But the bed I made up for myself was suffciently 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 recognizes 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 its 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 connexion 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 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 fngers were long;they were the capable, fashioning fngers 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 fying through the woods of Greece with the satyr in hot pursuit?She fed, swift of foot and desperate, but he gained on her step by step, till she felt his hot breath on her chee;and still she fed 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 fnd 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 grey 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'confdence, 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 ferce 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, and 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 clearsighted, though he may know, cannot realize that this 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 infrmity 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.
然而,我給自己準備的這張床并不像我料想的那樣足夠舒服,所以整個晚上我?guī)缀鯖]能睡著,腦海里滿是這個不幸的荷蘭人跟我說的那些話。我對布蘭奇·斯特羅伊夫的行為并不感到有多么奇怪,因為我已經(jīng)看出來她的出軌僅僅是肉體渴求的結(jié)果。我并不認為她曾經(jīng)真正地關(guān)心過自己的丈夫,原來我以為她愛他,其實那只不過是對于舒適和愛撫出自女性本能的反應(yīng),大多數(shù)女人都把這種反應(yīng)當(dāng)成了愛情。這是一種被動的感情,能夠被任何東西所喚醒,就像藤蔓可以攀附于任何樹上一樣。這種感情可以讓一個姑娘嫁給任何一個想要她的男人,而且保證能夠隨之愛上他,世人都認可這種感情的力量,并且覺得這種方式是明智的。這是一種對安全的滿足、對家業(yè)的驕傲、對被艷羨的喜悅、對家庭生活的滿意所組成的感情,它只是被友善的虛榮所掩飾,而女人們還把它歸因于精神上的價值。它是一種在激情面前會喪失抵抗力的感情。我懷疑甚至在一開始,布蘭奇·斯特羅伊夫?qū)λ固乩锟颂m強烈的憎惡感中就隱隱約約摻雜著性吸引力的因素??晌矣钟泻蔚潞文?,我應(yīng)該去尋求解開這神秘的性的難題嗎?也許斯特羅伊夫的激情喚起了,但沒有滿足她本性中的那個部分,她恨斯特里克蘭是因為她覺得在他的身上有某種力量,正是她所需要的。我認為在她極力反對她丈夫想把斯特里克蘭接到家里的愿望時,她并非虛情假意。雖然她不知道為什么,但她怕他。我還記得清清楚楚,她預(yù)見到了災(zāi)難的降臨。我莫名其妙地感覺到,她對斯特里克蘭的恐懼是對自己的恐懼的移植,因為他是那么奇怪地困擾她。他的外表狂野和粗俗,眼睛里透著冷漠,嘴唇上顯著肉欲,身材高大、壯碩;他給人一種熱情不羈的印象,也許她也感到了在他的身上有種邪惡的氣質(zhì),這種氣質(zhì)是世界仍在混沌初期野蠻人身上所具有的,那時物質(zhì)還和大地保持著早期的聯(lián)系,而物質(zhì)似乎還擁有自身的精神。如果他完全影響了她,她就不可避免地或是愛他或是恨他,她選擇了后者。
隨后,我能想象到每天和病人的親密接觸,奇怪地打動了她。她抬起他的頭喂他食物,他的頭給她的手以沉重感;喂完他后,她擦拭他充滿肉欲的嘴唇和紅胡須。她擦洗他的四肢,上面覆蓋著濃密的汗毛;在她擦干他雙手的時候,雖然他很虛弱,但雙手依然結(jié)實,筋骨有力。他的手指很長,典型的藝術(shù)家的手指,多才多藝,靈巧別致。我不知道這些手指激起了她多么慌亂的想法。他很安靜地睡著,沒有一絲的動作,好像他已經(jīng)死去。他就像森林中的某種野獸,在長時間的追逐后靜靜地歇息。她想知道在他的夢中會有怎樣的景象。他夢到仙女飛越希臘的森林,而森林之神在后面緊追嗎?她在逃跑,腳底生風(fēng),絕望無助,而他一步步地趕了上來,直到她感覺到了脖子后面熱乎乎的呼吸。她還在一聲不吭地逃,他也在默默地追,最后當(dāng)他抓住她時,激蕩在她心中的,是恐懼還是狂喜?
