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 flled 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 recognizes 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 civilized world have forced back to the mysterious recesses of the subconscious.In giving to the character of his invention fesh and bones he is giving life to that part of himself which fnds 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 fnished 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 refectively.
“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 sacrifced 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 refections 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 sacrifces 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 fash of anger.
“Damn it all, I wanted her.”
But he recovered his temper immediately, and looked at me with a smile.
“At frst she was horrifed.”
“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 fnished 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.
“I don't want love. I haven't time for it.It's weakness.I am a man, and sometimes I want a woman.When I've satisfed my passion I'm ready for other things.I can’t overcome my desire, but I hate it;it imprisons my spirit;I look forward to the time when I shall be free from all desire and can give myself without hindrance to my work.Because women can do nothing except love, they’ve given it a ridiculous importance.They want to persuade us that it’s the whole of life.It’s an insignifcant part.I know lust.That’s normal and healthy.Love is a disease.Women are the instruments of my pleasure;I have no patience with their claim to be helpmates, partners, companions.”
I had never heard Strickland speak so much at one time. He spoke with a passion of indignation.But neither here nor elsewhere do I pretend to give his exact words;his vocabulary was small, and he had no gift for framing sentences, so that one had to piece his meaning together out of interjections, the expression of his face, gestures and hackneyed phrases.
“You should have lived at a time when women were chattels and men the masters of slaves,”I said.
“It just happens that I am a completely normal man.”
I could not help laughing at this remark, made in all seriousness;but he went on, walking up and down the room like a caged beast, intent on expressing what he felt, but found such diffculty in putting coherently.
“When a woman loves you she's not satisfed until she possesses your soul. Because she's weak, she has a rage for domination, and nothing less will satisfy her.She has a small mind, and she resents the abstract which she is unable to grasp.She is occupied with material things, and she is jealous of the ideal.The soul of man wanders through the uttermost regions of the universe, and she seeks to imprison it in the circle of her account-book.Do you remember my wife?I saw Blanche little by little trying all her tricks.With infnite patience she prepared to snare me and bind me.She wanted to bring me down to her level;she cared nothing for me, she only wanted me to be hers.She was willing to do everything in the world for me except the one thing I wanted:to leave me alone.”
I was silent for a while.
“What did you expect her to do when you left her?”
“She could have gone back to Stroeve,”he said irritably.“He was ready to take her.”
“You're inhuman,”I answered.“It's as useless to talk to you about these things as to describe colours to a man who was born blind.”
He stopped in front of my chair, and stood looking down at me with an expression in which I read a contemptuous amazement.
“Do you really care a twopenny damn if Blanche Stroeve is alive or dead?”
I thought over his question, for I wanted to answer it truthfully, at all events to my soul.
“It may be a lack of sympathy in myself if it does not make any great difference to me that she is dead. Life had a great deal to offer her.I think it's terrible that she should have been deprived of it in that cruel way, and I am ashamed because I do not really care.”
“You have not the courage of your convictions. Life has no value.Blanche Stroeve didn't commit suicide because I left her, but because she was a foolish and unbalanced woman.But we've talked about her quite enough;she was an entirely unimportant person.Come, and I'll show you my pictures.”
He spoke as though I were a child that needed to be distracted. I was sore, but not with him so much as with myself.I thought of the happy life that pair had led in the cosy studio in Montmartre, Stroeve and his wife, their simplicity, kindness, and hospitality;it seemed to me cruel that it should have been broken to pieces by a ruthless chance;but the cruellest thing of all was that in fact it made no great difference.The world went on, and no one was a penny the worse for all that wretchedness.I had an idea that Dirk, a man of greater emotional reactions than depth of feeling, would soon forget;and Blanche's life, begun with who knows what bright hopes and what dreams, might just as well have never been lived.It all seemed useless and inane.
Strickland had found his hat, and stood looking at me.
“Are you coming?”
“Why do you seek my acquaintance?”I asked him.“You know that I hate and despise you.”
He chuckled good-humouredly.
“Your only quarrel with me really is that I don't care a twopenny damn what you think about me.”
I felt my cheeks grow red with sudden anger. It was impossible to make him understand that one might be outraged by his callous selfishness.I longed to pierce his armour of complete indifference.I knew also that in the end there was truth in what he said.Unconsciously, perhaps, we treasure the power we have over people by their regard for our opinion of them, and we hate those upon whom we have no such infuence.I suppose it is the bitterest wound to human pride.But I would not let him see that I was put out.
