I settled downin Paris and began to write a play. I led a very regular life, working in themorning, and in the afternoon lounging about the gardens of the Luxembourg orsauntering through the streets. I spent long hours in the Louvre, the mostfriendly of all galleries and the most convenient for meditation; or idled onthe quays, fingering second-hand books that I never meant to buy. I read a pagehere and there, and made acquaintance with a great many authors whom I wascontent to know thus desultorily. In the evenings I went to see my friends. Ilooked in often on the Stroeves, and sometimes shared their modest fare. DirkStroeve flattered himself on his skill in cooking Italian dishes, and I confessthat his spaghetti were very much better than his pictures. It was a dinner fora King when he brought in a huge dish of it, succulent with tomatoes, and weate it together with the good household bread and a bottle of red wine. I grewmore intimate with Blanche Stroeve, and I think, because I was English and sheknew few English people, she was glad to see me. She was pleasant and simple,but she remained always rather silent, and I knew not why, gave me theimpression that she was concealing something.

"But don'timagine to yourself that I make myself bad blood on that account. I took themto oblige Monsieur Stroeve, and I said I would sell them if I could. But really--" He shrugged his shoulders. "I'm interested in the young men, butvoyons, you yourself, Monsieur Stroeve, you don't think there's any talentthere. "

"I giveyou my word of honour, there's no one painting to-day in whose talent I am moreconvinced. Take my word for it, you are missing a good affair. Some day thosepictures will be worth more than all you have in your shop. Remember Monet, whocould not get anyone to buy his pictures for a hundred francs. What are theyworth now?"

"True. Butthere were a hundred as good painters as Monet who couldn't sell their picturesat that time, and their pictures are worth nothing still. How can one tell? Ismerit enough to bring success? Don't believe it. Du reste, it has still to beproved that this friend of yours has merit. No one claims it for him butMonsieur Stroeve. "

"And how, then,will you recognise merit?" asked Dirk, red in the face with anger.

"There isonly one way -- by success. "

"Philistine," cried Dirk.

"But thinkof the great artists of the past -- Raphael, Michael Angelo, Ingres, Delacroix-- they were all successful. "

"Let usgo, " said Stroeve to me, "or I shall kill this man. "

我在巴黎定居下来，开始写一个剧本。我的生活很有规律；早上工作，下午在卢森堡公园或者在大街上漫步。我把很多时间消磨在卢佛尔宫里，这是巴黎所有画廊中我感到最亲切的一个，也是最适于我冥想的地方。再不然我就在塞纳河边悠闲地打发时间，翻弄一些我从来不想买的旧书。我东读两页、西读两页，就这样熟悉了不少作家。对这些作家我有这种零星的知识也就完全够用了。晚饭后我去看朋友。我常常到施特略夫家去，有时候在他家吃一顿简便的晚饭。施特略夫认为做意大利菜是他的拿手，我也承认他做的意大利通心粉远比他画的画高明。当他端上来一大盘香喷喷的通心粉，配着西红柿，我们一边喝红葡萄酒，一边就着通心粉吃他家自己烘烤的面包的时候，这一顿饭简直抵得上皇上的御餐了。我同勃朗什·施特略夫逐渐熟起来。我想，可能因为我是英国人，而她在这里认识的英国人不多，所以她很高兴看到我。她心地单纯，人总是快快活活，但是她一般不太爱说话。不知道为什么，她给我一个印象，仿佛心里藏着什么东西似的。

但是我也想过，这也许只是因为她生性拘谨，再加上她丈夫心直口快、过于饶舌的缘故。戴尔克心里有什么话都憋不住，就是最隐秘的事也毫无避讳地公开和你讨论。他的这种态度有时候叫他妻子感到很尴尬。我见到她恼羞成怒只有一次。那次施特略夫非要告诉我他服泻药的事不可，而且说得绘声绘色。在他给我描述这件灾祸时，他的脸色一本正经，结果我差点儿笑破了肚皮，而施特略夫太太则窘得无地自容，终于冒起火来。

“你好象愿意把自己当个傻瓜似的，”她说。

当他看到自己的老婆真的生起气来的时候，他的一对圆眼睛瞪得更圆了，眉毛也不知所措地皱了起来。

“亲爱的，你生我的气了吗？我再也不吃泻药了。这都是因为我肝火太旺的缘故。我整天坐着不动。我的运动不够。我有三天没有……”

“老天啊，你还不闭嘴！”她打断了他的话，因为气恼而迸出眼泪来。

他的脸耷拉下来，象是个挨了训的孩子似地撅起嘴来。他向我递了个恳求的眼色，希望我替他打个圆场，可是我却无法控制自己，笑得直不起腰来。

有一天我们一起到一个画商那里去，施特略夫认为他至少可以让我看到两三张思特里克兰德的画。但是在我们到了那里以后，画商却告诉我们，思特里克兰德已经把画取走了。画商也不知道他为什么要这样做。

“不要认为我为这件事感到恼火。我接受他的画都是看在施特略夫先生的面上。我告诉他我尽量替他卖。但是说真的——”他耸了耸肩膀。“我对年轻人是有兴趣的，可是施待略夫先生，你自己也知道，你也并不认为他们中有什么天才。”

“我拿名誉向你担保，在所有这些画家里，再没有谁比他更有天才了。你相信我的话吧，一笔赚钱的买卖叫你白白糟蹋了。迟早有一天他的这几张画会比你铺子里所有的画加在一起还值钱。你还记得莫奈吗？当时他的一张画一百法郎都没人要。现在值多少钱了？”

“不错。但是当时还有一百个画家，一点也不次于莫奈，同样也卖不掉自己的画。现在这些人的画还是不值钱。谁知道这是怎么回事？是不是画家只要画得好就能成名呢？千万别相信这个。再说①，你的这位朋友究竟画得好不好也还没有证实。只有你施特略夫先生一个人夸奖他，我还没听见别人说他好呢。”

①原文为法语。

“那么你说说，怎样才知道一个人画得好不好？”戴尔克问道，脸都气红了。

“只有一个办法——出了名画得就好。”

“市侩，”戴尔克喊道。

“不妨想想过去的大艺术家——拉斐尔，米开朗基罗，安格尔②，德拉克罗瓦③，都是出了名的。”

②让·奥古斯特·多米尼克·安格尔（1780—1867），法国画家。

③费迪南·维克多·欧仁·德拉克罗瓦（1798—1863），法国画家。

“咱们走吧，”施特略夫对我说，“再不走的话我非把这个人宰了不可。”

Strickland didnot speak for a long time, but his eyes shone strangely, as though he sawsomething that kindled his soul to ecstasy.

"SometimesI've thought of an island lost in a boundless sea, where I could live in somehidden valley, among strange trees, in silence. There I think I could find whatI want. "

He did notexpress himself quite like this. He used gestures instead of adjectives, and hehalted. I have put into my own words what I think he wanted to say.

"Lookingback on the last five years, do you think it was worth it?" I asked.

He looked atme, and I saw that he did not know what I meant. I explained.

"You gaveup a comfortable home and a life as happy as the average. You were fairlyprosperous. You seem to have had a rotten time in Paris. If you had your timeover again would you do what you did?"

"Rather."

"Do youknow that you haven't asked anything about your wife or children? Do you neverthink of them?"

"No."

"I wishyou weren't so damned monosyllabic. Have you never had a moment's regret forall the unhappiness you caused them?"

His lips brokeinto a smile, and he shook his head.

"I shouldhave thought sometimes you couldn't help thinking of the past. I don't mean thepast of seven or eight years ago, but further back still, when you first metyour wife, and loved her, and married her. Don't you remember the joy withwhich you first took her in your arms?"

"I don't thinkof the past. The only thing that matters is the everlasting present. "

I thought for amoment over this reply. It was obscure, perhaps, but I thought that I saw dimlyhis meaning.

"Are youhappy?" I asked.

"Yes."

I was silent. Ilooked at him reflectively. He held my stare, and presently a sardonic twinklelit up his eyes.

"I'mafraid you disapprove of me?"

"Nonsense," I answered promptly; "I don't disapprove of the boa-constrictor; onthe contrary, I'm interested in his mental processes. "

"It's apurely professional interest you take in me?"

"Purely."

"It's onlyright that you shouldn't disapprove of me. You have a despicable character."

"Perhapsthat's why you feel at home with me, " I retorted.

He smileddryly, but said nothing. I wish I knew how to describe his smile. I do not knowthat it was attractive, but it lit up his face, changing the expression, whichwas generally sombre, and gave it a look of not ill-natured malice. It was aslow smile, starting and sometimes ending in the eyes; it was very sensual,neither cruel nor kindly, but suggested rather the inhuman glee of the satyr.It was his smile that made me ask him:

"Haven'tyou been in love since you came to Paris?"

"I haven'tgot time for that sort of nonsense. Life isn't long enough for love and art."

"Yourappearance doesn't suggest the anchorite. "

"All thatbusiness fills me with disgust. "

"Humannature is a nuisance, isn't it?" I said.

"Why areyou sniggering at me?"

"Because Idon't believe you. "

"Thenyou're a damned fool. "

I paused, and Ilooked at him searchingly.

"What'sthe good of trying to humbug me?" I said.

"I don'tknow what you mean. "

I smiled.

"Let metell you. I imagine that for months the matter never comes into your head, andyou're able to persuade yourself that you've finished with it for good and all.You rejoice in your freedom, and you feel that at last you can call your soulyour own. You seem to walk with your head among the stars. And then, all of asudden you can't stand it any more, and you notice that all the time your feethave been walking in the mud. And you want to roll yourself in it. And you findsome woman, coarse and low and vulgar, some beastly creature in whom all thehorror of sex is blatant, and you fall upon her like a wild animal. You drinktill you're blind with rage. "

He stared at mewithout the slightest movement. I held his eyes with mine. I spoke very slowly.

"I'll tellyou what must seem strange, that when it's over you feel so extraordinarilypure. You feel like a disembodied spirit, immaterial; and you seem to be ableto touch beauty as though it were a palpable thing; and you feel an intimatecommunion with the breeze, and with the trees breaking into leaf, and with theiridescence of the river. You feel like God. Can you explain that to me?"

He kept hiseyes fixed on mine till I had finished, and then he turned away. There was onhis face a strange look, and I thought that so might a man look when he haddied under the torture. He was silent. I knew that our conversation was ended.

