go out for hours together in order to leave them by themselves; I wanted to punish myself for suspicions which were unworthy of me; and when I came back I found they didn't want me -- not Strickland, he didn't care if I was there or not, but Blanche. She shuddered when I went to kiss her. When at last I was certain I didn't know what to do; I knew they'd only laugh at me if I made a scene. I thought if I held my tongue and pretended not to see, everything would come right. I made up my mind to get him away quietly, without quarrelling. Oh, if you only knew what I've suffered!"

Then he told me again of his asking Strickland to go. He chose his moment carefully, and tried to make his request sound casual; but he could not master the trembling of his voice; and he felt himself that into words that he wished to seem jovial and friendly there crept the bitterness of his jealousy. He had not expected Strickland to take him up on the spot and make his preparations to go there and then; above all, he had not expected his wife's decision to go with him. I saw that now he wished with all his heart that he had held his tongue. He preferred the anguish of jealousy to the anguish of separation.

"I wanted to kill him, and I only made a fool of myself. "

He was silent for a long time, and then he said what I knew was in his mind.

"If I'd only waited, perhaps it would have gone all right. I shouldn't have been so impatient. Oh, poor child, what have I driven her to?"

I shrugged my shoulders, but did not speak. I had no sympathy for Blanche Stroeve, but knew that it would only pain poor Dirk if I told him exactly what I thought of her.

He had reached that stage of exhaustion when he could not stop talking. He went over again every word of the scene. Now something occurred to him that he had not told me before; now he discussed what he ought to have said instead of what he did say; then he lamented his blindness. He regretted that he had done this, and blamed himself that he had omitted the other. It grew later and later, and at last I was as tired as he.

"What are you going to do now?" I said finally.

"What can I do? I shall wait till she sends for me. "

"Why don't you go away for a bit?"

"No, no; I must be at hand when she wants me. "

For the present he seemed quite lost. He had made no plans. When I suggested that he should go to bed he said he could not sleep; he wanted to go out and walk about the streets till day. He was evidently in no state to be left alone. I persuaded him to stay the night with me, and I put him into my own bed. I had a divan in my sitting-room, and could very well sleep on that. He was by now so worn out that he could not resist my firmness. I gave him a sufficient dose of veronal to insure his unconsciousness for several hours. I thought that was the best service I could render him.

我沉默了一会，思索着施特略夫对我讲的事情。我无法忍受他这种懦弱，他也看出来我对他这个做法不以为然。

“你跟我知道得一样清楚，思特里克兰德过的是什么日子，”他声音颤抖着说，“我不能让她在那种环境里过活——我就是不能。”

“这是你的事。”我回答。

“如果这事叫你遇上，你会怎么做？”他问。

“她是睁着眼睛自己走开的。如果她不得不吃些苦头，也是自找。”

“你说得对，但是，你知道，你并不爱她。”

“你现在还爱她吗？”

“啊！比以前更爱。思特里克兰德不是一个能使女人幸福的人。这件事长不了。我要让她知道，我是永远不会叫她的指望落空的。”

“你的意思是不是说，你还准备收留她呢？”

“我将丝毫也不踌躇。到那时候她就会比过去任何时候都更需要我了。当她被人抛弃，受尽屈辱，身心交瘁，如果她无处可以投奔，那就太可怕了。”

施特略夫似乎一点也不生她的气。也许我这人太平凡了，所以对他这种没有骨气竟有一些恼火。他可能猜到我的想法了，因为他这么说：

“我不能希望她象我爱她那样爱我。我是滑稽角色。我不是那种叫女人钟情的男子汉。这一点我早就知道。如果她爱上了思特里克兰德，我不能责怪她。”

“我还从来没见到过有谁象你这样没有自尊心的呢，”我说。

“我爱她远远超过了爱我自己。我觉得，在爱情的事上如果考虑起自尊心来，那只能有一个原因：实际上你还是最爱自己。不管怎么说，一个结了婚的男人又爱上别人并不是什么希罕事，常常等他的热劲过去了，便又回到他妻子的身边，而她也就同他和好如初了。这种事谁都认为是很自然的。如果男人是这样，为什么女人就该是例外呢？”

“我承认你说的很合乎逻辑，”我笑了笑，“但是大多数男人都不是这种心理，要他们这样对待这件事是办不到的。”

在我同施特略夫这样谈话时，我心里一直在想，这件事来得过于突然，叫我迷惑不解。不可能想象，事前他会一直蒙在鼓里。我记起了我曾看到的勃朗什·施特略夫的奇怪眼神，可能她已经模糊地意识到自己的感情，自己也被震骇住了。

“在今天以前难道你一点也没有猜疑过他们两人之间有什么事吗？”我问他道。

他并没有马上回答我的问题。桌子上有一支铅笔，他拿起来在吸墨纸上信手画了一个头像。

“要是你不喜欢我问你这个问题，你就直说吧，”我说。

“我把话说出来心里反而痛快一些。咳，要是你知道我心里有多么痛苦就好了，”他把手里的铅笔往桌上一扔。“是的，我从两个星期以前就知道了。在她自己还不明白是怎么回事以前我就知道了。”

“那你为什么不把思特里克兰德打发走呢？”

“我不相信，我认为这是不可能的。她那么讨厌这个人。这种事根本不可能，简直不能令人相信。我本来以为这是我的嫉妒心在作祟。你知道，我一向是非常嫉妒的，但是我训练了自己，从来不表现出来。她认识的每一个人我都嫉妒，连你我都嫉妒。我知道她不象我爱她那样爱我。这是很自然的，不是吗？但是她允许我爱她，这样我就觉得幸福了。我强逼着自己到外面去，一待就是好几个钟头，让他们两人单独在一起。我认为我这样怀疑她降低了我的人格，我要惩罚自己。可是当我从外面回来以后我发现他们并不需要我——思特里克兰德需要不需要我倒没关系，我在家不在家对他根本无所谓，我是说我发现勃朗什并不需要我。当我走过去吻她的时候，她浑身一颤。最后我对这件事已经知道得千真万确，可是又不知道该怎么办。我知道如果我大吵大闹一场，只能引起他们的嘲笑。我认为如果我假装什么都没看到，并不把这件事挑明，也许事情就过去了。我打定主意悄悄地把他打发走，用不着吵架。咳，要是我能告诉你我心里那个痛苦劲儿就好了！”

接着他把叫思特里克兰德搬出去的事又说了一遍。他很小心地选择了一个时机，他尽量使自己的语气显得很随便，但是他还是无法克制自己。他的声音颤抖起来，本来想说得亲切、逗笑的话语却流露出嫉妒的怒火。他没有想到自己一说，思特里克兰德就同意了，而且马上就收拾起东西来。最出乎他意料的是，他的妻子也要同思特里克兰德一起走。看得出来，他非常懊悔，真希望自己继续隐忍下去。比起分离的痛苦来，他宁愿忍受妒火的煎熬。

“我要杀死他，结果却徒然使自己出丑。”

他沉默了半晌，最后他说出的我知道是郁积在他心里的话。

“要是我多等些日子，也许就不会发生什么事了。我真不应该这么耐不住性子。啊，可怜的孩子，是我把她逼到这一地步啊！”

我耸了耸肩膀，但是没有说什么。我对勃朗什·施特略夫一点也不同情，但是我知道，如果我把实话告诉可怜的戴尔克，只会增加他的痛苦。

这时候他已经疲惫不堪，无力控制自己，所以只顾滔滔不绝地说下去。他把那场风波中每人讲的话又重复了一遍。他一会儿想起一件忘记了告诉我的事，一会儿又同我讨论起他当时该说这句话，而不该说那句话。他为自己看不清问题感到万分痛心，懊悔自己做了某件事，责怪自己没有做哪一件。夜渐渐深了，最后我也同他一样疲劳不堪了。

“你现在准备做什么？”我最后问他说。

“我能够做什么？我只能等着她招呼我回去。”

“为什么你不到外地去走走呢？”

“不，不成。如果她需要，我一定要叫她能够找到我。”

他对于眼前该怎么办似乎一点主意也没有。他没有什么计划。最后我建议他该去睡会儿觉，他说他睡不着，他要到外面去走个通宵。当然，在这种情况下我决不能丢下他不管。我劝他在我这里过夜，我把他安置在我的床上。在起居间里我还有一只长沙发，我可以睡在那上面。他这时已经精疲力竭，所以还是依着我的主意上了床。我给他服了一些佛罗那，叫他可以人事不省地好好睡几个钟头觉。我想这是我能够给他的最大的帮助了。

"Oh, my dear, " he groaned at last, "how can you be so cruel?"

"I can't help myself, Dirk, " she answered.

"I've worshipped you as no woman was ever worshipped before. If in anything I did I displeased you, why didn't you tell me, and I'd have changed. I've done everything I could for you. "

She did not answer. Her face was set, and he saw that he was only boring her. She put on a coat and her hat. She moved towards the door, and he saw that in a moment she would be gone. He went up to her quickly and fell on his knees before her, seizing her hands: he abandoned all self-respect.

"Oh, don't go, my darling. I can't live without you; I shall kill myself. If I've done anything to offend you I beg you to forgive me. Give me another chance. I'll try harder still to make you happy. "

"Get up, Dirk. You're making yourself a perfect fool. "

He staggered to his feet, but still he would not let her go.