布蘭奇·斯特羅伊夫被欲念殘酷地抓在了掌心。也許她還恨斯特里克蘭,但是她更加渴望得到他,原來構(gòu)成她生活的全部現(xiàn)在都變得無足輕重。她不再是那個復(fù)雜的女人了,既善良又愛使性子,既體貼又輕率,她是狂女美娜德[56],是欲女。
但可能這只是我的想象。她或許只是厭倦了她的丈夫,出于并不熱切的好奇而來到斯特里克蘭身邊,她或許對他并沒有什么特別的感情,屈從于他的欲念只是由于他們的朝夕相處和她的閑散無聊,隨后卻發(fā)現(xiàn)她掉進了自己設(shè)計的陷阱里,根本沒有力量掙脫。我怎么能了解在她平和的前額和那雙冷靜的灰眼睛后面,隱藏著什么樣的想法和感情呢?
但是如果人這種生物是不可捉摸的,人們就無法確定別人的言行。所以,在布蘭奇·斯特羅伊夫身上,她的行為還是完全可以解釋通的。而在另一方面,我卻無法理解斯特里克蘭的做法了,我絞盡腦汁也想不通,他的所作所為和我對他的了解和認知背道而馳。他如此冷酷地背叛朋友的信任,無恥地滿足自己一時的念頭,不惜以別人的痛苦為代價,這些都毫不奇怪,因為他的本性就是如此,他是一個沒有一絲一毫感恩之心的人,也沒有任何的同情心。我們大多數(shù)人司空見慣的那些感情,在他身上根本不存在,如果你去指責(zé)他毫無感情,就會像因為老虎的殘暴而去指責(zé)老虎一樣荒唐。但我還是不能理解他怎么會打起了斯特羅伊夫太太的主意。
我無法相信斯特里克蘭會愛上布蘭奇·斯特羅伊夫,我不相信他還有愛的能力,這是一種以溫柔為重要特質(zhì)的感情,但是斯特里克蘭無論是對他自己還是對別的人都沒有溫柔之情。愛情中需要有一種柔弱之感,需要有一種去保護的愿望,渴望展現(xiàn)好的一面和給予對方快樂—如果不是無私,那么無論如何也是一種千方百計要掩蓋起來的自私;愛情有時還會缺乏自信。我無法想象在斯特里克蘭身上會有這些特點。愛情需要專注,需要戀人完全忘我;即使是最遠見卓識的人,雖然在理性上清楚,但在感性上也不會認識到愛情會有消亡的一天;明知愛情是虛幻的,是一場鏡花水月,但實踐上仍堅信愛情是具象的,他愛這場虛幻勝過現(xiàn)實。愛情可以使一個人超越自己,同時還可使人鉆牛角尖而不能自拔,他不再是原來的自我,他不再是一個個人,而是一件東西,一個工具,在陌生的自我中要達到某種目的。戀愛時絕不會缺乏卿卿我我、多愁善感,而在我所認識的人中,斯特里克蘭是最缺乏這種感情的。我不相信他會忍受愛情所帶來的折磨,他也絕不會忍受愛情帶給他的束縛。我相信他有能力把愛情這玩意兒從心底連根拔除的,雖然可能也會帶來痛苦,讓他留下滿目瘡痍、血流滿地的場面,但卻可以留住他自己也不知道是什么的、無法讓人理解的、孜孜以求的東西。如果我完全成功地寫下了斯特里克蘭給我留下的復(fù)雜印象的話,我想我對他下面的評價不會顯得唐突:我覺得他既偉大又渺小,愛情是不會發(fā)生在他身上的。
然而,我認為每個人對于愛情的理解來源于其自身的特質(zhì),因人而異。像斯特里克蘭這樣的人會按照自己特殊的方式去戀愛,想尋求對他感情的分析是徒勞的。
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