思特里克兰德很久很久没有作声。但是他的眼睛却闪着一种奇异的光辉，仿佛看到了某种点燃起他的灵魂、使他心醉神驰的东西。

“有些时候我就想到一个包围在无边无际的大海中的小岛，我可以住在岛上一个幽僻的山谷里，四周都是不知名的树木，我寂静安闲地生活在那里。我想在那样一个地方，我就能找到我需要的东西了。”

这不是他的原话。他用的是手势而不是形容的词藻，而且结结巴巴没有一句话说得完整。我现在是用自己的话把我认为他想要表达的重新说出来。

“回顾一下过去的五年，你认为你这样做值得吗？”我问他道。

他看着我，我知道他没有明白我的意思，就解释说：“你丢掉了舒适的家庭，放弃一般人过的那种幸福生活。你本来过得很不错。可是你现在在巴黎大概连饭都吃不饱。再叫你从头儿选择，你还愿意走这条路吗？”

“还是这样。”

“你知道，你根本没有打听过你的老婆和孩子。难道你从来没有想过他们吗？”

“没有。”

“我希望你别他妈的老说一个字。你给他们带来这么多不幸，难道你就一分钟也没有后悔过？”

他咧开嘴笑了，摇了摇头。

“我能想象得出，有时候你还是会不由自主地想起过去的。我不是说想起六七年以前的事，我是说更早以前，你和你妻子刚刚认识的时候，你爱她，同她结了婚。你难道就忘了第一次把她抱在怀里的时候你感到的喜悦？”

“我不想过去。对我说来，最重要的是永恒的现在。”

我想了想他这句答话的意思。也许他的语义很隐晦，但是我想我还是懂得他大概指的是什么了。

“你快活吗？”我问。

“当然了。”

我没有说什么。我沉思地凝视着他。他也目不转睛地望着我，没过一会儿他的眼睛又闪烁起讥笑的光芒。

“我想你对我有点儿意见吧？”

“你这话问得没意义，”我马上接口说，“我对蟒蛇的习性并不反对，相反地我对它的心理活动倒很感兴趣。”

“这么说来，你纯粹是从职业的角度对我发生兴趣啰？”

“纯粹是这样。”

“你不反对我是理所当然的，你的性格也实在讨厌。”

“也许这正是你同我在一起感到很自然的原故，”我反唇相讥说。

他只干笑了一下，没说什么。我真希望我能形容一下儿他笑的样子。我不敢说他的笑容多么好看，但是他一笑起来，脸就泛起光彩，使他平时总是阴沉着的面容改了样子，平添了某种刁钻刻薄的神情。他的笑容来得很慢，常常是从眼睛开始也就消失在眼梢上。另外，他的微笑给人以一种色欲感，既不是残忍的，也不是仁慈的，令人想到森林之神的那种兽性的喜悦。正是他的这种笑容使我提出一个问题。

“从你到巴黎以后闹过恋爱吗？”

“我没有时间干这种无聊的事。生命太短促了，没有时间既闹恋爱又搞艺术。”

“你可不象过隐士生活的样子。”

“这种事叫我作呕。”

“人性是个讨厌的累赘，对不对？”我说。

“你为什么对我傻笑？”

“因为我不相信你。”

“那你就是个大傻瓜。”

我没有马上答话；我用探索的目光盯着他。

“你骗我有什么用？”我说。

“我不知道你是什么意思。”

我笑了。

“叫我来说吧。我猜想你是这样一种情况。一连几个月你脑子里一直不想这件事，你甚至可以使自己相信，你同这件事已经彻底绝缘了。你为自己获得了自由而高兴，你觉得终于成为自己灵魂的主人了。你好象昂首于星斗中漫步。但是突然间，你忍受不住了。你发觉你的双脚从来就没有从污泥里拔出过。你现在想索性全身躺在烂泥塘里翻滚。于是你就去找一个女人，一个粗野、低贱、俗不可耐的女人，一个性感毕露令人嫌恶的畜类般的女人。你象一个野兽似地扑到她身上。你拼命往肚里灌酒，你憎恨自己，简直快要发疯了。”

他凝视着我，身子一动也不动。我也目不转睛地盯着他的眼睛。我说得很慢。

“我现在要告诉你一件看来一定是很奇怪的事：等到那件事过去以后，你会感到自己出奇地洁净。你有一种灵魂把肉体甩脱掉的感觉，一种脱离形体的感觉。你好象一伸手就能触摸到美，倒仿佛‘美’是一件抚摸得到的实体一样。你好象同飒飒的微风、同绽露嫩叶的树木、同波光变幻的流水息息相通。你觉得自己就是上帝。你能够给我解释这是怎么回事吗？”

他一直盯着我的眼睛，直到我把话讲完。这以后他才转过脸去。他的脸上有一种奇怪的神情，我觉得一个死于酷刑折磨下的人可能会有这种神情的。他沉默不语。我知道我们这次谈话已经结束了。

“叫我来说吧。我猜想你是这样一种情况。一连几个月你脑子里一直不想这件事，你甚至可以使自己相信，你同这件事已经彻底绝缘了。你为自己获得了自由而高兴，你觉得终于成为自己灵魂的主人了。你好象昂首于星斗中漫步。但是突然间，你忍受不住了。你发觉你的双脚从来就没有从污泥里拔出过。你现在想索性全身躺在烂泥塘里翻滚。于是你就去找一个女人，一个粗野、低贱、俗不可耐的女人，一个性感毕露令人嫌恶的畜类般的女人。你象一个野兽似地扑到她身上。你拼命往肚里灌酒，你憎恨自己，简直快要发疯了。”

他凝视着我，身子一动也不动。我也目不转睛地盯着他的眼睛。我说得很慢。

“我现在要告诉你一件看来一定是很奇怪的事：等到那件事过去以后，你会感到自己出奇地洁净。你有一种灵魂把肉体甩脱掉的感觉，一种脱离形体的感觉。你好象一伸手就能触摸到美，倒仿佛‘美’是一件抚摸得到的实体一样。你好象同飒飒的微风、同绽露嫩叶的树木、同波光变幻的流水息息相通。你觉得自己就是上帝。你能够给我解释这是怎么回事吗？”

他一直盯着我的眼睛，直到我把话讲完。这以后他才转过脸去。他的脸上有一种奇怪的神情，我觉得一个死于酷刑折磨下的人可能会有这种神情的。他沉默不语。我知道我们这次谈话已经结束了。

I let him takeme to a restaurant of his choice, but on the way I bought a paper. When we hadordered our dinner, I propped it against a bottle of St. Galmier and began toread. We ate in silence. I felt him looking at me now and again, but I took nonotice. I meant to force him to conversation.

"Is thereanything in the paper?" he said, as we approached the end of our silentmeal.

I fancied therewas in his tone a slight note of exasperation.

"I alwayslike to read the feuilleton on the drama, " I said.

I folded thepaper and put it down beside me.

"I'veenjoyed my dinner, " he remarked.

"I thinkwe might have our coffee here, don't you?"

"Yes."

We lit our cigars.I smoked in silence. I noticed that now and then his eyes rested on me with afaint smile of amusement. I waited patiently.

"What haveyou been up to since I saw you last?" he asked at length.

When the smallsum of money which he brought with him from London came to an end he sufferedfrom no dismay. He sold no pictures; I think he made little attempt to sellany; he set about finding some way to make a bit of money. He told me with grimhumour of the time he had spent acting as guide to Cockneys who wanted to seethe night side of life in Paris; it was an occupation that appealed to hissardonic temper and somehow or other he had acquired a wide acquaintance withthe more disreputable quarters of the city. He told me of the long hours hespent walking about the Boulevard de la Madeleine on the look-out forEnglishmen, preferably the worse for liquor, who desired to see things whichthe law forbade. When in luck he was able to make a tidy sum; but theshabbiness of his clothes at last frightened the sight-seers, and he could notfind people adventurous enough to trust themselves to him. Then he happened ona job to translate the advertisements of patent medicines which were sentbroadcast to the medical profession in England. During a strike he had beenemployed as a house-painter.

Meanwhile hehad never ceased to work at his art; but, soon tiring of the studios, entirelyby himself. He had never been so poor that he could not buy canvas and paint,and really he needed nothing else. So far as I could make out, he painted withgreat difficulty, and in his unwillingness to accept help from anyone lost muchtime in finding out for himself the solution of technical problems whichpreceding generations had already worked out one by one. He was aiming atsomething, I knew not what, and perhaps he hardly knew himself; and I got againmore strongly the impression of a man possessed. He did not seem quite sane. Itseemed to me that he would not show his pictures because he was really notinterested in them. He lived in a dream, and the reality meant nothing to him.I had the feeling that he worked on a canvas with all the force of his violentpersonality, oblivious of everything in his effort to get what he saw with themind's eye; and then, having finished, not the picture perhaps, for I had anidea that he seldom brought anything to completion, but the passion that firedhim, he lost all care for it. He was never satisfied with what he had done; itseemed to him of no consequence compared with the vision that obsessed hismind.

"Why don'tyou ever send your work to exhibitions?" I asked. "I should havethought you'd like to know what people thought about it. "

"Wouldyou?"

I cannotdescribe the unmeasurable contempt he put into the two words.

"Don't youwant fame? It's something that most artists haven't been indifferent to. "

"Children.How can you care for the opinion of the crowd, when you don't care twopence forthe opinion of the individual?"

"We're notall reasonable beings, " I laughed.

"Who makesfame? Critics, writers, stockbrokers, women. "

"Wouldn'tit give you a rather pleasing sensation to think of people you don’t know andhad never seen receiving emotions, subtle and passionate, from the work of yourhands? Everyone likes power. I can't imagine a more wonderful exercise of itthan to move the souls of men to pity or terror. "

"Melodrama."

"Why doyou mind if you paint well or badly?"

"I don't.I only want to paint what I see. "

"I wonderif I could write on a desert island, with the certainty that no eyes but minewould ever see what I had written. "

我让他带我到一家他选定的餐馆，但是在路上走的时候我买了一份报纸。叫了菜以后，我就把报纸支在一瓶圣·卡尔密酒上，开始读报。我们一言不发地吃着饭。我发现他不时地看我一眼，但是我根本不理睬他。我准备逼着他自己讲话。

“报纸上有什么消息？”在我们这顿沉默无语的晚餐将近尾声时，他开口说。

也许这只是我的幻觉吧，从他的声音里我好象听出来他已经有些沉不住气了。

“我喜欢读评论戏剧的杂文，”我说。

我把报纸叠起来，放在一边。

“这顿饭吃得很不错，”他说。

“我看咱们就在这里喝咖啡好不好？”

“好吧。”

我们点起了雪茄。我一言不发地抽着烟。我发现他的目光时不时地停在我身上，隐约闪现着笑意。我耐心地等待着。

“从上次见面以后你都做什么了？”最后他开口说。

当他把从伦敦带来的一点钱花完以后，他也没有沮丧气馁。他没有出卖自己的画作，我想他在这方面并没有怎么努力。他开始寻找一些挣钱的门径。他用自我解嘲的语气告诉我，有一段日子他曾经给那些想领略巴黎夜生活的伦敦人当向导。由于他惯爱嘲讽挖苦，这倒是一个投合他脾气的职业。他对这座城市的那些不体面的地区逐渐都熟悉起来。他告诉我他如何在马德莲大马路走来走去，希望遇到个想看看法律所不允许的事物的英国老乡，最好是个带有几分醉意的人。如果运气好他就能赚一笔钱。但是后来他那身破烂衣服把想观光的人都吓跑了，他找不到敢于把自己交到他手里的冒险家了。这时由于偶然的机会他找到了一个翻译专卖药广告的工作，这些药要在英国医药界推销，需要英语说明。有一次赶上罢工，他甚至还当过粉刷房屋的油漆匠。

在所有这些日子里，他的艺术活动一直没有停止过。但是不久他就没有兴致到画室去了；他只关在屋子里一个人埋头苦干。因为一文不名，有时他连画布和颜料都买不起，而这两样东西恰好是他最需要的。从他的谈话里我了解到，他在绘画上遇到的困难很大，因为他不愿意接受别人指点，不得不浪费许多时间摸索一些技巧上的问题，其实这些问题过去的画家早已逐一解决了。他在追求一种我不太清楚的东西，或许连他自己也知道得并不清楚。过去我有过的那种印象这一次变得更加强烈了：他象是一个被什么迷住了的人，他的心智好象不很正常。他不肯把自己的画拿给别人看，我觉得这是因为他对这些画实在不感兴趣。他生活在幻梦里，现实对他一点儿意义也没有。我有一种感觉，他好象把自己的强烈个性全部倾注在一张画布上，在奋力创造自己心灵所见到的景象时，他把周围的一切事物全都忘记了。而一旦绘画的过程结束——或许并不是画幅本身，因为据我猜想，他是很少把一张画画完的，我是说他把一阵燃烧着他心灵的激情发泄完毕以后，他对自己画出来的东西就再也不关心了。他对自己的画儿从来也不满意；同缠住他心灵的幻景相比，他觉得这些画实在太没有意义了。

“为什么你不把自己的画送到展览会上去呢？”我问他说，“我想你会愿意听听别人的意见的。”

“你愿意听吗？”

他说这句话时那种鄙夷不屑劲儿我简直无法形容。

“你不想成名吗？大多数画家对这一点还是不能无动于衷的。”

“真幼稚。如果你不在乎某一个人对你的看法，一群人对你有什么意见又有什么关系？”

“我们并不是人人都是理性动物啊！”我笑着说。

“成名的是哪些人？是评论家、作家、证券经纪人、女人。”

“想到那些你从来不认识、从来没见过的人被你的画笔打动，或者泛起种种遐思，或者感情激荡，难道你不感到欣慰吗？每个人都喜爱权力。如果你能打动人们的灵魂，或者叫他们凄怆哀悯，或者叫他们惊惧恐慌，这不也是一种奇妙的行使权力的方法吗？”

“滑稽戏。”

“那么你为什么对于画得好或不好还是很介意呢？”

“我并不介意。我只不过想把我所见到的画下来。”

“如果我置身于一个荒岛上，确切地知道除了我自己的眼睛以外再没有别人能看到我写出来的东西，我很怀疑我还能不能写作下去。”

Dirk Stroeveagreed to fetch me on the following evening and take me to the cafe at whichStrickland was most likely to be found. I was interested to learn that it wasthe same as that at which Strickland and I had drunk absinthe when I had goneover to Paris to see him. The fact that he had never changed suggested asluggishness of habit which seemed to me characteristic.