"Where are you going?" he said hastily. "You don't know what Strickland's place is like. You can't live there. It would be awful. "

"If I don't care, I don't see why you should. "

"Stay a minute longer. I must speak. After all, you can't grudge me that. "

"What is the good? I've made up my mind. Nothing that you can say will make me alter it. "

He gulped, and put his hand to his heart to ease its painful beating.

"I'm not going to ask you to change your mind, but I want you to listen to me for a minute. It's the last thing I shall ever ask you. Don't refuse me that. "

She paused, looking at him with those reflective eyes of hers, which now were so different to him. She came back into the studio and leaned against the table.

"Well?"

Stroeve made a great effort to collect himself.

"You must be a little reasonable. You can't live on air, you know. Strickland hasn't got a penny. "

"I know. "

"You'll suffer the most awful privations. You know why he took so long to get well. He was half starved. "

"I can earn money for him. "

"How?"

"I don't know. I shall find a way. "

A horrible thought passed through the Dutchman's mind, and he shuddered.

"I think you must be mad. I don't know what has come over you. "

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Now may I go?"

"Wait one second longer. "

He looked round his studio wearily; he had loved it because her presence had made it gay and homelike; he shut his eyes for an instant; then he gave her a long look as though to impress on his mind the picture of her. He got up and took his hat.

"No; I'll go. "

"You?"

She was startled. She did not know what he meant.

"I can't bear to think of you living in that horrible, filthy attic. After all, this is your home just as much as mine. You'll be comfortable here. You'll be spared at least the worst privations. "

He went to the drawer in which he kept his money and took out several bank-notes.

"I would like to give you half what I've got here. "

He put them on the table. Neither Strickland nor his wife spoke.

Then he recollected something else.

"Will you pack up my clothes and leave them with the concierge? I'll come and fetch them to-morrow. " He tried to smile. " Good-bye, my dear. I'm grateful for all the happiness you gave me in the past. "

He walked out and closed the door behind him. With my mind's eye I saw Strickland throw his hat on a table, and, sitting down, begin to smoke a cigarette.

“啊，我的亲爱的，”最后他呻吟着说，“你怎么能这样残忍啊？”

“我也由不得自己，戴尔克，”她回答。

“我崇拜你，世界上再也没有哪个女人受过人们这样的崇拜。如果我做了什么事使你不高兴，为什么你不对我讲？只要你说了，我一定会改过来的。为了你，凡是我能做到的我都做了。”

她并没有回答。她的脸上一点表情也没有，他看到自己只不过在惹她生厌。她穿上一件外衣，戴上帽子，向门口走去。他明白再过一分钟他就再也见不到她了，于是很快地走到她前面，跪倒在地上，抓住她的两只手；他什么脸面也不顾了。

“啊，不要走，亲爱的。没有你我就活不下去了，我会自杀的。如果我做了什么事惹恼了你，我求你原谅我。再给我一次机会吧。我会更努力地使你幸福的。”

“站起来，戴尔克。你简直丢尽丑了。”

他摇摇晃晃地站了起来，但是仍然不放她走。

“你到哪儿去啊？”他急急忙忙地问，“你不知道思特里克兰德住在怎样一个地方。你在那地方是过活不了的。太可怕了。”

“如果我自己都不在乎，与你又有什么相干呢？”

“你再待一会，容我把话说完。不管怎么样，这一点你还可以让我做到吧。”

“那又有什么好处？我已经下了决心了。不管你说什么都改变不了我的主意。”

他抽了一口气，把一只手按在胸脯上，因为心脏跳动得简直让他忍受不了了。

“我不是要你改变主意，我只是求你再听我说几句话。这是我要求你的最后一件事了。不要拒绝我吧。”

她站住了，用她那沉思的眼睛打量了他一会儿，她的目光现在变得那么冷漠无情了。她走回到画室里，往桌子上一靠。

“说吧！”

施特略夫费了好大劲才使自己平静了一点。

“你一定要冷静一些。你不能靠空气过日子啊。你知道，思特里克兰德手里一个钱也没有。”

“我知道。”

“你吃不够吃，喝不够喝，会吃尽苦头的。你知道他为什么这么久身体才恢复过来？他一直过着半饥不饱的生活啊！”

“我可以挣钱养活他。”

“怎么挣钱？”

“我不知道。我会找到个办法的。”

一个极其恐怖的想法掠过这个荷兰画师的心头，他打了个哆嗦。

“我想你一定是发疯了。我不知道你被什么迷住了。”

她耸了耸肩膀。

“现在我可以走了吗？”

“再等一秒钟。”

他疲惫不堪地环顾了一下自己的画室；他喜爱这间画室，因为她的存在，这间屋子显得那么美好，那么充满了家庭气氛。他把眼睛闭了一刻，接着他的目光在她身上逗留了好一会儿，似乎想把她的图像永远印记在脑中似的。他站起来，拿起了帽子。

“不，叫我走吧。”

“你？”

她吃了一惊。她不明白他是什么意思。

“想到你要生活在那样一间肮脏可怕的阁楼里，我受不了。不管怎么说，这个地方既是我的家，同样也是你的家。你在这里会过得舒服些。至少你用不着受那种最可怕的罪了。”

他走到放钱的抽屉前边，从里面拿出几张钞票来。

“我把我这里的一点钱给你一半吧。”

他把钱放在桌子上。思特里克兰德和他的妻子都没有说什么。

这时他又想起一件事来。

“你好不好把我的衣服理一理，放在下边门房那儿？我明天再来取。”他苦笑了一下。“再见，亲爱的。你过去给了我那么多幸福，我感谢你。”

他走了出去，随手把门关上。在想象中，我看到思特里克兰德把自己的帽子往桌上一扔，坐下来，开始吸一支纸烟。

The explanation came a week later. It was about ten o' clock at night; I had been dining by myself at a restaurant, and having returned to my small apartment, was sitting in my parlour, reading I heard the cracked tinkling of the bell, and, going into the corridor, opened the door. Stroeve stood before me.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

In the dimness of the landing I could not see him very well, but there was something in his voice that surprised me. I knew he was of abstemious habit or I should have thought he had been drinking. I led the way into my sitting room and asked him to sit down.

"Thank God I've found you, " he said.

"What's the matter?" I asked in astonishment at his vehemence.

I was able now to see him well. As a rule he was neat in his person, but now his clothes were in disorder. He looked suddenly bedraggled. I was convinced he had been drinking, and I smiled. I was on the point of chaffing him on his state.

"I didn't know where to go, " he burst out. "I came here earlier, but you weren't in. "

"I dined late, " I said.

I changed my mind: it was not liquor that had driven him to this obvious desperation. His face, usually so rosy, was now strangely mottled. His hands trembled.

"Has anything happened?" I asked.

"My wife has left me. "

He could hardly get the words out. He gave a little gasp, and the tears began to trickle down his round cheeks. I did not know what to say. My first thought was that she had come to the end of her forbearance with his infatuation for Strickland, and, goaded by the latter's cynical behaviour, had insisted that he should be turned out. I knew her capable of temper, for all the calmness of her manner; and if Stroeve still refused, she might easily have flung out of the studio with vows never to return. But the little man was so distressed that I could not smile.

"My dear fellow, don't be unhappy. She'll come back. You mustn't take very seriously what women say when they're in a passion. "

"You don't understand. She's in love with Strickland. "

"What!" I was startled at this, but the idea had no sooner taken possession of me than I saw it was absurd. "How can you be so silly? You don't mean to say you're jealous of Strickland?" I almost laughed. "You know very well that she can't bear the sight of him. "

"You don't understand, " he moaned.

"You're an hysterical ass, " I said a little impatiently. "Let me give you a whisky-and-soda, and you'll feel better. "

I supposed that for some reason or other -- and Heaven knows what ingenuity men exercise to torment themselves -- Dirk had got it into his head that his wife cared for Strickland, and with his genius for blundering he might quite well have offended her so that, to anger him, perhaps, she had taken pains to foster his suspicion.

"Look here, " I said, "let's go back to your studio. If you've made a fool of yourself you must eat humble pie. Your wife doesn't strike me as the sort of woman to bear malice. "

"How can I go back to the studio?" he said wearily. "They're there. I've left it to them. "

"Then it's not your wife who's left you; it's you who've left your wife. "

"For God's sake don't talk to me like that. "

Still I could not take him seriously. I did not for a moment believe what he had told me. But he was in very real distress.

"Well, you've come here to talk to me about it. You'd better tell me the whole story. "

"This afternoon I couldn't stand it any more. I went to Strickland and told him I thought he was quite well enough to go back to his own place. I wanted the studio myself. "

"No one but Strickland would have needed telling, " I said. "What did he say?"

"He laughed a little; you know how he laughs, not as though he were amused, but as though you were a damned fool, and said he'd go at once. He began to put his things together. You remember I fetched from his room what I thought he needed, and he asked Blanche for a piece of paper and some string to make a parcel. "

Stroeve stopped, gasping, and I thought he was going to faint. This was not at all the story I had expected him to tell me.

"She was very pale, but she brought the paper and the string. He didn't say anything. He made the parcel and he whistled a tune. He took no notice of either of us. His eyes had an ironic smile in them. My heart was like lead. I was afraid something was going to happen, and I wished I hadn't spoken. He looked round for his hat. Then she spoke:

"`I'm going with Strickland, Dirk, ' she said. `I can't live with you any more. '

"I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Strickland didn't say anything. He went on whistling as though it had nothing to do with him. "

Stroeve stopped again and mopped his face. I kept quite still. I believed him now, and I was astounded. But all the same I could not understand.