“Is it possible for any man to disregard others entirely?”I said, though more to myself than to him.“You're dependent on others for everything in existence. It's a preposterous attempt to try to live only for yourself and by yourself.Sooner or later you'll be ill and tired and old, and then you'll crawl back into the herd.Won't you be ashamed when you feel in your heart the desire for comfort and sympathy?You’re trying an impossible thing.Sooner or later the human being in you will yearn for the common bonds of humanity.”
“Come and look at my pictures.”
“Have you ever thought of death?”
“Why should I?It doesn't matter.”
I stared at him. He stood before me, motionless, with a mocking smile in his eyes;but for all that, for a moment I had an inkling of a fiery, tortured spirit, aiming at something greater than could be conceived by anything that was bound up with the fesh.I had a feeting glimpse of a pursuit of the ineffable.I looked at the man before me in his shabby clothes, with his great nose and shining eyes, his red beard and untidy hair;and I had a strange sensation that it was only an envelope, and I was in the presence of a disembodied spirit.
“Let us go and look at your pictures,”I said.
我們到了我住的房子,我不想讓他跟我一起進(jìn)來(lái),但在上樓梯時(shí)沒(méi)吱聲。他跟著我,緊跟著我的腳步進(jìn)了房間。他以前沒(méi)有來(lái)過(guò),可他對(duì)我煞費(fèi)苦心布置算得上賞心悅目的房間根本沒(méi)瞟上一眼??吹阶雷由嫌幸粋€(gè)裝煙絲的錫鐵盒,他掏出煙斗,徑自裝上了煙絲。他坐在了唯一一把沒(méi)有扶手的椅子上,身子向后一靠,椅子的前腿蹺了起來(lái)。
“如果你想讓自己待得舒服些,為什么不坐在一把扶手椅上?”我沒(méi)好氣地說(shuō)道。
“你干嗎關(guān)心我舒不舒服?”
“我并不關(guān)心,”我回敬道,“我只關(guān)心我自己的感受,看到一個(gè)人坐在一把不舒服的椅子上,我會(huì)感到不舒服的?!?/p>
他咯咯笑了起來(lái),但沒(méi)動(dòng)身子,安靜地抽著煙,不再留意我,好像沉浸在了自己的冥想中。我很想知道他為什么來(lái)我的公寓。
在作家身上有種讓人困惑的東西,作家的本能會(huì)使得他對(duì)人性中的種種怪癖感興趣,而且興趣盎然得道德感都無(wú)力抵制住這種專注勁兒,直到長(zhǎng)期的習(xí)慣形成自然,應(yīng)該具有的道德判斷的敏感性都變得遲鈍了。他自己也意識(shí)到,在觀察思考讓他有點(diǎn)吃驚的邪惡時(shí),會(huì)有種藝術(shù)上的滿足感。但是,作家的真誠(chéng)會(huì)使他承認(rèn),他對(duì)某些行為的批評(píng)遠(yuǎn)不像對(duì)它們的好奇和要探究原因的動(dòng)機(jī)來(lái)得強(qiáng)烈。創(chuàng)作出一個(gè)惡棍,符合邏輯而且全方位的這樣一個(gè)人物形象,對(duì)于作家來(lái)說(shuō)有著吸引力,但對(duì)于法律和秩序來(lái)說(shuō)是背道而馳的。我料想莎士比亞精心創(chuàng)作伊阿古[68]時(shí),可能比披著月光帶著遐想,想象著苔絲德蒙娜[69]這個(gè)人物更加有熱情。也許正是在創(chuàng)作這些惡棍時(shí),作家滿足了扎根于自己內(nèi)心的邪惡本能。這種本能在一個(gè)文明的世界中,人們?cè)谛袨榕e止和風(fēng)俗習(xí)慣上都會(huì)迫使它隱藏在潛意識(shí)最神秘的角落。作家能使他筆下的人物有血有肉,栩栩如生,就是把自己無(wú)法表露出的部分本能融入了人物刻畫。作家的心滿意足正是來(lái)源于這種天性解放的感覺(jué)。
作家更關(guān)注了解,而不是判斷。
在我的內(nèi)心中,對(duì)斯特里克蘭有種徹頭徹尾、毫不摻假的恐懼,與之如影隨形的是對(duì)發(fā)現(xiàn)他動(dòng)機(jī)的冷冷的好奇。他讓我困惑,而且我也急切地想弄明白他自己怎么看待那場(chǎng)他親手造成的悲劇,而悲劇所涉及的人對(duì)他曾那么好。我大膽地使用“手術(shù)刀”開始剖析。
“斯特羅伊夫告訴我,你畫他妻子的那幅畫作是你有史以來(lái)所有作品中最好的?!?/p>
斯特里克蘭把煙斗從嘴里拿了下來(lái),眼睛發(fā)光地微笑著。
“我畫那幅畫就是為了好玩。”
“為什么你把這幅畫給了斯特羅伊夫?”