"There heis, " said Stroeve, as we reached the cafe.

Though it wasOctober, the evening was warm, and the tables on the pavement were crowded. Iran my eyes over them, but did not see Strickland.

"Look.Over there, in the corner. He's playing chess. "

I noticed a manbending over a chess-board, but could see only a large felt hat and a redbeard. We threaded our way among the tables till we came to him.

"Strickland."

He looked up.

"Hulloa,fatty. What do you want?"

"I'vebrought an old friend to see you. "

Strickland gaveme a glance, and evidently did not recognise me. He resumed his scrutiny of thechessboard.

"Sit down,and don't make a noise, " he said.

He moved apiece and straightway became absorbed in the game. Poor Stroeve gave me atroubled look, but I was not disconcerted by so little. I ordered something todrink, and waited quietly till Strickland had finished. I welcomed theopportunity to examine him at my ease. I certainly should never have known him.In the first place his red beard, ragged and untrimmed, hid much of his face,and his hair was long; but the most surprising change in him was his extremethinness. It made his great nose protrude more arrogantly; it emphasized hischeekbones; it made his eyes seem larger. There were deep hollows at histemples. His body was cadaverous. He wore the same suit that I had seen him infive years before; it was torn and stained, threadbare, and it hung upon himloosely, as though it had been made for someone else. I noticed his hands,dirty, with long nails; they were merely bone and sinew, large and strong; butI had forgotten that they were so shapely. He gave me an extraordinaryimpression as he sat there, his attention riveted on his game -- an impressionof great strength; and I could not understand why it was that his emaciationsomehow made it more striking.

Presently,after moving, he leaned back and gazed with a curious abstraction at his antagonist.This was a fat, bearded Frenchman. The Frenchman considered the position, thenbroke suddenly into jovial expletives, and with an impatient gesture, gatheringup the pieces, flung them into their box. He cursed Strickland freely, then,calling for the waiter, paid for the drinks, and left. Stroeve drew his chaircloser to the table.

"Now Isuppose we can talk, " he said.

Strickland's eyesrested on him, and there was in them a malicious expression. I felt sure he wasseeking for some gibe, could think of none, and so was forced to silence.

"I'vebrought an old friend to see you, " repeated Stroeve, beaming cheerfully.

Stricklandlooked at me thoughtfully for nearly a minute. I did not speak.

"I'venever seen him in my life, " he said.

I do not knowwhy he said this, for I felt certain I had caught a gleam of recognition in hiseyes. I was not so easily abashed as I had been some years earlier.

"I sawyour wife the other day, " I said. "I felt sure you'd like to havethe latest news of her. "

He gave a shortlaugh. His eyes twinkled.

"We had ajolly evening together, " he said. "How long ago is it?"

"Fiveyears. "

He called foranother absinthe. Stroeve, with voluble tongue, explained how he and I had met,and by what an accident we discovered that we both knew Strickland. I do notknow if Strickland listened. He glanced at me once or twice reflectively, butfor the most part seemed occupied with his own thoughts; and certainly withoutStroeve's babble the conversation would have been difficult. In half an hourthe Dutchman, looking at his watch, announced that he must go. He asked whetherI would come too. I thought, alone, I might get something out of Strickland,and so answered that I would stay.

When the fatman had left I said:

"DirkStroeve thinks you're a great artist. "

"What thehell do you suppose I care?"

"Will youlet me see your pictures?"

"Whyshould I?"

"I mightfeel inclined to buy one. "

"I mightnot feel inclined to sell one. "

"Are youmaking a good living?" I asked, smiling.

He chuckled.

"Do I lookit?"

"You lookhalf starved. "

"I am halfstarved. "

"Then comeand let's have a bit of dinner. "

"Why doyou ask me?"

"Not outof charity, " I answered coolly. "I don't really care a twopenny damnif you starve or not."

His eyes lit upagain.

"Come on,then, " he said, getting up. "I'd like a decent meal. "

戴尔克·施特略夫答应第二天晚上来找我，带我到一家多半会找到思特里克兰德的咖啡馆去。我觉得非常有趣，因为我发现这正是上次我来巴黎看思特里克兰德时我们一起在那里饮苦艾酒的地方。这么多年，他连晚上消闲的地方也没有更换，这说明他习性不易改变，据我看来，这也正是他的一种个性。

“他就在那里，”当我们走到这家咖啡馆的时候，施特略夫说。

虽然季节已是十月，晚饭后还很暖和，摆在人行道上的咖啡台子坐满了人。我在人群里张望了一会儿，并没有看到思特里克兰德。

“看哪，他就坐在那边，在一个角落里。他在同人下棋呢。”

我看见一个人俯身在棋盘上，我只能看到一顶大毡帽和一捧红胡须。我们从桌子中间穿过去，走到他跟前。

“思特里克兰德。”

他抬头看了看。

“哈啰，胖子。你有什么事？”

“我给你带来一位老朋友，他想见你。”

思特里克兰德看了我一个眼，显然没有认出我是谁来。他的眼睛又回到棋盘上。

“坐下，别出声音，”他说。

他走了一步棋，马上就全神贯注到面前的一局棋上。可怜的施特略夫心怀焦虑地望了我一眼，但是我却没有觉得有任何不自在。我要了一点喝的东西，静静地坐在那里等着思特里克兰德下完棋。对于这样一个可以从容地观察他的机会，我毋宁说是欢迎的。如果是我一个人来，我肯定认不出他了。首先，我发觉他的大半张脸都遮在乱蓬蓬的胡须底下，他的头发也非常长；但是最令人吃惊的变化还是他的极度削瘦，这就使得他的大鼻子更加傲慢地翘起来，颧骨也更加突出，眼睛显得比从前更大了。在他的太阳穴下面出现了两个深坑。他的身体瘦得只剩了皮包骨头，穿的仍然是五年前我见到的那身衣服，只不过已经破破烂烂，油迹斑斑，而且穿在身上晃晃荡荡，仿佛原来是给别人做的似的。我注意到他的两只手不很干净，指甲很长，除了筋就是骨头，显得大而有力，但是我却不记得过去他的手形曾经这么完美过。他坐在那里专心致志地下棋，给我一种很奇特的印象——仿佛他身体里蕴藏着一股无比的力量。我不知道为什么，他的削瘦使这一点更加突出了。

他走过一步棋后，马上把身体往后一靠，凝视着他的对手，目光里带着一种令人奇怪的心不在焉的神情。与他对棋的人是一个蓄着长胡须的肥胖的法国人。这个法国人察看了一下自己的棋势，突然笑呵呵地破口骂了几句，气恼地把棋子收在一起，扔到棋盒里去。他一点也不留情面地咒骂着思特里克兰德，接着就把侍者叫来，付了两人的酒账，离开了。施特略夫把椅子往桌边挪了挪。

“我想现在咱们可以谈话了，”他说。

思特里克兰德的目光落到他身上，那里面闪现着某种恶意的讥嘲。我敢说他正在寻找一句什么挖苦话，因为找不到合适的，所以只好不开口。

“我给你带来一位老朋友，他要见你，”施特略夫满脸堆笑地又把见面时的话重复了一遍。

思特里克兰德沉思地把我端详了几乎有一分钟。我始终没说话。

“我一生中也没见过这个人，”他说。

我不知道为什么他要这样说，因为从他眼神里我敢肯定他是认识我的。我不象几年以前那样动不动就感到难为情了。

“我前几天见到你妻子了，”我说，“我想你一定愿意听听她最近的消息。”

他干笑了一声，眼睛里闪着亮。

“咱们曾一起度过一个快活的晚上，”他说，“那是多久以前了？”

“五年了。”

他又要了一杯苦艾酒。施特略夫滔滔不绝地解释，他和我如何会面，如何无意中发现都认识思特里克兰德的事。我不知道这些话思特里克兰德是否听进去了。因为除了有一两次他好象回忆起什么而看了我一眼以外，大部分时间他似乎都在沉思自己的事。如果不是施特略夫唠唠叨叨地说个没完没了，这场谈话肯定要冷场的。半个钟头以后这位荷兰人看了看表，声称他必须回去了。他问我要不要同他一起走。我想剩下我一个人也许还能从思特里克兰德嘴里打听到些什么，所以回答他说我还要坐一会儿。

当这个胖子走了以后，我开口说：

“戴尔克·施特略夫说你是个了不起的画家。”

“我才他妈的不在乎他怎么说呢！”

“你可以不可以让我看看你的画？”

“为什么我要给你看？”

“说不定我想买一两幅。”

“说不定我还不想卖呢。”

“你过得不错吧？”我笑着说。

他咯咯地笑了两声。

“我象过得不错的吗？”

“你象连肚皮也吃不饱的样子。”

“我就是连饭也吃不饱。”

“那咱们去吃点什么吧。”

“你干嘛请我吃饭？”

“不是出于慈善心肠，”我冷冷地说，“你吃得饱吃不饱才不干我的事呢。”

他的眼睛又闪起亮来。

“那就走吧，”他说，站了起来，“我倒是想好好地吃它一顿。”

"AndDirk actually gave it him, " said his wife indignantly.

"I wasso taken aback. I didn't like to refuse. He put the money in his pocket, justnodded, said 'Thanks, ' and walked out. "

Dirk Stroeve,telling the story, had such a look of blank astonishment on his round, foolishface that it was almost impossible not to laugh.

"Ishouldn't have minded if he'd said my pictures were bad, but he said nothing --nothing. "

"And youwill tell the story, Dirk, " Said his wife.

It waslamentable that one was more amused by the ridiculous figure cut by theDutchman than outraged by Strickland's brutal treatment of him.

"I hopeI shall never see him again, " said Mrs. Stroeve.

Stroevesmiled and shrugged his shoulders. He had already recovered his good-humour.

"Thefact remains that he's a great artist, a very great artist. "

"Strickland?"I exclaimed. "It can't be the same man. "

"A bigfellow with a red beard. Charles Strickland. An Englishman. "

"He hadno beard when I knew him, but if he has grown one it might well be red. The manI'm thinking of only began painting five years ago. "

"That'sit. He's a great artist. "

"Impossible."

"Have Iever been mistaken?" Dirk asked me. "I tell you he has genius. I'mconvinced of it. In a hundred years, if you and I are remembered at all, itwill be because we knew Charles Strickland. "

I wasastonished, and at the same time I was very much excited. I remembered suddenlymy last talk with him.

"Wherecan one see his work?" I asked. "Is he having any success? Where ishe living?"

"No; hehas no success. I don't think he's ever sold a picture. When you speak to menabout him they only laugh. But I know he's a great artist. After all, theylaughed at Manet. Corot never sold a picture. I don't know where he lives, butI can take you to see him. He goes to a cafe in the Avenue de Clichy at seveno'clock every evening. If you like we'll go there to-morrow. "

"I'm notsure if he'll wish to see me. I think I may remind him of a time he prefers toforget. But I'll come all the same. Is there any chance of seeing any of hispictures?"

