We arrived at the house in which I lived. I would not ask him to come in with me, but walked up the stairs without a word. He followed me, and entered the apartment on my heels. He had not been in it before, but he never gave a glance at the room I had been at pains to make pleasing to the eye. There was a tin of tobacco on the table, and, taking out his pipe, he filled it. He sat down on the only chair that had no arms and tilted himself on the back legs.

"If you're going to make yourself at home, why don't you sit in an arm-chair?" I asked irritably.

"Why are you concerned about my comfort?"

"I'm not, " I retorted, "but only about my own. It makes me uncomfortable to see someone sit on an uncomfortable chair. "

He chuckled, but did not move. He smoked on in silence, taking no further notice of me, and apparently was absorbed in thought. I wondered why he had come.

Until long habit has blunted the sensibility, there is something disconcerting to the writer in the instinct which causes him to take an interest in the singularities of human nature so absorbing that his moral sense is powerless against it. He recognises in himself an artistic satisfaction in the contemplation of evil which a little startles him; but sincerity forces him to confess that the disapproval he feels for certain actions is not nearly so strong as his curiosity in their reasons. The character of a scoundrel, logical and complete, has a fascination for his creator which is an outrage to law and order. I expect that Shakespeare devised Iago with a gusto which he never knew when, weaving moonbeams with his fancy, he imagined Desdemona. It may be that in his rogues the writer gratifies instincts deep-rooted in him, which the manners and customs of a civilised world have forced back to the mysterious recesses of the subconscious. In giving to the character of his invention flesh and bones he is giving life to that part of himself which finds no other means of expression. His satisfaction is a sense of liberation.

The writer is more concerned to know than to judge.

There was in my soul a perfectly genuine horror of Strickland, and side by side with it a cold curiosity to discover his motives. I was puzzled by him, and I was eager to see how he regarded the tragedy he had caused in the lives of people who had used him with so much kindness. I applied the scalpel boldly.

"Stroeve told me that picture you painted of his wife was the best thing you've ever done. "

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

"It was great fun to do. "

"Why did you give it him?"

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

"Do you know that Stroeve nearly destroyed it?"

"It wasn't altogether satisfactory. "

He was quiet for a moment or two, then he took his pipe out of his mouth again, and chuckled.

"Do you know that the little man came to see me?"

"Weren't you rather touched by what he had to say?"

"No; I thought it damned silly and sentimental. "

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

He rubbed his bearded chin reflectively.

"He's a very bad painter. "

"But a very good man. "

"And an excellent cook, " Strickland added derisively.

His callousness was inhuman, and in my indignation I was not inclined to mince my words.

"As a mere matter of curiosity I wish you'd tell me, have you felt the smallest twinge of remorse for Blanche Stroeve's death?"

I watched his face for some change of expression, but it remained impassive.

"Why should I?" he asked.

"Let me put the facts before you. You were dying, and Dirk Stroeve took you into his own house. He nursed you like a mother. He sacrificed his time and his comfort and his money for you. He snatched you from the jaws of death. "

Strickland shrugged his shoulders.

"The absurd little man enjoys doing things for other people. That's his life. "

"Granting that you owed him no gratitude, were you obliged to go out of your way to take his wife from him? Until you came on the scene they were happy. Why couldn't you leave them alone?"

"What makes you think they were happy?"

"It was evident. "

"You are a discerning fellow. Do you think she could ever have forgiven him for what he did for her?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Don't you know why he married her?"

I shook my head.

"She was a governess in the family of some Roman prince, and the son of the house seduced her. She thought he was going to marry her. They turned her out into the street neck and crop. She was going to have a baby, and she tried to commit suicide. Stroeve found her and married her. "

"It was just like him. I never knew anyone with so compassionate a heart. "

I had often wondered why that ill-assorted pair had married, but just that explanation had never occurred to me. That was perhaps the cause of the peculiar quality of Dirk's love for his wife. I had noticed in it something more than passion. I remembered also how I had always fancied that her reserve concealed I knew not what; but now I saw in it more than the desire to hide a shameful secret. Her tranquillity was like the sullen calm that broods over an island which has been swept by a hurricane. Her cheerfulness was the cheerfulness of despair. Strickland interrupted my reflections with an observation the profound cynicism of which startled me.