Then he told me, in a trembling voice, with the tears pouring down his cheeks, how he had gone up to her, trying to take her in his arms, but she had drawn away and begged him not to touch her. He implored her not to leave him. He told her how passionately he loved her, and reminded her of all the devotion he had lavished upon her. He spoke to her of the happiness of their life. He was not angry with her. He did not reproach her.

"Please let me go quietly, Dirk, " she said at last. "Don't you understand that I love Strickland? Where he goes I shall go. "

"But you must know that he'll never make you happy. For your own sake don't go. You don't know what you've got to look forward to. "

"It's your fault. You insisted on his coming here. "

He turned to Strickland.

"Have mercy on her, " he implored him. "You can't let her do anything so mad. "

"She can do as she chooses, " said Strickland. "She's not forced to come. "

"My choice is made, " she said, in a dull voice.

Strickland's injurious calm robbed Stroeve of the rest of his self-control. Blind rage seized him, and without knowing what he was doing he flung himself on Strickland. Strickland was taken by surprise and he staggered, but he was very strong, even after his illness, and in a moment, he did not exactly know how, Stroeve found himself on the floor.

"You funny little man, " said Strickland.

Stroeve picked himself up. He noticed that his wife had remained perfectly still, and to be made ridiculous before her increased his humiliation. His spectacles had tumbled off in the struggle, and he could not immediately see them. She picked them up and silently handed them to him. He seemed suddenly to realise his unhappiness, and though he knew he was making himself still more absurd, he began to cry. He hid his face in his hands. The others watched him without a word. They did not move from where they stood.

一个星期以后我知道谜底了。这一天我一个人在外面吃了晚饭，饭后回到我的住处。大约十点左右，我正坐在起居间看书，忽然，门铃暗哑地响起来。我走到过道上，打开门，站在我面前的是施特略夫。

“可以进来吗？”他问。

楼梯口光线很暗，我看不清他的样子，但是他说话的声音却使我吃了一惊。我知道他喝酒从来不过量，否则我会以为他喝醉酒了。我把他领进起居间里，叫他坐下。

“谢天谢地，总算找到你了，”他说。

“怎么回事？”我问；他的激动不安的样子叫我非常吃惊。

进到屋子里面，我可以清清楚楚地打量他了。平时他总是穿戴得干净整齐，这次却衣冠不整，突然给人以邋里邋遢的感觉。我一点也不怀疑了，他一定是喝醉了。我对他笑了笑，准备打趣他两句。

“我不知道该到哪儿去，”他突兀地说了一句，“刚才来了一次，你不在。”

“我今天吃饭晚了，”我说。

我的想法改变了；他显然不是因为喝了酒才这样嗒然若丧。他的脸平常总是红扑扑的，现在却一块红、一块白，斑斑点点，样子非常奇怪。他的两只手一直在哆嗦。

“出了什么事了吗？”

“我的妻子离开了我了。”

他费了很大力气才把这几个字说出来。他抽噎了一下，眼泪沿着胖乎乎的面颊一滴滴地落下来。我不知道该说些什么。我最初的想法是，她丈夫这种晕头晕脑地对思特里克兰德倾心相待，叫她再也忍受不了了，再加上思特里克兰德总是冷嘲热讽，所以她坚决要把他赶走。我知道，虽然勃朗什表面端庄沉静，但是脾气如果上来，却执拗得可以。假如施特略夫仍然拒绝她的请求，一怒之下，她很可能离开家庭，发誓再不回来。但是不管事实真相如何，看到这个小胖子的痛苦不堪的样子，我实在不忍讥笑他了。

“亲爱的朋友，别难过了。她会回来的。女人们一时说的气话，你千万别太认真。”

“你不了解。她爱上思特里克兰德了。”

“什么！”我吓了一跳；但是我还没有来得及仔细琢磨，就已经觉得这件事太荒谬了。“你怎么能这么傻？难道你是说你在吃思特里克兰德的醋？”我差点笑了出来。“你也知道，思特里克兰德这个人简直叫她无法忍受。”

“你不了解，”他呻吟道。

“你是头歇斯底里的蠢驴，”我有些不耐烦地说。“让我给你喝一杯威士忌苏打你就会好一些了。”

我猜想，不知为了什么原因——天知道人们如何想尽办法来折磨自己——戴尔克毫无道理地怀疑起自己的妻子爱上了思特里克兰德，因为他最不会处理事情，多半把她惹恼了。而他的妻子为了气他，也就故意想尽方法增加他的疑虑。

“听我说，”我对他说，“咱们一起回你的画室去吧。如果你自己把事办糟了，现在只好去负荆请罪。我认为你的妻子不是那种爱记仇的女人。”

“我怎么能回画室呢？”他有气无力地说，“他们在那里呢。我把屋子让给他们了。”

“这么一说不是你妻子离开了你，是你把她丢了。”

“看在老天面上，别同我说这种话吧。”

我仍然不能把他的话当真。我一点也不相信他告诉我的事，但是他的痛苦却是真真实实的。

“好吧，既然你到这里来是要同我谈这件事，你就从头到尾给我说说吧。”

“今天下午我再也无法忍受了。我走到思特里克兰德跟前，对他讲，我觉得他身体已经完全恢复了，可以回自己的住处去了。我自己要用我的画室。”

“只有思特里克兰德才需要人家明明白白告诉他，”我说。“他怎么说的？”

“他笑了笑。你知道他笑起来是什么样子，让人看起来不象是他觉得有什么事情好笑，而是叫你觉得自己是个大傻瓜。他说他马上就走，说着，就开始收拾东西。你还记得我从他的住处拿来一些我认为他用得着的东西。他叫勃朗什替他找一张纸，一条绳子，准备打一个包。”

施特略夫停住了，喘着气，我以为他要晕倒了。这根本不是我要他讲给我听的故事。

“她的脸色煞白，但还是把纸同绳子取来了。思特里克兰德一句话也不说，他一面包东西，一面吹着口哨，根本不理会我们两个人。他的眼角里含着讥诮的笑意。我的心沉重得象一块铅块。我担心一定要发生点什么事，非常懊悔刚才提出叫他走的事。他四处望了望，找自己的帽子。这时候勃朗什开口了：

“我同思特里克兰德一起走，戴尔克，”她说。“我不能同你生活下去了。”

“我想说什么，可是一个字也说不出来。思特里克兰德也一句话不说。他继续吹着口哨，仿佛这一切同他都毫不相干似的。”

施特略夫又停了下来，开始揩汗。我默不作声。我现在相信他了，我感到很吃惊。但是我仍然不能理解。

这时候他满面泪痕、声音抖抖索索地对我讲，他如何走到她跟前，想把她搂在怀里，她又如何把身体躲开，不叫他碰到自己。他求她不要离开，告诉她自己是多么爱她，叫她想一想自己对她的一片真情。他谈到他们的幸福生活。他一点也不生她的气。他丝毫也不责怪她。

“请你让我安安静静地走开吧，戴尔克，”最后她说，“你不知道我爱思特里克兰德吗？他到什么地方，我就跟他到什么地方去。”

“但是你一定得知道他是永远也不会使你幸福的。为了你自己的缘故，还是不要走吧。你不明白等待你的将是什么。”

“这是你的过错，是你坚持叫他来的。”

施特略夫转向思特里克兰德。

“可怜可怜她吧，”他哀求说，“你不能叫她做出这种发疯的事来。”

“她愿意怎么做就怎么做，”思特里克兰德说，“我并没有强迫她跟着我。”

“我已经决定了。”她用呆板的语调说。

思特里克兰德的这种叫人无名火起的冷静叫施特略夫再也控制不住自己了。一阵狂怒把他攫住；他自己也不知道做的是什么，一下子便扑到思特里克兰德身上。思特里克兰德没有料到这一手，吃了一惊，踉跄后退了一步，但是尽管他久病初愈，还是比施特略夫力气大得多。不到一分钟，施特略夫根本没弄清是怎么回事，已经发现自己躺在地上了。

“你这个小丑。”思特里克兰德骂了一句。

施特略夫挣扎着站起来。他发现自己的妻子声色不动地在一旁站着，当着她的面出这种丑更使他感到丢尽脸面。在同思特里克兰德厮打的时候他的眼镜滑落到地上，一时他看不见落在什么地方。勃朗什把它拾起来，一句话不说地递到他手里。他似乎突然意识到自己的不幸了，虽然他也知道这只会更使自己丢脸，他还是呜呜地哭起来。他用手把脸捂了起来。另外两个人一言不发地看着他，站在一旁连脚步都不挪动。

Two or three weeks passed. One morning, having come to a pause in my work, I thought I would give myself a holiday, and I went to the Louvre. I wandered about looking at the pictures I knew so well, and let my fancy play idly with the emotions they suggested. I sauntered into the long gallery, and there suddenly saw Stroeve. I smiled, for his appearance, so rotund and yet so startled, could never fail to excite a smile, and then as I came nearer I noticed that he seemed singularly disconsolate. He looked woebegone and yet ridiculous, like a man who has fallen into the water with all his clothes on, and, being rescued from death, frightened still, feels that he only looks a fool. Turning round, he stared at me, but I perceived that he did not see me. His round blue eyes looked harassed behind his glasses.

"Stroeve, " I said.

He gave a little start, and then smiled, but his smile was rueful.

"Why are you idling in this disgraceful fashion?" I asked gaily.

"It's a long time since I was at the Louvre. I thought I'd come and see if they had anything new. "

"But you told me you had to get a picture finished this week. "

"Strickland's painting in my studio. "

"Well?"