"Notfrom him. He won't show you a thing. There's a little dealer I know who has twoor three. But you mustn't go without me; you wouldn't understand. I must showthem to you myself. "

"Dirk,you make me impatient, " said Mrs. Stroeve. "How can you talk likethat about his pictures when he treated you as he did?" She turned to me."Do you know, when some Dutch people came here to buy Dirk's pictures hetried to persuade them to buy Strickland's? He insisted on bringing them hereto show. "

"Whatdid you think of them?" I asked her, smiling.

"Theywere awful. "

"Ah,sweetheart, you don't understand. "

"Well,your Dutch people were furious with you. They thought you were having a joke withthem."

Dirk Stroevetook off his spectacles and wiped them. His flushed face was shining withexcitement.

"Whyshould you think that beauty, which is the most precious thing in the world,lies like a stone on the beach for the careless passer-by to pick up idly?Beauty is something wonderful and strange that the artist fashions out of thechaos of the world in the torment of his soul. And when he has made it, it isnot given to all to know it. To recognize it you must repeat the adventure ofthe artist. It is a melody that he sings to you, and to hear it again in yourown heart you want knowledge and sensitiveness and imagination. "

"Why didI always think your pictures beautiful, Dirk? I admired them the very firsttime I saw them. "

Stroeve'slips trembled a little.

"Go tobed, my precious. I will walk a few steps with our friend, and then I will comeback. "

“戴尔克居然把钱给他了，”他的妻子气愤地说。

“我听了他这话吓了一跳。我不想拒绝他。他把钱放在口袋里，朝我点了点头，说了声‘谢谢’，扭头就走了。”

说这个故事的时候，戴尔克·施特略夫的一张傻里傻气的胖脸蛋上流露着那么一种惊诧莫解的神情，不由得你看了不发笑。

“如果他说我画得不好我一点也不在乎，可是他什么都没说——一句话也没说。”

“你还挺得意地把这个故事讲给人家听，戴尔克，”他的妻子说。

可悲的是，不论是谁听了这个故事，首先会被这位荷兰人扮演的滑稽角色逗得发笑，而并不感到思特里克兰德这种粗鲁行为生气。

“我再也不想看到这个人了，”施特略夫太太说。

施特略夫笑起来，耸了耸肩膀。他的好性子已经恢复了。

“实际上，他是一个了不起的画家，非常了不起。”

“思特里克兰德？”我喊起来。“咱们说的不是一个人。”

“就是那个身材高大、生着一把红胡子的人。查理斯·思特里克兰德。一个英国人。”

“我认识他的时候他没留胡子。但是如果留起胡子来，很可能是红色的。我说的这个人五年以前才开始学画。”

“就是这个人。他是个伟大的画家。”

“不可能。”

“我哪一次看走过眼？”戴尔克问我。“我告诉你他有天才。我有绝对把握。一百年以后，如果还有人记得咱们两个人，那是因为我们沾了认识查理斯·思特里克兰德的光儿。”

我非常吃惊，但与此同时我也非常兴奋。我忽然想起我最后一次同他谈话。

“在什么地方可以看到他的作品？”我问，“他有了点儿名气没有？他现在住在什么地方？”

“没有名气。我想他没有卖出过一幅画。你要是和人谈起他的画来，没有一个不笑他的。但是我知道他是个了不起的画家。他们还不是笑过马奈？柯罗也是一张画没有卖出去过。我不知道他住在什么地方，但是我可以带你去找到他。每天晚上七点钟他都到克利舍路一家咖啡馆去。你要是愿意的话，咱们明天就可以去。”

“我不知道他是不是愿意看到我。我怕我会使他想起一段他宁愿忘掉的日子。但是我想我还是得去一趟。有没有可能看到他的什么作品？”

“从他那里看不到。他什么也不给你看。我认识一个小画商，手里有两三张他的画。但是你要是去，一定得让我陪着你；你不会看懂的。我一定要亲自指点给你看。”

“戴尔克，你简直叫我失去耐性了，”施特略夫太太说。“他那样对待你，你怎么还能这样谈论他的画？”她转过来对我说：“你知道，有一些人到这里来买戴尔克的画，他却劝他们买思特里克兰德的。他非让思特里克兰德把画拿到这里给他们看不可。”

“你觉得思特里克兰德的画怎么样？”我笑着问她。

“糟糕极了。”

“啊，亲爱的，你不懂。”

“哼，你的那些荷兰老乡简直气坏了。他们认为你是在同他们开玩笑。”

戴尔克·施特略夫摘下眼镜来，擦了擦。他的一张通红的面孔因为兴奋而闪着亮光。

“为什么你认为美——世界上最宝贵的财富——会同沙滩上的石头一样，一个漫不经心的过路人随随便便地就能够捡起来？美是一种美妙、奇异的东西，艺术家只有通过灵魂的痛苦折磨才能从宇宙的混沌中塑造出来。在美被创造出以后，它也不是为了叫每个人都能认出来的。要想认识它，一个人必须重复艺术家经历过的一番冒险。他唱给你的是一个美的旋律，要是想在自己心里重新听一遍就必须有知识、有敏锐的感觉和想象力。”

“为什么我总觉得你的画很美呢，戴尔克？你的画我第一次看到就觉得好得了不得。”

施特略夫的嘴唇颤抖了一会儿。

“去睡觉吧，宝贝儿。我要陪我的朋友走几步路，一会儿就回来。”

I had notannounced my arrival to Stroeve, and when I rang the bell of his studio, onopening the door himself, for a moment he did not know me. Then he gave a cryof delighted surprise and drew me in. It was charming to be welcomed with somuch eagerness. His wife was seated near the stove at her sewing, and she roseas I came in. He introduced me.

"Don'tyou remember?" he said to her. "I've talked to you about him often." And then to me: "But why didn't you let me know you were coming?How long have you been here? How long are you going to stay? Why didn't youcome an hour earlier, and we would have dined together?"

He bombardedme with questions. He sat me down in a chair, patting me as though I were acushion, pressed cigars upon me, cakes, wine. He could not let me alone. He washeart-broken because he had no whisky, wanted to make coffee for me, racked hisbrain for something he could possibly do for me, and beamed and laughed, and inthe exuberance of his delight sweated at every pore.

"Youhaven't changed, " I said, smiling, as I looked at him.

He had thesame absurd appearance that I remembered. He was a fat little man, with shortlegs, young still -- he could not have been more than thirty -- but prematurelybald. His face was perfectly round, and he had a very high colour, a whiteskin, red cheeks, and red lips. His eyes were blue and round too, he wore largegold-rimmed spectacles, and his eyebrows were so fair that you could not seethem. He reminded you of those jolly, fat merchants that Rubens painted.

When I toldhim that I meant to live in Paris for a while, and had taken an apartment, hereproached me bitterly for not having let him know. He would have found me anapartment himself, and lent me furniture -- did I really mean that I had goneto the expense of buying it? -- and he would have helped me to move in. Hereally looked upon it as unfriendly that I had not given him the opportunity ofmaking himself useful to me. Meanwhile, Mrs. Stroeve sat quietly mending herstockings, without talking, and she listened to all he said with a quiet smileon her lips.

"So, yousee, I'm married, " he said suddenly; "what do you think of mywife?"

He beamed ather, and settled his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. The sweat made themconstantly slip down.

"What onearth do you expect me to say to that?" I laughed.

"Really,Dirk, " put in Mrs. Stroeve, smiling.

"Butisn't she wonderful? I tell you, my boy, lose no time; get married as soon asever you can. I'm the happiest man alive. Look at her sitting there. Doesn'tshe make a picture? Chardin, eh? I've seen all the most beautiful women in theworld; I've never seen anyone more beautiful than Madame Dirk Stroeve. "

"If youdon't be quiet, Dirk, I shall go away. "

"Monpetit chou", he said.

She flushed alittle, embarrassed by the passion in his tone. His letters had told me that hewas very much in love with his wife, and I saw that he could hardly take hiseyes off her. I could not tell if she loved him. Poor pantaloon, he was not anobject to excite love, but the smile in her eyes was affectionate, and it waspossible that her reserve concealed a very deep feeling. She was not theravishing creature that his love-sick fancy saw, but she had a gravecomeliness. She was rather tall, and her gray dress, simple and quite well-cut,did not hide the fact that her figure was beautiful. It was a figure that mighthave appealed more to the sculptor than to the costumier. Her hair, brown andabundant, was plainly done, her face was very pale, and her features were goodwithout being distinguished. She had quiet gray eyes. She just missed beingbeautiful, and in missing it was not even pretty. But when Stroeve spoke ofChardin it was not without reason, and she reminded me curiously of thatpleasant housewife in her mob-cap and apron whom the great painter hasimmortalised. I could imagine her sedately busy among her pots and pans, makinga ritual of her household duties, so that they acquired a moral significance; Idid not suppose that she was clever or could ever be amusing, but there wassomething in her grave intentness which excited my interest. Her reserve wasnot without mystery. I wondered why she had married Dirk Stroeve. Though shewas English, I could not exactly place her, and it was not obvious from whatrank in society she sprang, what had been her upbringing, or how she had livedbefore her marriage. She was very silent, but when she spoke it was with apleasant voice, and her manners were natural.

I askedStroeve if he was working.

"Working?I'm painting better than I've ever painted before. "

We sat in thestudio, and he waved his hand to an unfinished picture on an easel. I gave alittle start. He was painting a group of Italian peasants, in the costume ofthe Campagna, lounging on the steps of a Roman church.

"Is thatwhat you're doing now?" I asked.

"Yes. Ican get my models here just as well as in Rome. "

"Don'tyou think it's very beautiful?" said Mrs. Stroeve.

"Thisfoolish wife of mine thinks I'm a great artist, " said he.

Hisapologetic laugh did not disguise the pleasure that he felt. His eyes lingeredon his picture. It was strange that his critical sense, so accurate andunconventional when he dealt with the work of others, should be satisfied inhimself with what was hackneyed and vulgar beyond belief.

"Showhim some more of your pictures, " she said.

"ShallI?"

Though he hadsuffered so much from the ridicule of his friends, Dirk Stroeve, eager forpraise and naively self-satisfied, could never resist displaying his work. Hebrought out a picture of two curly-headed Italian urchins playing marbles.

"Aren'tthey sweet?" said Mrs. Stroeve.

And then heshowed me more. I discovered that in Paris he had been painting just the samestale, obviously picturesque things that he had painted for years in Rome. Itwas all false, insincere, shoddy; and yet no one was more honest, sincere, andfrank than Dirk Stroeve. Who could resolve the contradiction?

I do not knowwhat put it into my head to ask:

"I say,have you by any chance run across a painter called Charles Strickland?"

"Youdon't mean to say you know him?" cried Stroeve.

"Beast," said his wife.

Stroevelaughed.

"Mapauvre cherie. " He went over to her and kissed both her hands. "Shedoesn't like him. How strange that you should know Strickland!"

"I don'tlike bad manners, " said Mrs. Stroeve.

Dirk,laughing still, turned to me to explain.