“我畫完它,它對(duì)我就沒(méi)有任何意義了?!?/p>
“你知道斯特羅伊夫差點(diǎn)兒就毀掉它嗎?”
“這畫完全不能令人滿意?!?/p>
他沉默了一小會(huì)兒,接著再次把煙斗從嘴里拿出來(lái),咯咯笑了起來(lái)。
“你知道那個(gè)小個(gè)子來(lái)找過(guò)我嗎?”
“他說(shuō)的那些話就一點(diǎn)沒(méi)打動(dòng)你?”
“沒(méi)有,我覺(jué)得都他媽的是些蠢話和婆婆媽媽的話?!?/p>
“我猜你已經(jīng)忘記是你毀掉了他的生活,是嗎?”我質(zhì)問(wèn)道。
他若有所思地搓了搓滿是胡須的下巴。
“他是個(gè)蹩腳的畫家。”
“但他是個(gè)好人。”
“也是一個(gè)優(yōu)秀的廚子?!彼固乩锟颂m不無(wú)嘲弄地補(bǔ)充道。
他的冷酷無(wú)情到了沒(méi)人性的地步,在憤怒之下,我不打算委婉地說(shuō)出我的話了。
“僅僅是好奇,我希望你能告訴我,你對(duì)布蘭奇·斯特羅伊夫的死真的沒(méi)有感到過(guò)絲毫的內(nèi)疚嗎?”
我觀察他的臉,想找出神情改變的跡象,但發(fā)現(xiàn)他的臉色根本沒(méi)有變化。
“我干嗎要內(nèi)疚?”他問(wèn)道。
“讓我給你擺擺事實(shí),當(dāng)你奄奄一息的時(shí)候,是迪爾柯·斯特羅伊夫把你帶到自己的家里,他像母親般地照料你,為你犧牲了自己的時(shí)間、舒適和錢財(cái),把你從死神手里硬生生地拽了回來(lái)。”
斯特里克蘭聳了聳肩。
“這個(gè)荒唐的小個(gè)子喜歡為別人做這樣一些事,那是他的生活方式?!?/p>
“就算你不用對(duì)他千恩萬(wàn)謝,難道你就可以從他身邊搶走他的老婆嗎?在你出現(xiàn)以前,他們生活幸福,為什么你不能讓人家好好過(guò)自己的日子?”
“你憑什么認(rèn)為他們生活幸福?”
“那是顯而易見(jiàn)的?!?/p>
“你倒是個(gè)目光敏銳的家伙,你認(rèn)為在他為她做了那件事后,她還能原諒他嗎?”
“你這話什么意思?”
“你真的不知道他為什么娶了她嗎?”