"I suggested it myself. He's not strong enough to go back to his own place yet. I thought we could both paint there. Lots of fellows in the Quarter share a studio. I thought it would be fun. I've always thought it would be jolly to have someone to talk to when one was tired of work. "

He said all this slowly, detaching statement from statement with a little awkward silence, and he kept his kind, foolish eyes fixed on mine. They were full of tears.

"I don't think I understand, " I said.

"Strickland can't work with anyone else in the studio. "

"Damn it all, it's your studio. That's his lookout. "

He looked at me pitifully. His lips were trembling.

"What happened?" I asked, rather sharply.

He hesitated and flushed. He glanced unhappily at one of the pictures on the wall.

"He wouldn't let me go on painting. He told me to get out. "

"But why didn't you tell him to go to hell?"

"He turned me out. I couldn't very well struggle with him. He threw my hat after me, and locked the door. "

I was furious with Strickland, and was indignant with myself, because Dirk Stroeve cut such an absurd figure that I felt inclined to laugh.

"But what did your wife say?"

"She'd gone out to do the marketing. "

"Is he going to let her in?"

"I don't know. "

I gazed at Stroeve with perplexity. He stood like a schoolboy with whom a master is finding fault.

"Shall I get rid of Strickland for you?" I asked.

He gave a little start, and his shining face grew very red.

"No. You'd better not do anything. "

He nodded to me and walked away. It was clear that for some reason he did not want to discuss the matter. I did not understand.

又过了两三个星期。一天早晨，我的工作正好告一段落，我觉得可以放自己一天假，便决定到卢佛尔宫去消磨一天。我在画廊里随便走着，一边欣赏那些我早已非常熟悉的名画，一边任凭我的幻想同这些画幅所激起的感情随意嬉戏。我悠闲地走进长画廊，突然一眼看到了施特略夫。我脸上泛起了笑容，因为他那圆胖的身躯、象受了惊吓似的神情使我每次见到总是要发笑。但是在我走近他以后，我发现他的神情非常沮丧。他的样子凄苦不堪，但又那么滑稽，好象一个穿得衣冠齐楚而失足落水的人被打捞上来以后仍然心怀余悸，生怕别人拿他当笑话看。他转过身来，两眼瞪着我，但是我知道他并没有看见我。他的一双碧蓝的圆眼睛在眼镜片后面充满了忧伤。

“施特略夫。”我叫了一声。

他吓了一跳，接着就露出笑容来，但是他笑得那么凄惨。

“你怎么这样丢了魂似地在这里游荡？”我用快活的语调问道。

“我很久没有到卢佛尔宫来了。我想得来看看他们展出了什么新东西没有。”

“可是你不是告诉我，这礼拜得画好一幅画吗？”

“思特里克兰德在我画室里画画儿呢。”

“哦？”

“我提议叫他在那里画的。他身体还不够好，还不能回到自己的住处去。我本来想我们可以共用那间画室。在拉丁区很多人都是合伙租用一间画室。我本来以为这是个好办法。一个人画累了的时候，身边有个伴儿可以谈两句，我一直以为这样做会很有趣。”

这些话他说得很慢，每说一句话就非常尴尬地停歇好半晌儿，与此同时，他的一对温柔的、有些傻气的大眼睛却一直紧紧盯着我，只是在那里面已经充满了泪水了。

“我不懂你说的话，”我说。

“思特里克兰德身边有人的时候不能工作。”

“去他妈的，那是你的画室啊。他应该自己想办法。”

他凄凄惨惨地看着我，嘴唇抖个不停。

“出了什么事了？”我问，语气很不客气。

他吞吞吐吐地半天没说话，脸涨得通红。他看了看墙上挂的一张画，脸色非常痛苦。

“他不让我画下去。他叫我到外边去。”

“你为什么不叫他滚蛋呢？”

“他把我赶出来了。我不能同他动手打架呀。他把我的帽子随后也扔了出来，把门锁上了。”

思特里克兰德的做法使我气得要命，但是我也挺生自己的气，因为戴尔克·施特略夫扮演了这样一个滑稽角色，我居然憋不住想笑出来。

“你的妻子说什么了？”

“她出去买东西去了。”

“他会不会也不让她进去？”

“我不知道。”

我不解地看着施特略夫。他站在那里，象一个正挨老师训的小学生。

“我去替你把思特里克兰德赶走怎么样？”我问。

他的身体抖动了一下，一张闪闪发光的面孔涨得通红。

“不要。你最好什么也不要做。”

他向我点了点头，便走开了。非常清楚，由于某种原因他不想同我讨论这件事。我不懂他为什么要这样。

Next day we moved Strickland. It needed a good deal of firmness and still more patience to induce him to come, but he was really too ill to offer any effective resistance to Stroeve's entreaties and to my determination. We dressed him, while he feebly cursed us, got him downstairs, into a cab, and eventually to Stroeve's studio. He was so exhausted by the time we arrived that he allowed us to put him to bed without a word. He was ill for six weeks. At one time it looked as though he could not live more than a few hours, and I am convinced that it was only through the Dutchman's doggedness that he pulled through. I have never known a more difficult patient. It was not that he was exacting and querulous; on the contrary, he never complained, he asked for nothing, he was perfectly silent; but he seemed to resent the care that was taken of him; he received all inquiries about his feelings or his needs with a jibe, a sneer, or an oath. I found him detestable, and as soon as he was out of danger I had no hesitation in telling him so.

"Go to hell, " he answered briefly.

Dirk Stroeve, giving up his work entirely, nursed Strickland with tenderness and sympathy. He was dexterous to make him comfortable, and he exercised a cunning of which I should never have thought him capable to induce him to take the medicines prescribed by the doctor. Nothing was too much trouble for him. Though his means were adequate to the needs of himself and his wife, he certainly had no money to waste; but now he was wantonly extravagant in the purchase of delicacies, out of season and dear, which might tempt Strickland's capricious appetite. I shall never forget the tactful patience with which he persuaded him to take nourishment. He was never put out by Strickland's rudeness; if it was merely sullen, he appeared not to notice it; if it was aggressive, he only chuckled. When Strickland, recovering somewhat, was in a good humour and amused himself by laughing at him, he deliberately did absurd things to excite his ridicule. Then he would give me little happy glances, so that I might notice in how much better form the patient was. Stroeve was sublime.

But it was Blanche who most surprised me. She proved herself not only a capable, but a devoted nurse. There was nothing in her to remind you that she had so vehemently struggled against her husband's wish to bring Strickland to the studio. She insisted on doing her share of the offices needful to the sick. She arranged his bed so that it was possible to change the sheet without disturbing him. She washed him. When I remarked on her competence, she told me with that pleasant little smile of hers that for a while she had worked in a hospital. She gave no sign that she hated Strickland so desperately. She did not speak to him much, but she was quick to forestall his wants. For a fortnight it was necessary that someone should stay with him all night, and she took turns at watching with her husband. I wondered what she thought during the long darkness as she sat by the bedside. Strickland was a weird figure as he lay there, thinner than ever, with his ragged red beard and his eyes staring feverishly into vacancy; his illness seemed to have made them larger, and they had an unnatural brightness.

"Does he ever talk to you in the night?" I asked her once.

"Never. "

"Do you dislike him as much as you did?"

"More, if anything. "

She looked at me with her calm gray eyes. Her expression was so placid, it was hard to believe that she was capable of the violent emotion I had witnessed.

"Has he ever thanked you for what you do for him?"

"No, " she smiled.

"He's inhuman. "

"He's abominable. "

Stroeve was, of course, delighted with her. He could not do enough to show his gratitude for the whole-hearted devotion with which she had accepted the burden he laid on her. But he was a little puzzled by the behaviour of Blanche and Strickland towards one another.

"Do you know, I've seen them sit there for hours together without saying a word?"

On one occasion, when Strickland was so much better that in a day or two he was to get up, I sat with them in the studio. Dirk and I were talking. Mrs. Stroeve sewed, and I thought I recognised the shirt she was mending as Strickland's. He lay on his back; he did not speak. Once I saw that his eyes were fixed on Blanche Stroeve, and there was in them a curious irony. Feeling their gaze, she raised her own, and for a moment they stared at one another. I could not quite understand her expression. Her eyes had in them a strange perplexity, and perhaps -- but why? -- alarm. In a moment Strickland looked away and idly surveyed the ceiling, but she continued to stare at him, and now her look was quite inexplicable.

In a few days Strickland began to get up. He was nothing but skin and bone. His clothes hung upon him like rags on a scarecrow. With his untidy beard and long hair, his features, always a little larger than life, now emphasised by illness, he had an extraordinary aspect; but it was so odd that it was not quite ugly. There was something monumental in his ungainliness. I do not know how to express precisely the impression he made upon me. It was not exactly spirituality that was obvious, though the screen of the flesh seemed almost transparent, because there was in his face an outrageous sensuality; but, though it sounds nonsense, it seemed as though his sensuality were curiously spiritual. There was in him something primitive. He seemed to partake of those obscure forces of nature which the Greeks personified in shapes part human and part beast, the satyr and the faun. I thought of Marsyas, whom the god flayed because he had dared to rival him in song. Strickland seemed to bear in his heart strange harmonies and unadventured patterns, and I foresaw for him an end of torture and despair. I had again the feeling that he was possessed of a devil; but you could not say that it was a devil of evil, for it was a primitive force that existed before good and ill.