"Yousee, I asked him to come here one day and look at my pictures. Well, he came,and I showed him everything I had. " Stroeve hesitated a moment withembarrassment. I do not know why he had begun the story against himself; hefelt an awkwardness at finishing it. "He looked at -- at my pictures, andhe didn't say anything. I thought he was reserving his judgment till the end.And at last I said: `There, that's the lot!' He said: `I came to ask you tolend me twenty francs. '"

事先我没有告诉施特略夫我要到巴黎来。我按了门铃，开门的是施特略夫本人，一下子他没有认出我是谁来。但是马上他就又惊又喜地喊叫起来，赶忙把我拉进屋子里去。受到这样热情的欢迎真是一件叫人高兴的事。他的妻子正坐在炉边做针线活，看见我进来她站起身来。施特略夫把我介绍给她。

“你还记得吗？”他对她说，“我常常同你谈到他。”接着他又对我说：“可是你到巴黎来干嘛不告诉我一声啊？你到巴黎多少天了？你准备待多久？为什么你不早来一个小时，咱们一起吃晚饭？”

他劈头盖脸地问了我一大堆问题。他让我坐在一把椅子上，把我当靠垫似地拍打着，又是叫我吸雪茄，又是让我吃蛋糕，喝酒。他一分钟也不叫我停闲。因为家里没有威士忌，他简直伤心极了。他要给我煮咖啡，绞尽脑汁地想还能招待我些什么。他乐得脸上开了花，每一个汗毛孔都往外冒汗珠。

“你还是老样子，”我一面打量着他，一面笑着说。

他的样子同我记忆中的一样，还是那么惹人发笑。他的身材又矮又胖，一双小短腿。他年纪还很轻——最多也不过三十岁——，可是却已经秃顶了。他生着一张滚圆的脸，面色红润，皮肤很白，两颊同嘴唇却总是红通通的。他的一双蓝眼睛也生得滚圆，戴着一副金边大眼镜，眉毛很淡，几乎看不出来。看到他，你不由会想到鲁宾斯画的那些一团和气的胖商人。

当我告诉他我准备在巴黎住一段日子，而且寓所已经租好的时候，他使劲儿责备我没有事前同他商量。他会替我找到一处合适的住处，会借给我家具——难道我真的花了一笔冤枉钱去买吗？——，而且他还可以帮我搬家。我没有给他这个替我服务的机会在他看来是太不够朋友了，他说的是真心话。在他同我谈话的当儿，施特略夫太太一直安安静静地坐在那里补袜子。她自己什么也没说，只是听着她丈夫在谈话，嘴角上挂着一抹安详的笑容。

“你看到了，我已经结婚了，”他突然说，“你看我的妻子怎么样？”

他笑容满面地看着她，把眼镜在鼻梁上架好。汗水不断地使他的眼镜滑落下来。

“你叫我怎么回答这个问题呢？”我笑了起来。

“可不是嘛，戴尔克，”施特略夫太太插了一句说，也微笑起来。

“可是你不觉得她太好了吗？我告诉你，老朋友，不要耽搁时间了，赶快结婚吧。我现在是世界上最幸福的人。你看看她坐在那儿，不是一幅绝妙的图画吗？象不象夏尔丹①的画，啊？世界上最漂亮的女人我都见过了，可是我还没有看见过有比戴尔克·施特略夫夫人更美的呢。”

①让·西麦翁·夏尔丹（1699—1779），法国画家。

“要是你再不住口，戴尔克，我就出去了。”

“我的小宝贝①。”他说。

原文为法语。

她的脸泛上一层红晕，他语调中流露出的热情让她感到有些不好意思。施特略夫在给我的信里谈到过他非常爱他的妻子，现在我看到，他的眼睛几乎一刻也舍不得从她身上离开。我说不上她是不是爱他。这个可怜的傻瓜，他不是一个能引起女人爱情的人物。但施特略夫太太眼睛里的笑容是含着爱怜的，在她的缄默后面也可能隐藏着深挚的感情。她并不是他那相思倾慕的幻觉中的令人神驰目眩的美女，但是却另有一种端庄秀丽的风姿。她的个子比较高，一身剪裁得体的朴素衣衫掩盖不住她美丽的身段。她的这种体型可能对雕塑家比对服装商更有吸引力。她的一头棕色的浓发式样很简单，面色白净，五官秀丽，但并不美艳。她只差一点儿就称得起是个美人，但是正因为差这一点儿，却连漂亮也算不上了。施特略夫谈到夏尔丹的画并不是随口一说的，她的样子令人奇怪地想到这位大画家的不朽之笔——那个戴着头巾式女帽、系着围裙的可爱的主妇。闭上眼睛我可以想象她在锅碗中间安详地忙碌着，象奉行仪式般地操持着一些家务事，赋予这些日常琐事一种崇高意义。我并不认为她脑筋如何聪明或者有什么风趣，但她那种严肃、专注的神情却很使人感到兴趣。她的稳重沉默里似乎蕴藏着某种神秘。我不知道为什么她要嫁给戴尔克·施特略夫。虽然她和我是同乡，我却猜不透她是怎样一个人。我看不出她出身于什么社会阶层，受过什么教育，也说不出她结婚前干的是什么职业。她说话不多，但是她的声音很悦耳，举止也非常自然。

我问施特略夫他最近画没画过什么东西。

“画画？我现在比过去任何时候画得都好了。”

我们当时坐在他的画室里；他朝着画架上一幅没有完成的作品挥了挥手。我吃了一惊。他画的是一群意大利农民，身穿罗马近郊服装，正在一个罗马大教堂的台阶上闲荡。

“这就是你现在画的画吗？”

“是啊。我在这里也能象在罗马一样找到模特儿。”

“你不认为他画得很美吗？”施特略夫太太问道。

“我这个傻妻子总认为我是个大画家，”他说。

他的表示歉意的笑声掩盖不住内心的喜悦。他的目光仍然滞留在自己的画上。在评论别人的绘画时他的眼光是那样准确，不落俗套，但是对他自己的那些平凡陈腐、俗不可耐的画却那样自鸣得意，真是一桩怪事。

“让他看看你别的画。”她说。

“人家要看吗？”

虽然戴尔克·施特略夫不断受到朋友们的嘲笑，却从来克制不了自己，总是要把自己的画拿给人家看，满心希望听到别人的夸奖，而且他的虚荣心很容易得到满足。他先给我看了一张两个鬈头发的意大利穷孩子玩玻璃球的画。

“多好玩儿的两个孩子，”施特略夫太太称赞说。

接着他又拿出更多的画来。我发现他在巴黎画的还是他在罗马画了很多年的那些陈腐不堪、花里胡哨的画。这些画画得一丝也不真实、毫无艺术价值，然而世界上却再没有谁比这些画的作者、比戴尔克·施特略夫更心地笃实、更真挚坦白的了。这种矛盾谁解释得了呢？

我不知道自己为什么会突然问他道：

“我问你一下，不知道你遇见过一个叫查理斯·思特里克兰德的画家没有？”

“你是说你也认识他？”施特略夫叫喊起来。

“这人太没教养了，”他的妻子说。

施特略夫笑了起来。

“我的可怜的宝贝①。”他走到她前面，吻了吻她的两只手。“她不喜欢他。真奇怪，你居然也认识思特里克兰德。”

①原文为法语。

“我不喜欢不懂礼貌的人，”施特略夫太太说。

戴尔克的笑声一直没有停止，转过身来给我解释。

“你知道，有一次我请他来看看我的画。他来了，我把我的画都拿给他看了。”说到这里，施特略夫有些不好意思，踌躇了一会儿。我不理解为什么他开始讲这样一个于他脸面并不光彩的故事；他不知道该怎样把这个故事说完。“他看着——我的画，一句话也不说。我本来以为他等着把画都看完了再发表意见。最后我说：‘就是这些了！’他说：‘我来是为了向你借二十法郎。’”

In point offact, I met Strickland before I had been a fortnight in Paris.

I quicklyfound myself a tiny apartment on the fifth floor of a house in the Rue desDames, and for a couple of hundred francs bought at a second-hand dealer'senough furniture to make it habitable. I arranged with the concierge to make mycoffee in the morning and to keep the place clean. Then I went to see my friendDirk Stroeve.

Dirk Stroevewas one of those persons whom, according to your character, you cannot think ofwithout derisive laughter or an embarrassed shrug of the shoulders. Nature hadmade him a buffoon. He was a painter, but a very bad one, whom I had met inRome, and I still remembered his pictures. He had a genuine enthusiasm for thecommonplace. His soul palpitating with love of art, he painted the models whohung about the stairway of Bernini in the Piazza de Spagna, undaunted by theirobvious picturesqueness; and his studio was full of canvases on which wereportrayed moustachioed, large-eyed peasants in peaked hats, urchins in becomingrags, and women in bright petticoats. Sometimes they lounged at the steps of achurch, and sometimes dallied among cypresses against a cloudless sky;sometimes they made love by a Renaissance well-head, and sometimes theywandered through the Campagna by the side of an ox-waggon. They were carefullydrawn and carefully painted. A photograph could not have been more exact. Oneof the painters at the Villa Medici had called him Le Maitre de la Boite aChocoloats. To look at his pictures you would have thought that Monet, Manet,and the rest of the Impressionists had never been.

"I don'tpretend to be a great painter, " he said, "I'm not a Michael Angelo,no, but I have something. I sell. I bring romance into the homes of all sortsof people. Do you know, they buy my pictures not only in Holland, but in Norwayand Sweden and Denmark? It's mostly merchants who buy them, and rich tradesmen.You can't imagine what the winters are like in those countries, so long anddark and cold. They like to think that Italy is like my pictures. That's whatthey expect. That's what I expected Italy to be before I came here. "

And I thinkthat was the vision that had remained with him always, dazzling his eyes sothat he could not see the truth; and notwithstanding the brutality of fact, hecontinued to see with the eyes of the spirit an Italy of romantic brigands andpicturesque ruins. It was an ideal that he painted -- a poor one, common andshop-soiled, but still it was an ideal; and it gave his character a peculiarcharm.

It wasbecause I felt this that Dirk Stroeve was not to me, as to others, merely anobject of ridicule. His fellow-painters made no secret of their contempt forhis work, but he earned a fair amount of money, and they did not hesitate tomake free use of his purse. He was generous, and the needy, laughing at himbecause he believed so naively their stories of distress, borrowed from himwith effrontery. He was very emotional, yet his feeling, so easily aroused, hadin it something absurd, so that you accepted his kindness, but felt nogratitude. To take money from him was like robbing a child, and you despisedhim because he was so foolish. I imagine that a pickpocket, proud of his lightfingers, must feel a sort of indignation with the careless woman who leaves ina cab a vanity-bag with all her jewels in it. Nature had made him a butt, buthad denied him insensibility. He writhed under the jokes, practical andotherwise, which were perpetually made at his expense, and yet never ceased, itseemed wilfully, to expose himself to them. He was constantly wounded, and yethis good- nature was such that he could not bear malice: the viper might stinghim, but he never learned by experience, he had no sooner recovered from hispain than he tenderly placed it once more in his bosom. His life was a tragedywritten in the terms of knockabout farce. Because I did not laugh at him he wasgrateful to me, and he used to pour into my sympathetic ear the long list ofhis troubles. The saddest thing about them was that they were grotesque, andthe more pathetic they were, the more you wanted to laugh.

But though sobad a painter, he had a very delicate feeling for art, and to go with him topicture-galleries was a rare treat. His enthusiasm was sincere and hiscriticism acute. He was catholic. He had not only a true appreciation of theold masters, but sympathy with the moderns. He was quick to discover talent,and his praise was generous. I think I have never known a man whose judgmentwas surer. And he was better educated than most painters. He was not, like mostof them, ignorant of kindred arts, and his taste for music and literature gavedepth and variety to his comprehension of painting. To a young man like myselfhis advice and guidance were of incomparable value.

When I leftRome I corresponded with him, and about once in two months received from himlong letters in queer English, which brought before me vividly his spluttering,enthusiastic, gesticulating conversation. Some time before I went to Paris hehad married an Englishwoman, and was now settled in a studio in Montmartre. Ihad not seen him for four years, and had never met his wife.