"A woman can forgive a man for the harm he does her, " he said, "but she can never forgive him for the sacrifices he makes on her account. "

"It must be reassuring to you to know that you certainly run no risk of incurring the resentment of the women you come in contact with, " I retorted.

A slight smile broke on his lips.

"You are always prepared to sacrifice your principles for a repartee, " he answered.

"What happened to the child?"

"Oh, it was still-born, three or four months after they were married. "

Then I came to the question which had seemed to me most puzzling.

"Will you tell me why you bothered about Blanche Stroeve at all?"

He did not answer for so long that I nearly repeated it.

"How do I know?" he said at last. "She couldn't bear the sight of me. It amused me. "

"I see. "

He gave a sudden flash of anger.

"Damn it all, I wanted her. "

But he recovered his temper immediately, and looked at me with a smile.

"At first she was horrified. "

"Did you tell her?"

"There wasn't any need. She knew. I never said a word. She was frightened. At last I took her. "

I do not know what there was in the way he told me this that extraordinarily suggested the violence of his desire. It was disconcerting and rather horrible. His life was strangely divorced from material things, and it was as though his body at times wreaked a fearful revenge on his spirit. The satyr in him suddenly took possession, and he was powerless in the grip of an instinct which had all the strength of the primitive forces of nature. It was an obsession so complete that there was no room in his soul for prudence or gratitude.

"But why did you want to take her away with you?" I asked.

"I didn't, " he answered, frowning. "When she said she was coming I was nearly as surprised as Stroeve. I told her that when I'd had enough of her she'd have to go, and she said she'd risk that. " He paused a little. "She had a wonderful body, and I wanted to paint a nude. When I'd finished my picture I took no more interest in her. "

"And she loved you with all her heart. "

He sprang to his feet and walked up and down the small room.

我们走到我住的房子。我不想对他说什么“请进来坐”这类的客气话，而是一言不发地自己走上了楼梯。他跟在后面，踩着我的脚后跟走进我的住房。他过去从来没到我这地方来过，但对我精心布置的屋子连看也不看一眼。桌子上摆着一铁罐烟草，他拿出烟斗来，装了一斗烟。接着，他坐在一把没有扶手的椅子上，身体往后一靠，跷起椅子的前腿。

“要是你想舒服一下，为什么不坐在安乐椅上？”我忿忿地问道。

“你为什么对我的舒适这么关心？”

“我并不关心，”我反驳说，“我关心的是自己。我看见别人坐在一把不舒服的椅子上自己就觉得不舒服。”

他咯咯地笑了笑，但是没有换地方。他默默地抽着烟斗，不再理睬我；看来他正在沉思自己的事。我很奇怪他为什么到我这地方来。

作家对那些吸引着他的怪异的性格本能地感到兴趣，尽管他的道德观不以为然，对此却无能为力；直到习惯已成自然，他的感觉变得迟钝以后，这种本能常常使他非常狼狈。他喜欢观察这种多少使他感到惊异的邪恶的人性，自认这种观察是为了满足艺术的要求；但是他的真挚却迫使他承认：他对于某些行为的反感远不如对这些行为产生原因的好奇心那样强烈。一个恶棍的性格如果刻划得完美而又合乎逻辑，对于创作者是具有一种魅惑的力量的，尽管从法律和秩序的角度看，他决不该对恶棍有任何欣赏的态度。我猜想莎士比亚在创作埃古①时可能比他借助月光和幻想构思苔丝德梦娜②怀着更大的兴味。说不定作家在创作恶棍时实际上是在满足他内心深处的一种天性，因为在文明社会中，风俗礼仪迫使这种天性隐匿到潜意识的最隐秘的底层下；给予他虚构的人物以血肉之躯，也就是使他那一部分无法表露的自我有了生命。他得到的满足是一种自由解放的快感。

①莎士比亚戏剧《奥瑟罗》中的反面人物。

②《奥瑟罗》主人公奥瑟罗的妻子。

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。

他心肠冷酷到没有人性的地步，我气愤得要命，一点儿也不想给他留情面。

“我想你可以不可以告诉我——我问这个问题只是出于好奇——，你对勃朗什·施特略夫的惨死良心上一点儿也不感到内疚吗？”