He was still too weak to paint, and he sat in the studio, silent, occupied with God knows what dreams, or reading. The books he liked were queer; sometimes I would find him poring over the poems of Mallarme, and he read them as a child reads, forming the words with his lips, and I wondered what strange emotion he got from those subtle cadences and obscure phrases; and again I found him absorbed in the detective novels of Gaboriau. I amused myself by thinking that in his choice of books he showed pleasantly the irreconcilable sides of his fantastic nature. It was singular to notice that even in the weak state of his body he had no thought for its comfort. Stroeve liked his ease, and in his studio were a couple of heavily upholstered arm-chairs and a large divan. Strickland would not go near them, not from any affectation of stoicism, for I found him seated on a three-legged stool when I went into the studio one day and he was alone, but because he did not like them. For choice he sat on a kitchen chair without arms. It often exasperated me to see him. I never knew a man so entirely indifferent to his surroundings.

第二天我们就去给思特里克兰德搬家。劝说他搬到施特略夫家里来需要绝大的毅力和更多的耐心，幸而思特里克兰德病得实在太重，对于施特略夫的央求和我的决心都做不出有效的抵抗了。在他的软弱无力的咒骂声中，我们给他穿好衣服，扶着他走下楼梯，安置在一辆马车里，最后终于把他弄到施特略夫的画室里。当我们到达以后，他已经一点气力也没有了，只好一言不发地由我们把他放在一张床上。他的病延续了六个星期。有一段日子看上去他连几个钟头也活不过去了，我毫不怀疑，他之所以能够活下来完全要归功这位荷兰画家任劳任怨的护理。我从来也没有见到过比他更难伺候的病人。倒不是说他挑剔、抱怨；恰恰相反，他从来也不诉苦，从来不提出什么要求，他躺在那里一语不发。但是他似乎非常厌恨你对他的照顾；谁要是问一问他觉得怎么样、有什么需要，他轻则挖苦你一句，重则破口大骂。我发现这个人实在让人厌恶，他刚一脱离危险，我就把我的想法告诉了他。

“见鬼去吧，你，”他一点不客气地回敬了我一句。

戴尔克·施特略夫把自己的工作全部撂下，整天服侍病人，又体贴，又关切。他的手脚非常利索，把病人弄得舒舒服服。大夫开了药，他总是连哄带骗地劝病人按时服用，我从来没想到他的手段这么巧妙。无论做什么事他都不嫌麻烦。尽管他的收入一向只够维持夫妻两人的生活，从来就不宽裕，现在他却大手大脚，购买时令已过、价钱昂贵的美味，想方设法叫思特里克兰德多吃一点东西（他的胃口时好时坏，叫人无法捉摸）。我什么时候也忘不了他劝说思特里克兰德增加营养的那种耐心和手腕。不论思特里克兰德对他多么没礼貌，他也从来不动火。如果对方只是郁闷懊丧，他就假装看不到；如果对方顶撞他，他只是一笑置之。当思特里克兰德身体好了一些，情绪高起来，嘲笑他几句开开心，他就做出一些滑稽的举动来，故意给对方更多讥笑的机会。他会高兴地递给我几个眼色，叫我知道病人已经大有起色了。施特略夫实在是个大好人。

但是更使我感到吃惊的还是勃朗什。她证明了自己不仅是一个能干的、而且是一个专心致志的护士。你再也不会想到她曾一度激烈地反对过自己的丈夫，坚决不同意把思特里克兰德带回到家里来。病人需要照料的地方很多，她坚持要尽到自己一部分责任。她整理病人的床铺，尽量做到在撤换床单时不惊扰病人。她给病人洗浴。当我称赞她的能干时，她脸上露出惯有的微笑，告诉我她曾经在一家医院做过一段事。她丝毫不让人看出来，她曾经那样讨厌过思特里克兰德。她同他说话不多，但是不管他有什么需要，她都很快地就能知道。有两个星期思特里克兰德整夜都需要有人看护，她就和她丈夫轮班守夜。我真想知道，在她坐在病床旁边度过漫漫长夜时心里在想些什么。思特里克兰德躺在床上，样子古怪怕人，他的身躯比平常更加削瘦，红色的胡子乱成一团，眼睛兴奋地凝视着半空；因为生病，他的眼睛显得非常大，炯炯发光，但那光亮显得很不自然。

“夜里他跟你说过话吗？”有一次我问她。

“从来没有。”

“你还象过去那样不喜欢他吗？”

“比以前更厉害了。”

她用一双安详的、灰色的眼睛望着我。她的神色非常恬静，我很难相信她居然能象那次我看到的那样大发脾气。

“你替他做了这么多事，他谢过你吗？”

“没有。”她笑了笑说。

“这人真不通人情。”

“简直太可恶了。”

施特略夫对她自然非常满意。她这样把他撂给她的挑子担了过来，而且全心全意地履行自己的职责，他无论怎样做也无法表示对她的感激。但是他对勃朗什同思特里克兰德彼此的关系又有些不解。

“你知道，我看见过他们在一起坐了好几个钟头，谁也一句话不说。”

有一次我和这一家人一同坐在画室里，这时思特里克兰德的身体已经快好了，再过一两天就要起床了。戴尔克同我闲聊。施特略夫太太在缝补什么；她缝的东西我是认得的，那是思特里克兰德的一件衬衣。思特里克兰德仰面躺着，一句话也不说。有一次我看到他的目光停在勃朗什·施特略夫身上，带着一种奇怪的嘲弄神情。勃朗什感到他正在看自己，抬起眼睛，他们俩彼此凝视了一会儿。我不知道为什么她脸上会有这样的表情。她的目光里有一种奇怪的困惑，也许是——但为什么啊？ ——惊惧的神色。思特里克兰德马上把眼睛移开了，开始悠闲地打量起天花板来；但是她却一直注视着他，脸上的神情更加不可解释了。

几天以后，思特里克兰德就下地了。他瘦得只剩下皮包骨头，衣服穿在身上就象稻草人披着一件破褂子似的。他的胡须凌乱，头发很长，鼻子眼睛本来就生得比一般人大，因为害过这场病，更显得大了一号；他的整个外表非常奇特，因为太古怪了，反而不显得那么丑陋。他的笨拙的形体给人以高大森严之感。我真不知道该如何确切地表达他给我的印象。最触目的一点倒不一定是他的裸露无遗的精神世界（虽然屏蔽着他精神的肉体几乎象是透明的），而是他脸上的那种蛮野的欲念。说来也许荒谬，这种肉欲又好象是空灵的，使你感到非常奇异。他身上散发着一种原始性；希腊人曾用半人半兽的形象，象生着马尾的森林之神啊，长着羊角、羊腿的农牧神啊，来表现大自然的这种神秘的力量，思特里克兰德身上就有这样一种力量。他使我想到马尔塞亚斯①，因为他居然敢同大神比赛音乐，所以被活剥了皮。思特里克兰德的心里好象怀着奇妙的和弦同未经探索过的画面。我预见到他的结局将是遭受痛苦的折磨和绝望。我心里又产生了一种他被魔鬼附体的感觉；但你却不能说这是邪恶的魔鬼，因为这是在宇宙混沌、善恶未分之前就存在的一种原始的力量。

①马尔塞亚斯是古代小亚细亚弗里吉亚国的一个吹笛人，同阿波罗比赛吹笛失败，被大神杀死。

他身体仍然很弱，不能作画。他沉默不语地坐在画室里，天晓得脑子里在想什么。有时候他也看书。他喜欢看的书都很怪；有时候我发现他在阅读马拉美②的诗。他读书的样子就象小孩子一样，动着嘴唇一个字一个字地拼读。我很想知道那些精巧的韵律和晦涩的诗句给他一些什么奇怪的感情。另外一些时候我发现他浸沉在嘉包里奥③的侦探小说里。我想，他对书的选择表现出组成他怪诞性格的不可调和的方面；我对自己的这个想法感到很有趣。尽管他的身体很弱，但是仍象往常一样，从不讲求舒适，这真是他奇怪的个性。施特略夫喜欢把起居环境弄得舒服一些，画室里摆着一对非常柔软的扶手椅和一张长沙发椅。思特里克兰德从来不坐这些椅子；他并不是矫揉造作，故意表示甘于艰苦，而是因为不喜欢它们。有一次我来看他，画室里只有他一个人，我发现他正坐在一只三脚凳上。如果叫他选择的话，他会喜欢不带扶手的硬背椅。他的这种习性常常叫我很恼火。我从来没有见过哪个人这么不关心周围的生活环境的。

②斯台凡·马拉美（1842—1898），法国象征派诗人。

③艾米尔·嘉包里奥（1835—1873），法国最早的侦探小说家。

Presently we left him. Dirk was going home to dinner, and I proposed to find a doctor and bring him to see Strickland; but when we got down into the street, fresh after the stuffy attic, the Dutchman begged me to go immediately to his studio. He had something in mind which he would not tell me, but he insisted that it was very necessary for me to accompany him. Since I did not think a doctor could at the moment do any more than we had done, I consented. We found Blanche Stroeve laying the table for dinner. Dirk went up to her, and took both her hands.

"Dear one, I want you to do something for me, " he said.

She looked at him with the grave cheerfulness which was one of her charms. His red face was shining with sweat, and he had a look of comic agitation, but there was in his round, surprised eyes an eager light.

"Strickland is very ill. He may be dying. He is alone in a filthy attic, and there is not a soul to look after him. I want you to let me bring him here. "

She withdrew her hands quickly, I had never seen her make so rapid a movement; and her cheeks flushed.