实际上，我在巴黎住了还不到两个星期就看到思特里克兰德了。

我没有费什么工夫就在达姆路一所房子的五层楼上租到一小间公寓。我花了两三百法郎在一家旧货店购置了几件家具，把屋子布置起来，又同看门的人商量好，叫她每天早晨给我煮咖啡，替我收拾房间。这以后我就去看我的朋友戴尔克·施特略夫。

戴尔克·施特略夫是这样一个人：根据人们不同的性格，有人在想到他的时候鄙夷地一笑，有的则困惑地耸一下肩膀。造物主把他制造成一个滑稽角色。他是一个画家，但他是一个很蹩脚的画家。我是在罗马和他认识的，我始终记得他那时画的画儿。他衷心拜倒在平凡庸俗的脚下。他的灵魂由于对艺术的热爱而悸动着，他描摹悬在斯巴尼亚广场贝尼尼①式楼梯上的一些画幅，一点儿也不觉得这些绘画美得有些失真。他自己画室里的作品张张画的是蓄着小胡须、生着大眼睛、头戴尖顶帽的农民，衣衫破烂但又整齐得体的街头顽童，和穿着花花绿绿的裙子的女人。这些画中人物有时候在教堂门口台阶上闲立，有时候在一片晴朗无云的碧空下的柏树丛中戏逐，有时候在有文艺复兴时期建筑风格的喷泉边调情，也有时候跟在牛车旁边走过意大利田野。这些人物画得非常细致，色彩过于真切。就是摄影师也不能拍出更加逼真的照片来。住在梅迪其别墅的一位画家管施特略夫叫做巧克力糖盒子的大画师②。看了他的画，你会认为莫奈③、马奈④和所有印象派画家从来不曾出现过。

①乔凡尼·罗伦索·贝尼尼（1598—1680），意大利巴洛克派雕塑家、建筑家和画家。

②原文为法语。

③克劳德·莫奈（1840—1926），法国画家。

④埃多瓦·马奈（1832—1883），法国画家。

“我知道自己不是个伟大的画家，”他对我说，“我不是米开朗基罗，不是的，但是我有自己的东西。我的画有人要买。我把浪漫情调带进各种人的家庭里。你知道，不只在荷兰，就是在挪威、瑞典和丹麦也有人买我的画。买画的主要是商人，有钱的生意人。那些国家里冬天是什么样子你恐怕想象不到，阴沉、寒冷、长得没有尽头。他们喜欢看到我画中的意大利景象。那是他们所希望看到的意大利，也是我没来这里以前想象中的意大利。”

我觉得这是他永远也抛弃不掉的幻景，这种幻景闪得他眼花缭乱，叫他看不到真实情景。他不顾眼前严酷的事实，总用自己幻想的目光凝视着一个到处是浪漫主义的侠盗、美丽如画的废墟的意大利。他画的是他理想中的境界——尽管他的理想很幼稚、很庸俗、很陈旧，但终究是个理想；这就赋予了他的性格一种迷人的色彩。

正因为我有这种感觉，所以戴尔克·施特略夫在我的眼睛里不象在别人眼睛里那样，只是一个受人嘲弄挖苦的对象。他的一些同行毫不掩饰他们对他作品的鄙视，但是施特略夫却很能赚钱，而这些人把他的钱包就看作是自己的一样，动用时是从来没有什么顾虑的。他很大方；那些手头拮据的人一方面嘲笑他那么天真地轻信他们编造的不幸故事，一方面厚颜无耻地伸手向他借钱。他非常重感情，但是在他那很容易就被打动的感情里面却含有某种愚蠢的东西，让你接受了他好心肠的帮助却丝毫没有感激之情。向他借钱就好象从小孩儿手里抢东西一样；因为他太好欺侮，你反而有点儿看不起他。我猜想，一个以手快自豪的扒手对一个把装满贵重首饰的皮包丢在车上的粗心大意的女人一定会感到有些恼火的。讲到施特略夫，一方面造物主把他制造成一个笑料，另一方面又拒绝给他迟钝的感觉。人们不停地拿他开玩笑，不论是善意的嘲讽或是恶作剧的挖苦都叫他痛苦不堪，但是他又从来不停止给人制造嘲弄的机会，倒好像他有意这样做似的。他不断地受人伤害，可是他的性格又是那么善良，从来不肯怀恨人；即便挨了毒蛇咬，也不懂得吸取经验教训，只要疼痛一过，又会心存怜悯地把蛇揣在怀里。他的生活好象是按照那种充满打闹的滑稽剧的格式写的一出悲剧。因为我没有嘲笑过他，所以他很感激我；他常常把自己的一连串烦恼倾注到我富于同情的耳朵里。最悲惨之点在于他受的这些委屈总是滑稽可笑的，这些事他讲得越悲惨，你就越忍不住要笑出来。

但是施特略夫虽然是一个不高明的画家，对艺术却有敏锐的鉴赏力，同他一起参观画廊是一种很难得的享受。他的热情是真实的，评论是深刻的。施特略夫是个天主教徒，他不仅对古典派的绘画大师由衷赞赏，对于现代派画家也颇表同情。他善于发掘有才能的新人，从不吝惜自己的赞誉。我认为在我见到的人中，再没有谁比他的判断更为中肯的了。他比大多数画家都更有修养，也不象他们那样对其他艺术那样无知。他对音乐和文学的鉴赏力使他对绘画的理解既深刻又不拘于一格。对于象我这样的年轻人，他的诱导是极其可贵的。

我离开罗马后同他继续有书信往来，每两个月左右我就接到他用怪里怪气的英语写的一封长信。他谈话时那种又急切又热情、双手挥舞的神情总是跃然纸上。在我去巴黎前不久，他同一个英国女人结了婚，在蒙特玛特尔区一间画室里安了家。我已经有四年没有同他见面了，她的妻子我还从来没见过。

What followed showed that Mrs. Strickland was a woman of character. Whatever anguish she suffered she concealed. She saw shrewdly that the world is quickly bored by the recital of misfortune, and willingly avoids the sight of distress. Whenever she went out -- and compassion for her misadventure made her friends eager to entertain her -- she bore a demeanour that was perfect. She was brave, but not too obviously; cheerful, but not brazenly; and she seemed more anxious to listen to the troubles of others than to discuss her own. Whenever she spoke of her husband it was with pity. Her attitude towards him at first perplexed me. One day she said to me:

"You know, I'm convinced you were mistaken about Charles being alone. From what I've been able to gather from certain sources that I can't tell you, I know that he didn't leave England by himself. "

"In that case he has a positive genius for covering up his tracks. "

She looked away and slightly coloured.

"What I mean is, if anyone talks to you about it, please don't contradict it if they say he eloped with somebody. "

"Of course not. "

She changed the conversation as though it were a matter to which she attached no importance. I discovered presently that a peculiar story was circulating among her friends. They said that Charles Strickland had become infatuated with a French dancer, whom he had first seen in the ballet at the Empire, and had accompanied her to Paris. I could not find out how this had arisen, but, singularly enough, it created much sympathy for Mrs. Strickland, and at the same time gave her not a little prestige. This was not without its use in the calling which she /hæd/ decided to follow. Colonel MacAndrew had not exaggerated when he said she would be penniless, and it was necessary for her to earn her own living as quickly as she could. She made up her mind to profit by her acquaintance with so many writers, and without loss of time began to learn shorthand and typewriting. Her education made it likely that she would be a typist more efficient than the average, and her story made her claims appealing. Her friends promised to send her work, and took care to recommend her to all theirs.

The MacAndrews, who were childless and in easy circumstances, arranged to undertake the care of the children, and Mrs. Strickland had only herself to provide for. She let her flat and sold her furniture. She settled in two tiny rooms in Westminster, and faced the world anew. She was so efficient that it was certain she would make a success of the adventure.

It was about five years after this that I decided to live in Paris for a while. I was growing stale in London. I was tired of doing much the same thing every day. My friends pursued their course with uneventfulness; they had no longer any surprises for me, and when I met them I knew pretty well what they would say; even their love-affairs had a tedious banality. We were like tram-cars running on their lines from terminus to terminus, and it was possible to calculate within small limits the number of passengers they would carry. Life was ordered too pleasantly. I was seized with panic. I gave up my small apartment, sold my few belongings, and resolved to start afresh.

I called on Mrs. Strickland before I left. I had not seen her for some time, and I noticed changes in her; it was not only that she was older, thinner, and more lined; I think her character had altered. She /hæd/ made a success of her business, and now had an office in Chancery Lane; she did little typing herself, but spent her time correcting the work of the four girls she employed. She /hæd/ had the idea of giving it a certain daintiness, and she made much use of blue and red inks; she bound the copy in coarse paper, that looked vaguely like watered silk, in various pale colours; and she /hæd/ acquired a reputation for neatness and accuracy. She was making money. But she could not get over the idea that to earn her living was somewhat undignified, and she was inclined to remind you that she was a lady by birth. She could not help bringing into her conversation the names of people she knew which would satisfy you that she /hæd/ not sunk in the social scale. She was a little ashamed of her courage and business capacity, but delighted that she was going to dine the next night with a K. C. who lived in South Kensington. She was pleased to be able to tell you that her son was at Cambridge, and it was with a little laugh that she spoke of the rush of dances to which her daughter, just out, was invited. I suppose I said a very stupid thing.

"Is she going into your business?" I asked.

"Oh no; I wouldn't let her do that, " Mrs. Strickland answered. "She's so pretty. I'm sure she'll marry well. "

"I should have thought it would be a help to you. "

"Several people have suggested that she should go on the stage, but of course I couldn't consent to that, I know all the chief dramatists, and I could get her a part to-morrow, but I shouldn't like her to mix with all sorts of people. "

I was a little chilled by Mrs. Strickland's exclusiveness.

"Do you ever hear of your husband?"

"No; I haven't heard a word. He may be dead for all I know. "

"I may run across him in Paris. Would you like me to let you know about him?"

She hesitated a minute.

"If he's in any real want I'm prepared to help him a little. I'd send you a certain sum of money, and you could give it him gradually, as he needed it. "

"That's very good of you, " I said.

But I knew it was not kindness that prompted the offer. It is not true that suffering ennobles the character; happiness does that sometimes, but suffering, for the most part, makes men petty and vindictive.

以后发生的事说明思特里克兰德太太是一个性格坚强的女人。不论她心里委屈多大，她都没有显露出来。她很聪明，知道老是诉说自己的不幸，人们很快就会厌烦，总是摆着一副可怜相也不会讨人喜欢。每逢她外出作客的时候——因为同情她的遭遇，很多朋友有意地邀请她——，她的举止总是十分得体。她表现得很勇敢，但又不露骨；高高兴兴，但又不惹人生厌；她好象更愿意听别人诉说自己的烦恼而不想议论她自己的不幸。每逢谈到自己丈夫的时候，她总是表示很可怜他。她对他的这种态度最初使我感到困惑。有一天她对我说：

“你知道，你告诉我说查理斯一个人在巴黎，你肯定是弄错了。根据我听到的消息——我不能告诉你这消息的来源——，我知道他不是独自离开英国的。”

“要是这样的话，他真可以说是不露行迹，简直是个天才了。”

思特里克兰德太太的目光避开了我，脸有些发红。

“我的意思是说，如果有人同你谈论这件事，要是说他是同哪个女人私奔的话，你用不着辩驳。”

“当然我不辩驳。”

她改换了话题，好象刚才说的是一件无关紧要的小事。不久我就发现，在她的朋友中间流传着一个奇怪的故事。她们说查理斯·思特里克兰德迷恋上一个法国女舞蹈家，他是在帝国大剧院看芭蕾舞首次见到这个女人的，后来就同她一起去巴黎了。我无法知道这个故事怎么会流传起来，但是奇怪的是，它为思特里克兰德太太赚得了人们不少同情，同时也使她的名望增加了不少。这对她决定今后从事的行业很有一些好处。麦克安德鲁上校当初说她手头分文不名并没有夸大。她需要尽快地找一条谋生之道。她决定利用一下她认识不少作家这一有利地位，一点儿没耽搁时间就开始学起速记和打字来。她受的教育会使她从事这一行业高于一般打字人员，她的遭遇也能为她招徕不少主顾。朋友们都答应给她拿活儿来，而且还要尽心把她推荐给各自的相识。

麦克安德鲁夫妇没有子女，生活条件又很优裕，就担当下抚养着她子女的事，思特里克兰德太太只需要维持自己一个人的生活就够了。她把住房租了出去，卖掉了家具，在威斯敏斯特附近找了两间小房安置下来。她重新把生活安排好。她非常能干，她决心兴办的这个买卖一定会成功的。