我搖了搖頭。
“她曾是某個(gè)羅馬小王子的家庭教師,這家人的兒子誘奸了她。她原以為他會(huì)娶她,可他們把她趕出了家門,干脆不聞不問(wèn)了。當(dāng)時(shí)她快要臨產(chǎn)了,走投無(wú)路下她企圖自殺,斯特羅伊夫發(fā)現(xiàn)了她,并娶了她?!?/p>
“這倒是真像他,我不知道有誰(shuí)比他更富有同情心的了。”
我過(guò)去常常納悶,這么不般配的一對(duì)怎么成了一家子,但這個(gè)原因是我做夢(mèng)也沒(méi)想到的。也許這正是迪爾柯對(duì)他妻子的愛(ài)如此特殊的緣故吧,我已經(jīng)注意到了在迪爾柯的這份感情中,有某種遠(yuǎn)遠(yuǎn)超越激情的東西。我也還記得我過(guò)去總是想象,在她的內(nèi)向中掩蓋著我所不了解的事情。但是現(xiàn)在我恍然大悟,她希望隱藏的不僅僅是一個(gè)羞恥的秘密。她的安靜就像孕育在某個(gè)島上空陰沉的烏云,這種安靜很快就會(huì)被橫掃一切的颶風(fēng)所打破。她的歡快是一種絕望中的歡快。斯特里克蘭打斷了我的沉思,他說(shuō)了一句玩世不恭,但很深刻,顯然從觀察中得來(lái)的話,讓我吃了一驚。
“一個(gè)女人能夠原諒男人給她造成的傷害,”他說(shuō),“但她一定不會(huì)原諒男人因?yàn)樗木壒识龀龅臓奚?。?/p>
“你當(dāng)然不會(huì)冒讓跟你有關(guān)系的女人怨恨的風(fēng)險(xiǎn)的,這點(diǎn)上你倒是可以很踏實(shí)放心。”我回敬道。
他的嘴角露出一絲微笑。
“為了一個(gè)機(jī)智的反駁,你總是準(zhǔn)備犧牲你的原則?!彼卜磽舻?。
“那個(gè)孩子后來(lái)怎么樣了?”
“哦,在他們結(jié)婚三四個(gè)月后出生了,是個(gè)死胎?!?/p>
接下來(lái),我問(wèn)了似乎最困擾我的那個(gè)問(wèn)題。
“你能告訴我,為什么你竟然會(huì)去招惹布蘭奇·斯特羅伊夫嗎?”
他很長(zhǎng)時(shí)間沒(méi)有吭聲,我差點(diǎn)又重復(fù)一遍我的問(wèn)題。
“我怎么知道?”他最后終于開口了,“她不能忍受看我一眼,這讓我覺(jué)得有趣?!?/p>
“我明白了?!?/p>
他突然大為光火。
“他媽的,我就是想要她?!?/p>
但是,很快他又平靜下來(lái),看著我笑了笑。
“起初,她簡(jiǎn)直嚇壞了?!?/p>
“你告訴她你想要她了?”
“根本不需要,她知道。我沒(méi)告訴她一個(gè)字,她怕得要死,但最后我得到了她。”
我不知道在他跟我講述的方式中有什么東西讓我奇怪,但這種東西與眾不同地暗示著他欲望的強(qiáng)烈。這種東西令人不安,相當(dāng)可怕。他的生活不一般,好像與物質(zhì)的東西相隔離,但是又似乎他的身體時(shí)不時(shí)地要向精神實(shí)施報(bào)復(fù),他身體中的森林之神會(huì)突然占了上風(fēng),他在本能的魔爪中變得毫無(wú)抵抗之力,任由本性中原始的力量攻城略地,他的靈魂中沒(méi)有給謹(jǐn)慎或者感恩留有一席之地。
“但是你為什么要把她拐走呢?”我追問(wèn)道。
“我沒(méi)有,”他皺著眉頭說(shuō),“當(dāng)她說(shuō)要跟我走時(shí),我?guī)缀鹾退固亓_伊夫一樣吃驚。我告訴過(guò)她,當(dāng)我對(duì)她不再需要以后,她就必須得走開。她說(shuō)愿意冒這個(gè)險(xiǎn)?!彼滞nD了一下,“她有一個(gè)完美的身體,我想給她畫一張裸體畫,當(dāng)我畫完這幅畫以后,我就對(duì)她失去了興趣。”
“而她卻是全心全意地愛(ài)著你呀?!?/p>
他一下跳了起來(lái),在我的小房間里走來(lái)走去。
“我不想要愛(ài)情,我沒(méi)時(shí)間談情說(shuō)愛(ài)。這是人性的弱點(diǎn)。我是個(gè)男人,有時(shí)我想要一個(gè)女人。當(dāng)我滿足了我的激情后,就準(zhǔn)備做其他的事情了。我無(wú)法克服欲望,但是我憎恨它。欲望禁錮了我的精神,我期待有朝一日能從全部欲望中掙脫出來(lái),讓我沒(méi)有阻礙地去工作。因?yàn)榕顺藧?ài)什么都不會(huì)干,所以她們會(huì)把愛(ài)情放到一個(gè)可笑的重要地位上,她們還想說(shuō)服我們相信愛(ài)情是生命的全部。而實(shí)際上愛(ài)情是生活中無(wú)足輕重的一部分。我懂得情欲,那是正常和健康的。而愛(ài)情則是一種疾病。女人是我享樂(lè)的工具,我才沒(méi)有耐心成為她們所要求的幫手、伴侶、陪同呢。”