"Oh no. "

"Oh, my dear one, don't refuse. I couldn't bear to leave him where he is. I shouldn't sleep a wink for thinking of him. "

"I have no objection to your nursing him. "

Her voice was cold and distant.

"But he'll die. "

"Let him. "

Stroeve gave a little gasp. He wiped his face. He turned to me for support, but I did not know what to say.

"He's a great artist. "

"What do I care? I hate him. "

"Oh, my love, my precious, you don't mean that. I beseech you to let me bring him here. We can make him comfortable. Perhaps we can save him. He shall be no trouble to you. I will do everything. We'll make him up a bed in the studio. We can't let him die like a dog. It would be inhuman. "

"Why can't he go to a hospital?"

"A hospital! He needs the care of loving hands. He must be treated with infinite tact. "

I was surprised to see how moved she was. She went on laying the table, but her hands trembled.

"I have no patience with you. Do you think if you were ill he would stir a finger to help you?"

"But what does that matter? I should have you to nurse me. It wouldn't be necessary. And besides, I'm different; I'm not of any importance. "

"You have no more spirit than a mongrel cur. You lie down on the ground and ask people to trample on you. "

Stroeve gave a little laugh. He thought he understood the reason of his wife's attitude.

"Oh, my poor dear, you're thinking of that day he came here to look at my pictures. What does it matter if he didn't think them any good? It was stupid of me to show them to him. I dare say they're not very good. "

He looked round the studio ruefully. On the easel was a half-finished picture of a smiling Italian peasant, holding a bunch of grapes over the head of a dark-eyed girl.

"Even if he didn't like them he should have been civil. He needn't have insulted you. He showed that he despised you, and you lick his hand. Oh, I hate him. "

"Dear child, he has genius. You don't think I believe that I have it. I wish I had; but I know it when I see it, and I honour it with all my heart. It's the most wonderful thing in the world. It's a great burden to its possessors. We should be very tolerant with them, and very patient. "

I stood apart, somewhat embarrassed by the domestic scene, and wondered why Stroeve had insisted on my coming with him. I saw that his wife was on the verge of tears.

"But it's not only because he's a genius that I ask you to let me bring him here; it's because he's a human being, and he is ill and poor. "

"I will never have him in my house -- never. "

Stroeve turned to me.

"Tell her that it's a matter of life and death. It's impossible to leave him in that wretched hole. "

"It's quite obvious that it would be much easier to nurse him here, " I said, "but of course it would be very inconvenient. I have an idea that someone will have to be with him day and night. "

"My love, it's not you who would shirk a little trouble. "

"If he comes here, I shall go, " said Mrs. Stroeve violently.

"I don't recognize you. You're so good and kind. "

"Oh, for goodness sake, let me be. You drive me to distraction. "

Then at last the tears came. She sank into a chair, and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook convulsively. In a moment Dirk was on his knees beside her, with his arms round her, kissing her, calling her all sorts of pet names, and the facile tears ran down his own cheeks. Presently she released herself and dried her eyes.

"Leave me alone, " she said, not unkindly; and then to me, trying to smile: "What must you think of me?"

Stroeve, looking at her with perplexity, hesitated. His forehead was all puckered, and his red mouth set in a pout. He reminded me oddly of an agitated guinea-pig.

"Then it's No, darling?" he said at last.

She gave a gesture of lassitude. She was exhausted.

"The studio is yours. Everything belongs to you. If you want to bring him here, how can I prevent you?"

A sudden smile flashed across his round face.

"Then you consent? I knew you would. Oh, my precious. "

Suddenly she pulled herself together. She looked at him with haggard eyes. She clasped her hands over her heart as though its beating were intolerable.

"Oh, Dirk, I've never since we met asked you to do anything for me. "

"You know there's nothing in the world that I wouldn't do for you. "

"I beg you not to let Strickland come here. Anyone else you like. Bring a thief, a drunkard, any outcast off the streets, and I promise you I'll do everything I can for them gladly. But I beseech you not to bring Strickland here. "

"But why?"

"I'm frightened of him. I don't know why, but there's something in him that terrifies me. He'll do us some great harm. I know it. I feel it. If you bring him here it can only end badly. "

"But how unreasonable!"

"No, no. I know I'm right. Something terrible will happen to us. "

"Because we do a good action?"

She was panting now, and in her face was a terror which was inexplicable. I do not know what she thought. I felt that she was possessed by some shapeless dread which robbed her of all self-control. As a rule she was so calm; her agitation now was amazing. Stroeve looked at her for a while with puzzled consternation.

"You are my wife; you are dearer to me than anyone in the world. No one shall come here without your entire consent. "

She closed her eyes for a moment, and I thought she was going to faint. I was a little impatient with her; I had not suspected that she was so neurotic a woman. Then I heard Stroeve's voice again. It seemed to break oddly on the silence.

"Haven't you been in bitter distress once when a helping hand was held out to you? You know how much it means. Couldn't you like to do someone a good turn when you have the chance?"

The words were ordinary enough, and to my mind there was in them something so hortatory that I almost smiled. I was astonished at the effect they had on Blanche Stroeve. She started a little, and gave her husband a long look. His eyes were fixed on the ground. I did not know why he seemed embarrassed. A faint colour came into her cheeks, and then her face became white -- more than white, ghastly; you felt that the blood had shrunk away from the whole surface of her body; and even her hands were pale. A shiver passed through her. The silence of the studio seemed to gather body, so that it became an almost palpable presence. I was bewildered.

"Bring Strickland here, Dirk. I'll do my best for him. "

"My precious, " he smiled.

He wanted to take her in his arms, but she avoided him.

"Don't be affectionate before strangers, Dirk, " she said. "It makes me feel such a fool. "

Her manner was quite normal again, and no one could have told that so shortly before she had been shaken by such a great emotion.

过了一会儿我们便离开那里。戴尔克回家吃晚饭，我自告奋勇去找一位医生，带他来看看思特里克兰德的病。当我们走到街上的时候——从那间闷浊的阁楼出来感到外面的空气特别清新——，荷兰人叫我马上到他的画室去一趟。他有一件什么心事，只是不肯对我讲。他一定要我陪他回家去。我想，即使马上把医生请到，除了我们替思特里克兰德做到的那些事外，暂时也不会有更多的事好做，于是我就同意了。我们发现勃朗什·施特略夫正在摆桌子准备吃晚饭。戴尔克走到她跟前，握住她的两只手。

“亲爱的，我求你做一件事。”他说。

她望着他，欢快中带着某种严肃，这正是她迷人的地方。施特略夫脸上冒着汗珠，闪着亮光，激动不安的神情使他的脸相显得很滑稽，但是在他的滚圆的、好象受到惊吓的眼睛里却射出来一道热切的光芒。

“思特里克兰德病得很厉害，可能快要死了。他一个人住在一间肮脏的阁楼里，没有人照料他。我求你答应我把他带到咱们家来。”

她很快地把手缩回来——我从来没有看到过她的动作这么快过——，面颊一下子涨红了。

“啊，不成。”

“哎呀，亲爱的，不要拒绝吧。我叫他一个人在那里实在受不了。我会因为惦记着他连觉也睡不着的。”

“你去照顾他我不反对。”

她的声音听起来非常冷漠而遥远。

“但是他会死的。”

“让他死去吧。”

施特略夫倒吸了一口气，抹了抹脸。他转过身来请求我支援，但是我不知道该说什么好。

“他是个了不起的画家。”

“那同我有什么关系？我讨厌这个人。”

“啊，我的亲爱的，我的宝贝，你不是这个意思吧！我求求你，让我把他弄到咱们家里吧。我们可以叫他过得舒服一些。也许我们能救他一命。他不会给你带来麻烦的。什么事都由我来做。我们可以在画室里给他架一张床。我们不能叫他象一条野狗似地死掉。太不人道了。”

“为什么他不能去医院呢？”

“医院！他需要爱抚的手来照顾。护理他必需要极其体贴才成。”

我发现勃朗什·施特略夫感情波动得这么厉害，觉得有点奇怪。她继续往桌上摆餐具，但是两只手却抖个不停。

“我对你简直失去耐心了。你认为如果你生了病，他会动一根手指头来帮助你吗？”

“那又有什么关系？我有你照顾啊。不需要他来帮忙。再说，我同他不一样；我这人一点也不重要。”

“你简直还不如一条杂种小狗有血性呢！你躺在地上叫人往你身上踩。”

施特略夫笑了一下。他以为自己了解他的妻子为什么采取这种态度。

“啊，可怜的宝贝，你还想着那次他来看我画的事呢。如果他认为我的画不好又有什么关系呢？那天我真不应该把画给他看，我敢说我画的画并不很好。”

他懊丧地环顾了一下画室。画架上立着一幅未完成的油画——一个意大利农民笑容满面地拿着一串葡萄，在一个黑眼睛的小女孩头顶上擎着。

“即使他不喜欢你的画也应该有一点礼貌啊。他没有必要侮辱你。他的态度很清楚地表现出对你非常鄙视，可是你却还要舔他的手。啊，我讨厌这个人。”

“亲爱的孩子，他是有天才的。不要认为我相信自己也有天才。我倒希望我有呢。但是别人谁是天才我看得出来，我从心眼里尊重这种人。天才是世界上最奇妙的东西。对于他们本人说来，天才是一个很大的负担。我们对这些人必须非常容忍，非常耐心才行。”