这件事过去大约五年之后，我决定到巴黎去住一个时期。伦敦我实在待腻了；天天做的事几乎一模一样，使我感到厌烦得要命。我的朋友们过着老一套的生活，平淡无奇，再也引不起我的好奇心了。有时候我们见了面，不待他们开口，我就知道他们要说什么话。就连他们的桃色事件也都是枯燥乏味的老一套。我们这些人就象从终点站到终点站往返行驶的有轨电车，连乘客的数目也能估计个八九不离十。生活被安排得太有秩序了。我觉得简直太可怕了。我退掉了我的小住房，卖掉为数不多的几件家具，决定开始另外一种生活。

临行以前我到思特里克兰德太太家去辞行。我有不少日子没同她见面了，我发现她有不少的变化，不仅人变得老了、瘦了，皱纹比以前多了，就连性格我觉得都有些改变。她的事业很兴旺，这时在昌塞里街开了一个事务所。她自己打字不多，时间主要用在校改她雇用的四名女打字员的打字稿上。她想尽办法把稿件打得非常讲究，很多地方使用蓝色和红色的字带，打好的稿件用各种浅颜色的粗纸装订起来，乍一看仿佛是带波纹的绸子。她给人打的稿件以整齐精确闻名，生意很能赚钱。但是尽管如此，她却认为自己谋生糊口有失身份，总有些抬不起头来。同别人谈话的时候，她忘不了向对方表白自己的高贵出身，动不动就提到她认识的一些人物，叫你知道她的社会地位一点儿没有降低。对自已经营打字行业的胆略和见识她不好意思多谈，但是一说起第二天晚上要在一位家住南肯星顿的皇家法律顾问那里吃晚饭，却总是眉飞色舞。她很愿意告诉你她儿子在剑桥大学读书的事；讲起她女儿刚刚步入社交界，一参加舞会就应接不暇时，她总是得意地笑了起来。我觉得我在和她聊天的时候问了一句蠢话。

“她要不要到你开的这个打字所里做点儿事？”

“啊，不，我不让她做这个，”思特里克兰德太太回答，“她长得很漂亮，我认为她一定能结一门好亲事。”

“那对你将会有很大的帮助，我早该想到的。”

“有人建议叫她上舞台，但是我当然不会同意。所有有名的戏剧家我都认识，只要我肯张嘴，马上就能给她在戏里派个角色，但是我不愿意她同杂七杂八的人混在一起。”

思特里克兰德太太这种孤芳自赏的态度叫我心里有点儿发凉。

“你听到过你丈夫的什么消息吗？”

“没有，什么也没有听到过。说不定他已经死了。”

“我在巴黎可能遇见他。如果我知道他什么消息，你要不要我告诉你。”

她犹豫了一会儿。

“如果他的生活真的贫困不堪，我还是准备帮助帮助他。我会给你寄一笔钱去，在他需要的时候，你可以一点一点地给他。”

但是我知道她答应做这件事并不是出于仁慈的心肠。有人说灾难不幸可以使人性高贵，这句话并不对；叫人做出高尚行动的有时候反而是幸福得意，灾难不幸在大多数情况下只能使人们变得心胸狭小、报复心更强。

It was angerthat had seized Mrs. Strickland, and her pallor was the pallor of a cold andsudden rage. She spoke quickly now, with little gasps.

"I couldhave forgiven it if he'd fallen desperately in love with someone and gone offwith her. I should have thought that natural. I shouldn't really have blamedhim. I should have thought he was led away. Men are so weak, and women are sounscrupulous. But this is different. I hate him. I'll never forgive him now."

ColonelMacAndrew and his wife began to talk to her together. They were astonished.They told her she was mad. They could not understand. Mrs. Strickland turneddesperately to me.

"Don't yousee?" she cried.

"I'm notsure. Do you mean that you could have forgiven him if he'd left you for awoman, but not if he's left you for an idea? You think you're a match for theone, but against the other you're helpless?"

Mrs. Stricklandgave me a look in which I read no great friendliness, but did not answer.Perhaps I had struck home. She went on in a low and trembling voice:

"I neverknew it was possible to hate anyone as much as I hate him. Do you know, I'vebeen comforting myself by thinking that however long it lasted he'd want me atthe end? I knew when he was dying he'd send for me, and I was ready to go; I'dhave nursed him like a mother, and at the last I'd have told him that it didn'tmatter, I'd loved him always, and I forgave him everything. "

I have alwaysbeen a little disconcerted by the passion women have for behaving beautifullyat the death-bed of those they love. Sometimes it seems as if they grudge thelongevity which postpones their chance of an effective scene.

"But now-- now it's finished. I'm as indifferent to him as if he were a stranger. I shouldlike him to die miserable, poor, and starving, without a friend. I hope he'llrot with some loathsome disease. I have done with him. "

I thought it aswell then to say what Strickland had suggested.

"If youwant to divorce him, he's quite willing to do whatever is necessary to make itpossible. "

"Whyshould I give him his freedom?"

"I don'tthink he wants it. He merely thought it might be more convenient to you. "

Mrs. Stricklandshrugged her shoulders impatiently. I think I was a little disappointed in her.I expected then people to be more of a piece than I do now, and I wasdistressed to find so much vindictiveness in so charming a creature. I did notrealise how motley are the qualities that go to make up a human being. Now I amwell aware that pettiness and grandeur, malice and charity, hatred and love,can find place side by side in the same human heart.

I wondered ifthere was anything I could say that would ease the sense of bitter humiliationwhich at present tormented Mrs. Strickland. I thought I would try.

"You know,I'm not sure that your husband is quite responsible for his actions. I do notthink he is himself. He seems to me to be possessed by some power which isusing him for its own ends, and in whose hold he is as helpless as a fly in a spider'sweb. It's as though someone had cast a spell over him. I'm reminded of thosestrange stories one sometimes hears of another personality entering into a manand driving out the old one. The soul lives unstably in the body, and iscapable of mysterious transformations. In the old days they would say CharlesStrickland had a devil. "

Mrs. MacAndrewsmoothed down the lap of her gown, and gold bangles fell over her wrists.

"All thatseems to me very far-fetched, " she said acidly. "I don't deny thatperhaps Amy took her husband a little too much for granted. If she hadn't beenso busy with her own affairs, I can't believe that she wouldn't have suspectedsomething was the matter. I don't think that Alec could have something on hismind for a year or more without my having a pretty shrewd idea of it. "

The Colonelstared into vacancy, and I wondered whether anyone could be quite so innocentof guile as he looked.

"But thatdoesn't prevent the fact that Charles Strickland is a heartless beast. "She looked at me severely. "I can tell you why he left his wife -- frompure selfishness and nothing else whatever. "

"That iscertainly the simplest explanation, " I said. But I thought it explainednothing. When, saying I was tired, I rose to go, Mrs. Strickland made noattempt to detain me.

一阵狂怒这时突然把思特里克兰德太太攫住，她的一张脸气得煞白，一点血色也没有。下面的话她说得很快，每说几个字就喘一口气。

“他要是发疯地爱上一个人，同她逃跑，我是能够原谅他的。我会认为这种事是很自然的。我不会太责备他。我会想他是被拐骗走的。男人心肠很软，女人又什么手段都使得出来。但是现在却不是这么回事。我恨他。我现在永远也不会原谅他了。”

麦克安德鲁上校和他的妻子一起劝解她。他们感到很吃惊。他们说她发疯了。他们不理解她。思特里克兰德太太在一阵绝望中向我求援。

“你明白我的意思吗？”她喊道。

“我不敢说。你的意思是：如果他为了一个女人离开你，你是可以宽恕他的；如果他为了一个理想离开你，你就不能了，对不对？你认为你是前者的对手，可是同后者较量起来，就无能为力了，是不是这样？”

思特里克兰德太太狠狠地盯了我一眼，没有说什么。也许我的话说中了她的要害。她继续用低沉的、颤抖的声音说：

“我还从来没有象恨他这样恨过一个人呢。你知道，我一直宽慰自己说，不管这件事继续多久，最终他还是要我的。我想在他临终的时候他会叫我去，我也准备去。我会象一个母亲那样看护他，最后我还会告诉他，过去的事我不记在心里，我一直爱他，他做的任何事我都原谅他。”

女人们总是喜欢在她们所爱的人临终前表现得宽宏大量，她们的这种偏好叫我实在难以忍受。有时候我甚至觉得她们不愿意男人寿命太长，就是怕把演出这幕好戏的机会拖得太晚。

“但是现在——现在什么都完了。我对他就象对一个路人似的什么感情也没有了。我真希望他死的时候贫困潦倒、饥寒交迫，一个亲人也不在身边。我真希望他染上恶疮，浑身腐烂。我同他的关系算完了。”

我想我不妨趁这个时候把思特里克兰德的建议说出来。

“如果你想同他离婚，他很愿意给你制造任何离婚所需要的口实。”

“为什么我要给他自由呢？”

“我认为他不需要这种自由。他不过想这样做可能对你更方便一些。”

思特里克兰德太太不耐烦地耸了耸肩膀。我觉得我对她有些失望。当时我还同今天不一样，总认为人的性格是单纯统一的；当我发现这样一个温柔可爱的女性报复心居然这么重的时候，我感到很丧气。那时我还没认识到一个人的性格是极其复杂的。今天我已经认识到这一点了：卑鄙与伟大、恶毒与善良、仇恨与热爱是可以互不排斥地并存在同一颗心里的。

我不知道我能否说几句什么，减轻一些当时正在折磨着思特里克兰德太太的屈辱。我想我还是该试一试。

“你知道，我不敢肯 定你丈夫的行动是不是要由他自己负责。我觉得他已经不是他自己了。他好象被一种什么力量抓住了，正在被利用来完成这种势力所追逐的目标。他象是被捕捉到蛛网里的一只苍蝇，已经失去挣扎的能力。他象被符咒逮住了一样。这使我想起人们常常说的那种奇怪的故事：另一个人的精神走进一个人的躯体里，把他自己的赶了出去。人的灵魂在躯体内很不稳定，常常会发生神秘的变化。如果在过去，人们就会说查理斯·思特里克兰德是魔鬼附体了。

麦克安德鲁太太把她衣服的下摆理平，臂上的金钏滑落到手腕上。

“你说的这些话我觉得太离奇了点儿，”她尖酸地说，“我不否认，也许阿美对她丈夫过于放任了。如果她不是只顾埋头于自己的事，我想她一定会发觉思特里克兰德的行为有些异样的。如果阿莱克有什么心事，我不相信事过一年多还不被我看得清清楚楚的。”

上校眼睛茫然望着空中，我很想知道有谁的样子能象他这样胸襟坦荡、心地清白。

“但这丝毫也改变不了查理斯·思特里克兰德心肠冷酷的事实。”她面孔板得紧紧的，看了我一眼。“我可以告诉你为什么他抛弃了自己的妻子——纯粹是出于自私，再也没有其他理由了。”

“这肯定是最易于为人们接受的解释了，”我说。但是我心里却想：这等于什么也没有解释。最后我说身体有些劳累，便起身告辞了。思特里克兰德太太并没有留我多坐一会儿的意思。

When I reached London I found waiting for me an urgent request that I should go to Mrs. Strickland's as soon after dinner as I could. I found her with Colonel MacAndrew and his wife. Mrs. Strickland's sister was older than she, not unlike her, but more faded; and she had the efficient air, as though she carried the British Empire in her pocket, which the wives of senior officers acquire from the consciousness of belonging to a superior caste. Her manner was brisk, and her good-breeding scarcely concealed her conviction that if you were not a soldier you might as well be a counter-jumper. She hated the Guards, whom she thought conceited, and she could not trust herself to speak of their ladies, who were so remiss in calling. Her gown was dowdy and expensive.

Mrs. Strickland was plainly nervous.

"Well, tell us your news, " she said.

