the moon and sixpence(月球和六便士)-第33章
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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 find 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 gray 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'
confidence； 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
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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
fierce 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； an 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
clear…sighted； though he may know； cannot realise that his 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 infirmity 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。
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Chapter XXXI
Next day； though I pressed him to remain； Stroeve left me。 I offered
to fetch his things from the studio； but he insisted on going himself； I think
he hoped they had not thought of getting them together； so that he would
have an opportunity of seeing his wife again and perhaps inducing her to
come back to him。 But he found his traps waiting for him in the porter's
lodge； and the concierge told him that Blanche had gone out。 I do not think
he resisted the temptation of giving her an account of his troubles。 I
found that he was telling them to everyone he knew； he expected
sympathy； but only excited ridicule。
He bore himself most unbecomingly。 Knowing at what time his wife
did her shopping； one day； unable any longer to bear not seeing her； he
waylaid her in the street。 She would not speak to him； but he insisted on
speaking to her。 He spluttered out words of apology for any wrong he
had committed towards her； he told her he loved her devotedly and begged
her to return to him。 She would not answer； she walked hurriedly； with
averted face。 I imagined him with his fat little legs trying to keep up with
her。 Panting a little in his haste； he told her how miserable he was； he
besought her to have mercy on him； he promised； if she would forgive him；
to do everything she wanted。 He offered to take her for a journey。 He
told her that Strickland would soon tire of her。 When he repeated to me
the whole sordid little scene I was outraged。 He had shown neither sense
nor dignity。 He had omitted nothing that could make his wife despise
him。 There is no cruelty greater than a woman's to a man who loves her
and whom she does not love； she has no kindness then； no tolerance even；
she has only an insane irritation。 Blanche Stroeve stopped suddenly； and
as hard as she could slapped her husband's face。 She took advantage of
his confusion to escape； and ran up the stairs to the studio。 No word had
passed her lips。
When he told me this he put his hand to his cheek as though he still
felt the smart of the blow； and in his eyes was a pain that was heartrending
and an amazement that was ludicrous。 He looked like an overblown
schoolboy； and though I felt so sorry for him； I could hardly help laughing。
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Then he took to walking along the street which she must pass through
to get to the shops； and he would stand at the corner； on the other side； as
she went along。 He dared not speak to her again； but sought to put into
his round eyes the appeal that was in his heart。 I suppose he had some
idea that the sight of his misery would touch her。 She never made the
smallest sign that she saw him。 She never even changed the hour of her
errands or sought an alternative route。 I have an idea that there was some
cruelty in her indifference。 Perhaps she got enjoyment out of the torture
she inflicted。 I wondered why she hated him so much。
I begged Stroeve to behave more wisely。 His want of spirit was
exasperating。
〃You're doing no good at all by going on like this；〃 I said。 〃I think
you'd have been wiser if you'd hit her over the head with a stick。 She
wouldn't have despised you as she does now。〃
I suggested that he should go home for a while。 He had often spoken
to me of the silent town； somewhere up in the north of Holland； where his
parents still lived。 They were poor people。 His father was a car