我站在一旁听着，这幕家庭冲突使我有些尴尬。我不了解施特略夫为什么非要我同他一起来不可。我看到他的妻子眼泪已经快要流出来了。

“但是我求你让我把他带来，并不只因为他是个天才。我要这样做是因为他是个人，是因为他害着病，因为他一个钱也没有。”

“我永远也不让他进咱们的家门——永远也不让。”

施特略夫转过身来，面对着我。

“你对她讲一讲吧，这是一件生死攸关的事。无论如何也不能把他扔在那个倒霉的地方不管。”

“事情非常清楚，让他到这里来调养要好得多，”我说，“但是当然了，这对你们是很不方便的。我想得有一个人日夜照看着他。”

“亲爱的，你不是那种怕麻烦不肯伸手帮忙的人。”

“如果他到这里来，我就走，”施特略夫太太气冲冲地说。

“我简直认不出你来了。你不是一向心肠很软吗？”

“啊，看在老天爷面上，别逼我了。你快要把我逼疯了。”

最后，她终于落下眼泪来。她瘫在一把椅子上，两手捂着脸，肩膀抽搐着。戴尔克一下子跪在她身边，搂着她，又是亲吻，又是呼叫她各式各样亲昵的名字，廉价的泪水也从他的面颊上淌下来。没有过一会，她就从他的怀抱里挣脱出来，揩干了眼泪。

“让我好好地待一会吧，”她说，语气平顺多了。接着，她强笑着对我说：“我刚才那样，真不知道你会把我当成怎样个人了。”

施特略夫困惑地望着她，不知怎样才好。他紧皱着眉头，撅着通红的嘴巴。他那副怪样子使我联想到一只慌乱的豚鼠。

“那么你不答应吗，亲爱的？”最后他说。

她有气无力地挥了一下手。她已经精疲力尽了。

“画室是你的。这个家都是你的。如果你要让他搬到这里来，我怎么拦得住呢？”

施特略夫的一张胖脸马上绽露出笑容。

“这么一说你同意了？我知道你不会不答应的。噢，我的亲爱的。”

但是她立刻又克制住自己。她用一对暗淡无神的眼睛望着他，十指交叠着按在胸口，仿佛心跳得叫她受不了似的。

“噢，戴尔克，自从咱们认识以后我还没有求你做过什么事呢。”

“你自己也知道，只要你说一句话，天底下没有一件事我不肯为你做的。”

“我求你别叫思特里克兰德到这里来。你叫谁来都成，不管是小偷，是醉鬼，还是街头的流浪汉，我敢保证，我都服侍他们，尽我的一切力量服侍他们。但是我恳求你，千万别把思特里克兰德带回家里。”

“可是为什么呀？”

“我怕他。我也不知道为什么，他这个人叫我怕得要死。他会给我们带来祸害。我知道得非常清楚。我感觉得出来。如果你把他招来，不会有好结局的。”

“你真是没有道理。”

“不，不，我知道我是对的。咱们家会发生可怕的事的。”

“为什么？因为咱们做了一件好事？”

她的呼吸非常急促，脸上有一种无法解释的恐惧。我不知道她想的是什么。我觉得她好象正被一种无形的恐怖紧紧抓住，完全失去控制自己的能力了。她一向总是沉着稳重，现在这种惊惧不安的样子着实令人吃惊。施特略夫带着困惑、惊愕的神情打量了她一会儿。

“你是我的妻子，对我说来，你比任何事物都宝贵。如果你没有完全同意谁也不会到咱们家来。”

她闭了一会儿眼睛，我以为她或许要晕过去了。我对她有些不耐烦。我没想到她是这样神经质的女人。接着我又听到施特略夫的话语声，沉寂似乎奇怪地被他的声音打破了。

“你自己是不是也一度陷于非常悲惨的境地，恰好有人把援助的手伸给你？你知道那对你是多么重要的事。如果遇到这种情况，你不愿意也帮别人一下儿吗？”

他这番话一点也不新鲜，我甚至觉得这里面还有一些教训的意味；我差点儿笑了出未。但是它对勃朗什·施特略夫的影响却叫我大吃一惊。她身体抖动了一下，好久好久凝视着她的丈夫。施特略夫紧紧盯住地面。我不懂为什么他的样子显得非常困窘。施特略夫太太的脸上泛上一层淡淡的红晕，接着又变白——变得惨白；你会觉得她身上的血液都从表面收缩回去，连两只手也一点血色没有了。她全身颤抖起来。画室寂静无声，好象那寂静已经变成了实体，只要伸出手就摸得到似的。我奇怪得不得了。

“把思特里克兰德带来吧，戴尔克。我会尽量照顾他。”

“我的亲爱的，”他笑了。

他想抱住她，但是她却避开了。

“当着生人的面别这么多情了，戴尔克，”她说，“叫人多下不来台啊。”

她的神情已经完全自然了；没有人敢说几分钟以前她还被一种强烈的感情激动着。

Shortly before Christmas Dirk Stroeve came to ask me to spend the holiday with him. He had a characteristic sentimentality about the day and wanted to pass it among his friends with suitable ceremonies. Neither of us had seen Strickland for two or three weeks -- I because I had been busy with friends who were spending a little while in Paris, and Stroeve because, having quarreled with him more violently than usual, he had made up his mind to have nothing more to do with him. Strickland was impossible, and he swore never to speak to him again. But the season touched him with gentle feeling, and he hated the thought of Strickland spending Christmas Day by himself; he ascribed his own emotions to him, and could not bear that on an occasion given up to good-fellowship the lonely painter should be abandoned to his own melancholy. Stroeve had set up a Christmas-tree in his studio, and I suspected that we should both find absurd little presents hanging on its festive branches; but he was shy about seeing Strickland again; it was a little humiliating to forgive so easily insults so outrageous, and he wished me to be present at the reconciliation on which he was determined.

We walked together down the Avenue de Clichy, but Strickland was not in the cafe. It was too cold to sit outside, and we took our places on leather benches within. It was hot and stuffy, and the air was gray with smoke. Strickland did not come, but presently we saw the French painter who occasionally played chess with him. I had formed a casual acquaintance with him, and he sat down at our table. Stroeve asked him if he had seen Strickland.

"He's ill, " he said. "Didn't you know?"

"Seriously?"

"Very, I understand. "

Stroeve's face grew white.

"Why didn't he write and tell me? How stupid of me to quarrel with him. We must go to him at once. He can have no one to look after him. Where does he live?"

"I have no idea, " said the Frenchman.

We discovered that none of us knew how to find him. Stroeve grew more and more distressed.

"He might die, and not a soul would know anything about it. It's dreadful. I can't bear the thought. We must find him at once. "

I tried to make Stroeve understand that it was absurd to hunt vaguely about Paris. We must first think of some plan.

"Yes; but all this time he may be dying, and when we get there it may be too late to do anything. "

"Sit still and let us think, " I said impatiently.

The only address I knew was the Hotel des Belges, but Strickland had long left that, and they would have no recollection of him. With that queer idea of his to keep his whereabouts secret, it was unlikely that, on leaving, he had said where he was going. Besides, it was more than five years ago. I felt pretty sure that he had not moved far. If he continued to frequent the same cafe as when he had stayed at the hotel, it was probably because it was the most convenient. Suddenly I remembered that he had got his commission to paint a portrait through the baker from whom he bought his bread, and it struck me that there one might find his address. I called for a directory and looked out the bakers. There were five in the immediate neighbourhood, and the only thing was to go to all of them. Stroeve accompanied me unwillingly. His own plan was to run up and down the streets that led out of the Avenue de Clichy and ask at every house if Strickland lived there. My commonplace scheme was, after all, effective, for in the second shop we asked at the woman behind the counter acknowledged that she knew him. She was not certain where he lived, but it was in one of the three houses opposite. Luck favoured us, and in the first we tried the concierge told us that we should find him on the top floor.

"It appears that he's ill, " said Stroeve.

"It may be, " answered the concierge indifferently. " En effet, I have not seen him for several days. "

Stroeve ran up the stairs ahead of me, and when I reached the top floor I found him talking to a workman in his shirt-sleeves who had opened a door at which Stroeve had knocked. He pointed to another door. He believed that the person who lived there was a painter. He had not seen him for a week. Stroeve made as though he were about to knock, and then turned to me with a gesture of helplessness. I saw that he was panic-stricken.

"Supposing he's dead?"

"Not he, " I said.

I knocked. There was no answer. I tried the handle, and found the door unlocked. I walked in, and Stroeve followed me. The room was in darkness. I could only see that it was an attic, with a sloping roof; and a faint glimmer, no more than a less profound obscurity, came from a skylight.

"Strickland, " I called.

There was no answer. It was really rather mysterious, and it seemed to me that Stroeve, standing just behind, was trembling in his shoes. For a moment I hesitated to strike a light. I dimly perceived a bed in the corner, and I wondered whether the light would disclose lying on it a dead body.

"Haven't you got a match, you fool?"

Strickland's voice, coming out of the darkness, harshly, made me start.

Stroeve cried out.

"Oh, my God, I thought you were dead. "

I struck a match, and looked about for a candle. I had a rapid glimpse of a tiny apartment, half room, half studio, in which was nothing but a bed, canvases with their faces to the wall, an easel, a table, and a chair. There was no carpet on the floor. There was no fire-place. On the table, crowded with paints, palette-knives, and litter of all kinds, was the end of a candle. I lit it. Strickland was lying in the bed, uncomfortably because it was too small for him, and he had put all his clothes over him for warmth. It was obvious at a glance that he was in a high fever. Stroeve, his voice cracking with emotion, went up to him.