我以前從沒(méi)聽到斯特里克蘭一口氣說(shuō)這么多話,他說(shuō)得還義正詞嚴(yán)。但是,不管是在這里,還是在別的地方,我都不能假裝這是他一點(diǎn)不差的原話;他的詞匯量不大,也沒(méi)有天賦去架構(gòu)句子,所以我不得不連猜帶蒙,利用他說(shuō)出的感嘆詞、他臉上的表情、手勢(shì)和陳詞濫調(diào)把他的意思拼湊起來(lái)。
“你應(yīng)該生活在一個(gè)女人們都是奴隸,而男人們都是奴隸主的時(shí)代?!蔽艺f(shuō)道。
“我恰恰就是一個(gè)完全正常的男人。”
聽他一本正經(jīng)地說(shuō)完這句話,我忍不住笑出了聲。但是他接著說(shuō)下去,邊說(shuō)邊在房間里來(lái)回走動(dòng),就像籠中的野獸,一心想把他的感受表達(dá)出來(lái),可是發(fā)現(xiàn)很難讓所說(shuō)的連貫起來(lái)。
“當(dāng)一個(gè)女人愛(ài)你的時(shí)候,直到她占有了你的靈魂才能心滿意足。因?yàn)樗侨跽撸跃哂袕?qiáng)烈的統(tǒng)治欲,不把你完全占有和統(tǒng)治,她就不會(huì)甘心。她的思想狹隘,所以對(duì)不能掌握的抽象之物就深惡痛絕,滿腦子都是物質(zhì)的東西,對(duì)男人的理想充滿妒忌。而男人的靈魂在宇宙的最高處徜徉,她卻尋求用收支賬本把他囚禁在日常生活的圈子中,你還記得我妻子嗎?我看出布蘭奇一點(diǎn)一點(diǎn)地施展出她所有的伎倆,帶著無(wú)限的耐心,她準(zhǔn)備誘捕我,囚禁我。她想把我拉下來(lái)直至和她一樣的水平,她對(duì)我什么也不關(guān)心,只想讓我成為她的獵物。她愿意為我做世界上所有的事情,除了一個(gè)我真正想要的事情:那就是讓我一個(gè)人待著。”
我沉默了一會(huì)兒。
“當(dāng)你離開她的時(shí)候,你指望她會(huì)做什么?”
“她可以回到斯特羅伊夫身邊去呀,”他沒(méi)好氣地說(shuō),“他也時(shí)刻準(zhǔn)備接納她呢?!?/p>
“你真沒(méi)人性,”我回答道,“跟你再提這些事也沒(méi)用,就像跟與生俱來(lái)就眼瞎的人描述各種顏色一樣?!?/p>
他在我的椅子邊停住腳步,站在我面前俯視我,帶著一副輕蔑而又驚詫的神情,我看出了他神情后面的心思。
“你真的他媽的那么關(guān)心布蘭奇·斯特羅伊夫的死活嗎?”
我對(duì)他的問(wèn)題認(rèn)真地考慮了一下,因?yàn)槲蚁胝鎸?shí)地回答它,無(wú)論如何是發(fā)自我靈魂的真實(shí)想法。
“如果我說(shuō)她死了對(duì)我沒(méi)有造成什么影響的話,那只能說(shuō)明我自己沒(méi)有什么同情心。生活原本給了她那么多東西,我認(rèn)為她的生命最后以那么殘忍的方式被奪走,是一件可怕的事情。說(shuō)來(lái)也慚愧,因?yàn)槲掖_實(shí)不是太關(guān)心?!?/p>
“你沒(méi)有勇氣把你真正想說(shuō)的說(shuō)出來(lái)。生命是沒(méi)有價(jià)值的,布蘭奇·斯特羅伊夫不是因?yàn)槲译x開她而自殺,而是因?yàn)樗且粋€(gè)愚蠢的、無(wú)法求得平衡的女人。但是我們談?wù)撍呀?jīng)夠多的了,她完全是個(gè)微不足道的女人,來(lái)吧,我給你看看我的畫?!?/p>
他說(shuō)話的口吻,好像我是個(gè)需要分散一下注意力的孩子。我很惱火,與其說(shuō)是跟他生氣,還不如說(shuō)是跟自己較勁。我又想到了斯特羅伊夫夫婦。他們本來(lái)在蒙特馬特爾那間溫馨的畫室里過(guò)著幸福的生活,這一對(duì)夫婦是那么單純、善良和好客,然而這種幸福卻被無(wú)情的命運(yùn)打擊得支離破碎,我認(rèn)為這是件殘酷的事情。而最為殘酷的是,這場(chǎng)悲劇實(shí)際上沒(méi)有對(duì)人們的生活產(chǎn)生多大的影響,日出日落,生活照舊,沒(méi)有人因?yàn)檫@件悲慘的事生活得更糟糕。我還想過(guò),就連迪爾柯,這個(gè)感情波動(dòng)很大,而情感深度不夠的男人,也會(huì)很快把事情淡忘。然而布蘭奇的生命,當(dāng)初懷著光明的希望和美妙的夢(mèng)想走進(jìn)生活,可如今好像她從未存在過(guò)一樣,一切看上去都是那么虛無(wú)和愚蠢。
斯特里克蘭已經(jīng)拿起帽子,站在那兒看著我說(shuō):
“你來(lái)嗎?”
