The writer ismore concerned to know than to judge.

There was in mysoul a perfectly genuine horror of Strickland, and side by side with it a coldcuriosity to discover his motives. I was puzzled by him, and I was eager to seehow he regarded the tragedy he had caused in the lives of people who had usedhim with so much kindness. I applied the scalpel boldly.

"Stroevetold me that picture you painted of his wife was the best thing you've everdone. "

Strickland tookhis pipe out of his mouth, and a smile lit up his eyes.

"It wasgreat fun to do. "

"Why didyou give it him?"

"I'dfinished it. It wasn't any good to me. "

"Do youknow that Stroeve nearly destroyed it?"

"It wasn'taltogether satisfactory. "

He was quietfor a moment or two, then he took his pipe out of his mouth again, andchuckled.

"Do youknow that the little man came to see me?"

"Weren'tyou rather touched by what he had to say?"

"No; Ithought it damned silly and sentimental. "

"I supposeit escaped your memory that you'd ruined his life?" I remarked.

He rubbed hisbearded chin reflectively.

"He's avery bad painter. "

"But avery good man. "

"And anexcellent cook, " Strickland added derisively.

作家更关心的是了解人性，而不是判断人性。

我的灵魂对思特里克兰德确实感到恐怖，但与恐怖并存的还有一种叫我心寒的好奇心：我想寻找出他行为的动机。他使我困惑莫解，他对那些那么关怀他的人制造了一出悲剧，我很想知道他对自己一手制造的这出悲剧究竟抱什么态度。我大胆地挥舞起手术刀来。

“施特略夫对我说，你给他妻子画的那幅画是你的最好的作品。”

思特里克兰德把烟斗从嘴里拿出来，微笑使他的眼睛发出亮光。

“画那幅画我非常开心。”

“为什么你要给他？”

“我已经画完了。对我没有用了。”

“你知道施特略夫差点儿把它毁掉吗？”

“那幅画一点儿也不令人满意。”

他沉默了一会儿，接着又把烟斗从嘴里拿出来，呵呵地笑出声来。

“你知道那个小胖子来找过我吗？”他说。

“他说的话没有使你感动吗？”

“没有。我觉得他的话软绵绵的非常傻气。”

“我想你大概忘了，是你把他的生活毁了的，”我说。

他沉思地摩挲着自己长满胡须的下巴。

“他是个很蹩脚的画家。”

“可是他是个很好的人。”

“还是一个手艺高超的厨师，”思特里克兰德嘲弄地加添了一句。