"Oh, my poor friend, what is the matter with you? I had no idea you were ill. Why didn't you let me know? You must know I'd have done anything in the world for you. Were you thinking of what I said? I didn't mean it. I was wrong. It was stupid of me to take offence. "

"Go to hell, " said Strickland.

"Now, be reasonable. Let me make you comfortable. Haven't you anyone to look after you?"

He looked round the squalid attic in dismay. He tried to arrange the bed-clothes. Strickland, breathing laboriously, kept an angry silence. He gave me a resentful glance. I stood quite quietly, looking at him.

"If you want to do something for me, you can get me some milk, " he said at last. "I haven't been able to get out for two days. " There was an empty bottle by the side of the bed, which had contained milk, and in a piece of newspaper a few crumbs.

"What have you been having?" I asked.

"Nothing. "

"For how long?" cried Stroeve. "Do you mean to say you've had nothing to eat or drink for two days? It's horrible. "

"I've had water. "

His eyes dwelt for a moment on a large can within reach of an outstretched arm.

"I'll go immediately, " said Stroeve. "Is there anything you fancy?"

I suggested that he should get a thermometer, and a few grapes, and some bread. Stroeve, glad to make himself useful, clattered down the stairs.

"Damned fool, " muttered Strickland.

I felt his pulse. It was beating quickly and feebly. I asked him one or two questions, but he would not answer, and when I pressed him he turned his face irritably to the wall. The only thing was to wait in silence. In ten minutes Stroeve, panting, came back. Besides what I had suggested, he brought candles, and meat-juice, and a spirit-lamp. He was a practical little fellow, and without delay set about making bread-and-milk. I took Strickland's temperature. It was a hundred and four. He was obviously very ill.

圣诞节前不久，戴尔克·施特略夫来邀请我同他们一起过节。圣诞节总是使他有些感伤（这也是他性格的一个特点），他希望能同几个朋友一起按照适宜的礼规庆祝一下这个节日。我们两人都有两三个星期没有见到思特里克兰德了；我是因为忙着陪几个来巴黎短期逗留的朋友，施特略夫则因为上次同他大吵了一顿决心不同他来往了。思特里克兰德这个人太不懂得人情世故，他发誓无论如何也不能再理他了。但是节日来临，施特略夫的心肠又软下来，说什么他也不能让思特里克兰德一个人闷坐在家里。他认为思特里克兰德的心境必然同他的一样，在这样一个人们理应互相恩爱的日子里，叫这位画家在寂寥冷清中度过实在是一件令人无法忍受的事。他在自己的画室里布置好一棵圣诞树，我猜想我们每个人都会在点缀起来的树枝上找到一件可笑的小礼品。但是他有点不好意思去找思特里克兰德；这么容易就宽恕了使他丢尽脸面的侮辱未免有失身份，他虽然决心同思特里克兰德和解，却希望主动去拜访他时我也在场。

我们一起步行到克利舍路，但是思特里克兰德并没有在咖啡馆里。天气很冷，不能再坐在室外了。我们走进屋子里，在皮面座椅上坐下。屋子里又热又闷，空气因为烟雾弥漫而变得灰蒙蒙的。思特里克兰德没在屋子里，但是我们很快就发现了偶尔同思特里克兰德一起下棋的那个法国画家。我同他也小有往来，他在我们的桌子旁边坐下。施特略夫问他看见思特里克兰德没有。

“他生病了，”他说，“你没有听说吗？”

“厉害吗？”

“我听说很厉害。”

施特略夫的脸色一下变白了。

“他为什么不写信告诉我？咳，我同他吵嘴做什么？咱们得马上去看看他。没有人照料他。他住在什么地方？”

“我说不清。”那个法国人说。

我们发现谁也不知道该到哪儿去找他。施特略夫越来越难过。

“说不定他已经死了，他的事没有一个人知道。太可怕了。我真是受不了。咱们一定得马上找到他。”

我想叫施特略夫明白，在茫茫大海似的巴黎找一个人是荒谬的。我们必须首先有一个计划。

“是的。但是也许就在我们想办法的时候，他正在咽气呢，等我们找到他的时候，一切就都太晚了。”

“先安安静静地坐一会，想想该怎么办，”我不耐烦地说。

我知道的唯一地址是比利时旅馆，但是思特里克兰德早已搬出那个地方了，那里的人肯定不会记得他了。他行踪诡秘，不愿意让别人知道自己的住址；在搬走的时候，多半没有留下地址。再说，这已是五年前的事了。但是我敢肯定他住的地方不会太远。既然他住在比利时旅馆的时候就到这家咖啡馆来，后来始终没有换地方，一定是因为这里对他很方便。突然我想起来，他经常去买面包的一家店铺曾经介绍他给人画过像，说不定那家面包店会知道他的住址。我叫人拿来一本电话簿，开始翻查这一带的面包店。我一共找到了五家，唯一的办法是挨家去打听一遍。施特略夫心有不甘地跟在我后面。他本来打算在同克利舍路相通的几条街上前后跑一通，只要碰到一家寄宿公寓就进去打听。结果证明，还是我的平凡的计划奏效了。就在我们走进的第二家面包店，柜台后面的一个女人说她认识他。她不太知道他到底住在哪儿，但是肯定是对面三座楼房中的一座。我们的运气不坏，头一幢楼的门房就告诉我们可以在最顶上的一层找到他。

“他可能害病了，”施特略夫说。

“可能是吧，”门房冷冷地说，“事实上①，我有几天没看见他了。”

①原文为法语。

施特略夫在我前面抢先跑上楼梯，当我走到最高的一层时，他已经敲开一个房间的门正在同一个穿着衬衫的工人讲话。这个人指了指另外一扇门。他相信住在那里的人是个画家。他已经有一个星期没有看见他了。施特略夫刚准备去敲门，但是马上又转过身来对我做了个手势，表示他不知道该怎么办。我发现他害怕得要命。

“要是他已经死了怎么办？”

“他死不了。”我说。

我敲了敲门。没有人应声。我扭了一下门柄，门并没有锁着。我走了进去，施特略夫跟在我后面。屋子很黑，我只能看出来这是一间阁楼，天花板是倾斜的。从天窗上射进一道朦胧的光线，并不比室内的昏暗亮多少。

“思特里克兰德。”我叫了一声。

没有回答。一切都实在令人感到神秘，施特略夫紧靠着我后面站着，我好象觉得他正在索索发抖。我犹豫了一会，是不是要划一根火柴。朦胧中我看到墙角有一张床，我不知道亮光会不会使我看到床上躺着一具尸体。

“你没有火柴吗，你这笨蛋？”

从黑暗里传来思特里克兰德的呵斥的声音，把我吓了一跳。

施特略夫惊叫起来。

“哎呀，上帝，我还以为你死了呢。”

我划了一根火柴，四处看了看有没有蜡烛。匆猝间我看到的是一间很小的屋子，半做住房，半做画室，屋子里只有一张床，面对墙放着的是一些画幅，一个画架，一张桌子和一把椅子。地板上光秃秃的没有地毯。室内没有火炉。桌子上乱堆着颜料瓶、调色刀和杂七杂八的东西，在这一堆凌乱的物品中间我找到半截蜡烛头。我把它点上。思特里克兰德正在床上躺着，他躺得很不舒服，因为这张床对他说来显然太小了。为了取暖，他的衣服都在身上盖着。一眼就能看出来，他正在发高烧。施特略夫走到床前，因为感情激动连嗓子都哑了。

“啊，可怜的朋友，你怎么啦？我一点也不知道你生病了。为什么你不告诉我一声？你知道为了你我什么事都会做的。你还计较我说的话吗？我不是那个意思。我错了。我生了你的气太不应该了。”

“见鬼去吧！”思特里克兰德说。

“别不讲理，好不好？让我使你舒服一些。没有人照料你么？”

他在这间邋里邋遢的小阁楼里四处张望着，不知从何下手。他把思特里克兰德的被子整了一下。思特里克兰德呼呼地喘着气，忍着怒气一语不发。他气哼哼地看了我一眼。我静静地站在那里，盯着他。

“要是你想替我做点什么事的话，就去给我买点牛奶吧，”最后他开口说，“我已经有两天出不了门了。”

床旁边放着一只装牛奶用的空瓶，一张报纸上还有一些面包屑。

“你吃过什么了？”

“什么也没吃。”

“多久了？”施特略夫喊道。“你是说两天没吃没喝了吗？太可怕了。”

“我还有水喝。”

他的眼睛在一个大水罐上停留了一会儿；这只水罐放在他一伸手就够得到的地方。

“我马上就去，”施特略夫说。“你还想要别的东西吗？”

我建议给他买一只热水瓶，一点儿葡萄同面包。施特略夫很高兴有这个帮忙的机会，噔噔地跑下楼梯去。

“该死的傻瓜。”思特里克兰德咕噜了一句。

我摸了摸他的脉搏。脉搏很快，很虚弱。我问了他一两个问题，他不回答。我再一逼问，他赌气把脸转过去，对着墙壁。没有其他事可做了，只能一语不发地在屋里等着。过了十分钟，施特略夫气喘吁吁地回来了。除了我提议要他买的东西以外，他还买来了蜡烛、肉汁和一盏酒精灯。他是一个很会办事的人，一分钟也没有耽搁，马上就煮了一杯牛奶，把面包泡在里面。我量了量思特里克兰德的体温。华氏一百零四度，他显然病得很厉害。