我瞅着他的脸，看他的面容有没有什么变化，但是他的脸仍然毫无表情。

“为什么我要内疚？”

“让我把事情的经过向你摆一摆。你病得都快死了，戴尔克·施特略夫把你接到自己家里，象你亲生父母一样服侍你。为了你，他牺牲了自己的时间、金钱和安逸的生活。他把你从死神的手里夺了回来。”

思特里克兰德耸了耸肩膀。

“那个滑稽的小胖子喜欢为别人服务。这是他的习性。”

“就说你用不着对他感恩，难道你就该霸占住他的老婆？在你出现在他们家门以前，人家生活得非常幸福。为什么你非要插进来不可呢？”

“你怎么知道他们生活得幸福？”

“这不是明摆着的事吗？”

“你什么事都看得很透。你认为他为她做了那件事，她会原谅他？”

“你说的是什么事？”

“你不知道他为什么同她结婚吗？”

我摇了摇头。

“她原来是罗马一个贵族家里的家庭教师，这家人的少爷勾引了她。她本以为那个男的会娶她做妻子，没想到却被这家人一脚踢了出来。她快临产了，想要自杀。这时候施特略夫发现了她，同她结了婚。”

“施特略夫正是这样一个人。我从来没有见过哪个人象他那样富于侠义心肠的。”

原先我就一直奇怪，这一对无论从哪一方面讲都不相配的人是怎么凑到一块儿的，但是我从来没有想过竟会是这么一回事。戴尔克对他妻子的爱情与一般夫妻的感情很不相同，原因也许就在这里。我发现他对她的态度有一些超过了热情的东西。我也记得我总是怀疑勃朗什的拘谨沉默可能掩藏着某种我不知道的隐情。现在我明白了，她极力隐藏的远远不止是一个令她感到羞耻的秘密。她的安详沉默就象笼罩着暴风雨侵袭后的岛屿上的凄清宁静。她有时显出了快活的笑脸也是绝望中的强颜欢笑。我的沉思被思特里克兰德的话声打断了，他说了一句非常尖刻的话，使我大吃一惊。

“女人可以原谅男人对她的伤害，”他说，“但是永远不能原谅他对她做出的牺牲。”

“你这人是不会引起同你相识的女人恼恨的，这一点你倒可以放心。”我顶了他一句。

他的嘴角上浮现起一丝笑容。

“你为了反驳别人从来不怕牺牲自己的原则。”他回答说。

“那个孩子后来怎么样了？”

“流产了，在他们结婚三、四个月之后。”

这时我提出了最使我迷惑不解的那个问题。

“你可以不可以告诉我为什么你要招惹勃朗什·施特略夫？”

他很久很久没有回答，我几乎想再重复一遍我的问题了。

“我怎么知道？”最后他说，“她非常讨厌我，几乎见不得我的面，所以我觉得很有趣。”

“我懂了。”

他突然一阵怒火上撞。

“去他妈的，我需要她。”

但是他马上就不生气了，望着我，微微一笑。

“开始的时候她简直吓坏了。”

“你对她说明了吗？”

“不需要。她知道。我一直没有说一句。她非常害怕。最后我得到了她。”

在他给我讲这件事的语气里，我不知道有一种什么东西，非常奇特地表示出他当时的强烈的欲望。它令人感到惊措不安，或者甚至可以说非常恐怖。他平日的生活方式很奇特，根本不注意身体的需求。但是有些时候他的肉体却好象要对他的精神进行一次可怕的报复。他内心深处的那个半人半兽的东西把他捉到手里，在这种具有大自然的原始力量的天性的掌心里他完全无能为力。他被牢牢地抓住，什么谨慎啊，感恩啊，在他的灵魂里都一点儿地位也没有了。

“但是你为什么要把她拐走呢？”我问。

“我没有，”他皱了皱眉头说，“当她说她要跟着我的时候，我差不多同施特略夫一样吃惊。我告诉她当我不再需要她的时候，她就非走开不可，她说她愿意冒这个险。”思特里克兰德停了一会。“她的身体非常美，我正需要画一幅裸体画。等我把画画完了以后，我对她也就没有兴趣了。”

“她可是全心地爱着你啊。”

他从座位上跳起来，在我的小屋子里走来走去