“你干嗎要跟我套近乎?”我問(wèn)他,“你明知道我憎惡和鄙視你?!?/p>
他開心地呵呵笑了起來(lái)。
“你是唯一跟我吵架,而我又他媽的一點(diǎn)兒也不在乎你是怎么看我的人?!?/p>
因?yàn)橥蝗坏膽嵟?,我覺(jué)得我的雙頰都紅了。但沒(méi)法讓他明白,由于他冷酷無(wú)情的自私,可以讓別人怒火中燒。我恨不得一下子刺穿他那副冷漠的甲胄,但是我也知道,歸根結(jié)底,他的話不無(wú)道理。也許,我們沒(méi)有意識(shí)到,實(shí)際上我們很重視自己對(duì)別人的影響,通過(guò)評(píng)估他們會(huì)怎樣看待我們對(duì)他們的意見(jiàn),來(lái)判斷自己的影響力。同理,會(huì)憎惡那些我們對(duì)他們無(wú)法產(chǎn)生影響的人,我想這是人類自尊上最疼痛的傷口,但是,我不會(huì)讓他看出來(lái),因?yàn)樗难孕?,我火冒三丈了?/p>
“一個(gè)人可能對(duì)別人完全無(wú)視嗎?”我說(shuō),與其說(shuō)是講給他聽,不如說(shuō)是講給自己聽的,“你要存在,就得依靠別人。想只為自己,只依靠自己活著的企圖是荒謬的。早晚有一天,你會(huì)生病、疲憊和老去,隨后,你會(huì)爬著回到人群當(dāng)中。你在內(nèi)心渴望別人的撫慰和同情時(shí),你不感到羞愧嗎?你正在嘗試一種不可能的事情,你身上的人性遲早會(huì)向往人類共同的紐帶的?!?/p>
“跟我來(lái),去看看我的畫吧?!?/p>
“你想到過(guò)死亡嗎?”
“我干嗎要想?死不死無(wú)所謂。”
我凝視著他。他站在我的面前,一動(dòng)不動(dòng),眼睛里帶著一絲嘲笑。但是除了這些,一時(shí)之間我好像看出了端倪,一個(gè)炙熱的、飽受折磨的靈魂,目標(biāo)是更為偉大的東西,它超越了與肉體捆綁在一起的,能夠被領(lǐng)略的任何東西。我瞥見(jiàn)的是對(duì)某種無(wú)法描述的事物的熱烈追求。我看著眼前這個(gè)衣衫襤褸的人,他的大鼻子和閃亮的眼睛,他的紅胡須和亂蓬蓬的頭發(fā)。我猛然有了一個(gè)奇想,外表只是一個(gè)軀殼,在我面前呈現(xiàn)的是一個(gè)脫離了肉體的靈魂。
“我們走吧,去看看你的畫作。”我說(shuō)道。
瘋狂英語(yǔ) 英語(yǔ)語(yǔ)法 新概念英語(yǔ) 走遍美國(guó) 四級(jí)聽力 英語(yǔ)音標(biāo) 英語(yǔ)入門 發(fā)音 美語(yǔ) 四級(jí) 新東方 七年級(jí) 賴世雄 zero是什么意思桂林市靈湘半島英語(yǔ)學(xué)習(xí)交流群