"I saw your husband. I'm afraid he's quite made up his mind not to return. " I paused a little. "He wants to paint. "

"What do you mean?" cried Mrs. Strickland, with the utmost astonishment.

"Did you never know that he was keen on that sort of thing. "

"He must be as mad as a hatter, " exclaimed the Colonel.

Mrs. Strickland frowned a little. She was searching among her recollections.

"I remember before we were married he used to potter about with a paint-box. But you never saw such daubs. We used to chaff him. He had absolutely no gift for anything like that. "

"Of course it's only an excuse, " said Mrs. MacAndrew.

Mrs. Strickland pondered deeply for some time. It was quite clear that she could not make head or tail of my announcement. She had put some order into the drawing-room by now, her housewifely instincts having got the better of her dismay; and it no longer bore that deserted look, like a furnished house long to let, which I had noticed on my first visit after the catastrophe. But now that I had seen Strickland in Paris it was difficult to imagine him in those surroundings. I thought it could hardly have failed to strike them that there was something incongruous in him.

"But if he wanted to be an artist, why didn't he say so?" asked Mrs. Strickland at last. "I should have thought I was the last person to be unsympathetic to -- to aspirations of that kind. "

Mrs. MacAndrew tightened her lips. I imagine that she had never looked with approval on her sister's leaning towards persons who cultivated the arts. She spoke of "culchaw" derisively.

Mrs. Strickland continued:

"After all, if he had any talent I should be the first to encourage it. I wouldn't have minded sacrifices. I'd much rather be married to a painter than to a stockbroker. If it weren't for the children, I wouldn't mind anything. I could be just as happy in a shabby studio in Chelsea as in this flat. "

"My dear, I have no patience with you, " cried Mrs. MacAndrew. "You don't mean to say you believe a word of this nonsense?"

"But I think it's true, " I put in mildly.

She looked at me with good-humoured contempt.

"A man doesn't throw up his business and leave his wife and children at the age of forty to become a painter unless there's a woman in it. I suppose he met one of your -- artistic friends, and she's turned his head. "

A spot of colour rose suddenly to Mrs. Strickland's pale cheeks.

"What is she like?"

I hesitated a little. I knew that I had a bombshell.

"There isn't a woman. "

Colonel MacAndrew and his wife uttered expressions of incredulity, and Mrs. Strickland sprang to her feet.

"Do you mean to say you never saw her?"

"There's no one to see. He's quite alone. "

"That's preposterous, " cried Mrs. MacAndrew.

"I knew I ought to have gone over myself, " said the Colonel. "You can bet your boots I'd have routed her out fast enough. "

"I wish you had gone over, " I replied, somewhat tartly. "You'd have seen that every one of your suppositions was wrong. He's not at a smart hotel. He's living in one tiny room in the most squalid way. If he's left his home, it's not to live a gay life. He's got hardly any money. "

"Do you think he's done something that we don't know about, and is lying doggo on account of the police?"

The suggestion sent a ray of hope in all their breasts, but I would have nothing to do with it.

"If that were so, he would hardly have been such a fool as to give his partner his address, " I retorted acidly. "Anyhow, there's one thing I'm positive of, he didn't go away with anyone. He's not in love. Nothing is farther from his thoughts. "

There was a pause while they reflected over my words.

"Well, if what you say is true, " said Mrs. MacAndrew at last, "things aren't so bad as I thought. "

Mrs. Strickland glanced at her, but said nothing.

She was very pale now, and her fine brow was dark and lowering. I could not understand the expression of her face. Mrs. MacAndrew continued:

"If it's just a whim, he'll get over it. "

"Why don't you go over to him, Amy?" hazarded the Colonel. "There's no reason why you shouldn't live with him in Paris for a year. We'll look after the children. I dare say he'd got stale. Sooner or later he'll be quite ready to come back to London, and no great harm will have been done. "

"I wouldn't do that, " said Mrs. MacAndrew. "I'd give him all the rope he wants. He'll come back with his tail between his legs and settle down again quite comfortably. " Mrs. MacAndrew looked at her sister coolly. "Perhaps you weren't very wise with him sometimes. Men are queer creatures, and one has to know how to manage them. "

Mrs. MacAndrew shared the common opinion of her sex that a man is always a brute to leave a woman who is attached to him, but that a woman is much to blame if he does. Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connait pas.

Mrs. Strickland looked slowly from one to another of us.

"He'll never come back, " she said.

"Oh, my dear, remember what we've just heard. He's been used to comfort and to having someone to look after him. How long do you think it'll be before he gets tired of a scrubby room in a scrubby hotel? Besides, he hasn't any money. He must come back. "

"As long as I thought he'd run away with some woman I thought there was a chance. I don't believe that sort of thing ever answers. He'd have got sick to death of her in three months. But if he hasn't gone because he's in love, then it's finished. "

"Oh, I think that's awfully subtle, " said the Colonel, putting into the word all the contempt he felt for a quality so alien to the traditions of his calling. "Don't you believe it. He'll come back, and, as Dorothy says, I dare say he'll be none the worse for having had a bit of a fling. "

"But I don't want him back, " she said.

"Amy!"

我回到伦敦家里，发现有一封急信在等着我，叫我一吃过晚饭就到思特里克兰德太太那里去。我在她家里也看到了麦克安德鲁上校同他的妻子。思特里克兰德太太的姐姐比思特里克兰德太太年纪大几岁，样子同她差不多，只是更衰老一些。这个女人显出一副精明能干的样子，仿佛整个大英帝国都揣在她口袋里似的；一些高级官员的太太深知自己属于优越的阶层，总是带着这种神气的。麦克安德鲁太太精神抖擞，言谈举止表现得很有教养，但却很难掩饰她那根深蒂固的偏见：如果你不是军人，就连站柜台的小职员还不如。她讨厌近卫队军官，认为这些人傲气；不屑于谈论这些官员的老婆，认为她们出身低微。麦克安德鲁上校太太的衣服不是时兴的样式，价钱却很昂贵。

思特里克兰德太太显然十分紧张。

“好了，给我们讲讲你的新闻吧，”她说。

“我见到你丈夫了。我担心他已经拿定主意不再回来了。”我停了一会儿。“他想画画儿。”

“你说什么？”思特里克兰德太太喊叫起来，惊奇得不知所以。

“你一点儿也不知道他喜欢画画儿？”

“这人简直神经失常了，”上校大声说。

思特里克兰德太太皱了皱眉头。她苦苦地搜索她的记忆。

“我记得在我们结婚以前他常常带着个颜料盒到处跑。可是他画的画儿要多难看有多难看。我们常常打趣他。他对这种事可以说一点才能也没有。”

“当然没有，这只不过是个借口，”麦克安德鲁太太说。

思特里克兰德太太又仔细思索了一会儿。非常清楚，她对我带来的这个消息完全不理解。这次她已经把客厅略微收拾了一下，不象出了事以后我第一次到这里来时那样冷冷清清、仿佛等待出租的带家具的房间那样了。但是在我同思特里克兰德在巴黎会过面以后，却很难想象他是属于这种环境的人了。我觉得他们这些人也不会没有觉察思特里克兰德有一些怪异的地方。

“但是如果他想当画家，为什么不告诉我呢？”思特里克兰德太太最后开口说。“我想，对于他这种——这种志趣我是绝不会不同情支持的。”

麦克安德鲁太太的嘴唇咬紧了。我猜想，她妹妹喜好结交文人艺术家的脾气，她从来就不赞成。她一说到“文艺”这个词，就露出满脸鄙夷不屑的神情。

思特里克兰德太太又接着说：

“不管怎么说，要是他有才能，我会第一个出头鼓励他。什么牺牲我都不会计较的。同证券经纪人比起来，我还更愿意嫁给一个画家呢。如果不是为了孩子，我什么也不在乎。住在柴尔西一间破旧的画室里我会象住在这所房子里同样快乐。”

“亲爱的，我可真要生你的气了，”麦克安德鲁太太叫喊起来，“看你的意思，这些鬼话你真相信了？”

“可我认为这是真实情况，”我婉转地表示自己的意见说。

她又好气又好笑地看了我一眼。

“一个四十岁的人是不会为了要当画家而丢弃了工作、扔掉了妻子儿女的，除非这里面搀和着一个女人。我猜想他一定是遇见了你的哪个——艺术界的朋友，被她迷上了。”

思特里克兰德太太苍白的面颊上突然泛上一层红晕。

“她是怎样一个人？”

我没有立刻回答。我知道我给他们准备了一颗炸弹。

“没有女人。”

麦克安德鲁上校和他的妻子部表示不能相信地喊叫起来；思特里克兰德太太甚至从椅子上跳起来。

“你是说你一次也没有看见她？”

“根本就没有人，叫我去看谁？他只有一个人。”

“这是世界上没有的事，”麦克安德鲁太太喊道。

“我早就知道得我自己跑一趟，”上校说，“我敢和你们打赌，我一定能马上就把那个女人搜寻出来。”

“我也希望你自己去，”我不很客气地回答，“你就会看到你的那些猜想没有一点是对的。他并没有住在时髦的旅馆里。他住的是一间极其寒酸的小房间。他离开家绝不是去过花天酒地的生活。他简直没有什么钱。”

“你想他会不会做了什么我们都不知道的事，怕警察找他的麻烦，所以躲起来避避风？”

这个提示使每个人心头闪现了一线希望，但是我却认为这纯粹是想入非非。

“如果是这种情况，他就不会做出那种傻事来，把自己的地址告诉他的伙友，”我以尖酸的口吻驳斥说，“不管怎么说，有一件事我绝对敢保证，他并不是同别人一块走的。他没有爱上谁。他的脑子里一点儿也没想到这种事。”

谈话中断了一会儿，他们在思索我这一番话。

“好吧，如果你说的是真的，”麦克安德鲁太太最后开口说，“事情倒不象我想的那么糟。”

思特里克兰德太太看了她一眼，没有吭声。她的脸色这时变得非常苍白，秀丽的眉毛显得很黑，向下低垂着。我不能理解她脸上的这种神情。

“你为什么不找他去啊，阿美？”上校出了个主意，“你完全可以同他一起在巴黎住一年。孩子由我们照管。我敢说他不久就会厌倦了。早晚有一天他会回心转意，准备回伦敦来。一场风波就算过去了。”

“要是我就不那么做，”麦克安德鲁太太说，“他爱怎么样我就让他怎么样。有一天他会夹着尾巴回家来，老老实实地过他的舒服日子。”说到这里，麦克安德鲁太太冷冷地看了她妹妹一眼。“你同他一起生活，也许有些时候太不聪明了。男人都是些奇怪的动物，你该知道怎样驾御他们。”

麦克安德鲁太太和大多数女性的见解相同，认为男人们都是一些没有心肝的畜类，总想丢开倾心爱着他们的女人，但是一旦他真的做出这种事来，更多的过错是在女人这一方面。感情有理智所根本不能理解的理由①。

①原文为法语。

思特里克兰德太太的眼睛痴痴呆呆地从一个人的脸上移到另一个人脸上。

“他永远也不会回来了。”她说。

“啊，亲爱的，你要记住刚才咱们听到的那些话。他已经过惯了舒适生活，过惯了有人照料他的日子。你想他在那种破烂的小旅馆里，破烂的房间里能待得了多久吗？再说，他没有什么钱。他一定会回来的。”

“只要他是同一个女人跑掉的，我总认为他还有回来的可能。我不相信这类事能闹出什么名堂来的。不出三个月他对她就会讨厌死了。但是如果他不是因为恋爱跑掉的，一切就都完了。”

“哎，我认为你说的这些太玄虚了，”上校说，这种人性是他的职业传统所不能理解的，他把自己对这种特性的全部蔑视都用“玄虚”这个词表现出来，“别相信这一套。他会回来的，而且象陶乐赛说的，让他在外头胡闹一阵子我想也不会有什么坏处的。”

“但是我不要他回来了。”她说。

“阿美！”