Chapter 12 twelve

Right now is the busiest time on the Boulevard de Criser, and you only need to use a little imagination to spot many characters in vulgar romances among the passers-by.The clerks and salesgirls are like antiques from Balzac's novels, male and female members of some trades who rely on human weaknesses to make a living.In some poor parts of Paris, the streets are always full of people, full of infinite life, which makes your blood flow, and is always ready to put on an unexpected good show for you. "Are you familiar with Paris?" I asked. "Unfamiliar. We were here on our honeymoon. I've never been back since."

"Then how did you find this hotel?" "It was introduced by someone else. I'm looking for a cheap one." The absinthe was served and we poured water over the melted sugar with all seriousness. "I think I'd better be honest with you and tell you why I came to you," I said with some embarrassment. His eyes were shining brightly. "I've been expecting someone to come sooner or later. May has written me a lot of letters." "Then you know what I'm going to tell you without me telling you." "I haven't read any of her letters."

I lit a cigarette to give myself some time to think.I really don't know what to do with the errand I've taken on.I have prepared a wonderful set of words, whether pathetic or angry, it seems that it will not be in harmony on the Boulevard de Crischer.Suddenly Strickland giggled. "It's a headache for you to do, isn't it?" "Ah, I don't know," I replied. "Listen to me, tell me what's in your stomach quickly, and we can have a good night of fun in the future." I hesitate. "Have you ever thought that your wife is in great pain?"

"Things will pass." I cannot describe the indifference with which he said it.I was flustered by his attitude, but I did my best to cover it up.I adopted the tone of one of my Uncle Henry, who was a clergyman, and used it whenever he asked a relative for a donation to the Alternate Curate Society. "You don't mind if I talk differently than you, do you?" He smiled and shook his head. "Is it fair for you to treat her like this?" "I can't justify it." "Is there anything you don't like about her?" "No." "Then, you've been married for seventeen years, and you can't find anything wrong with her. Isn't it unreasonable for you to leave her like this?"

"It's too unreasonable." Surprised, I glanced at him.No matter what I said, he agreed from the bottom of his heart, which clamped my mouth in advance.He made my situation very complicated, not to mention ridiculous.I was prepared to persuade him, to impress him, to exhort him, to admonish him, to reason with him, to reprimand if need be, to lose my temper, to ridicule him enough; but if the sinner confesses his sin Honestly, what else is there for the persuading person to do?I have no experience with people like him, because I myself always deny it when I do something wrong.

"What else do you say?" said Strickland. I pouted at him. "It's nothing. If you admit everything, it seems that there is nothing more to say." "I think so." I feel that my execution of the task this time is too incompetent.I'm obviously getting a little pissed off. "Don't say anything else, you can't just dump your woman without leaving a penny!" "Why not?" "How does she survive?" "I've fed her for seventeen years. Why can't she feed herself instead?" "She can't feed."

"She might as well try." I certainly have a lot to say in reply.I could talk about the economic status of women, about the overt or tacit obligations of men after marriage, and many other reasons, but I think there is only one that really matters. "Do you still love her or not?" "Not at all," he answered. It was a matter of the utmost seriousness in every sense of the word, but there was such a gleeful, impudent air in his answer; I bit my lip so hard that I might not laugh out loud.I kept reminding myself that his actions were abhorrent.At last I aroused my righteous indignation.

"Fuck, you have to think about your own kids. They never did anything wrong to you. They didn't ask to be in this world. If you throw the whole family away like this, they will end up on the streets .” "They've had a good number of years. Most kids don't have that much. Besides, there's always someone to feed them. The McAndrews can send them to school if necessary." "But don't you like them? How lovely are your two children! You mean, you want nothing to do with them anymore?" "I did like them when they were little, but now that they're all grown up, I don't have any special affection for them."

"You are simply too inhuman." "That's how I see it." "You're not at all ashamed." "I'm not ashamed." I want to change the method again. "Everyone will think you are an inhuman villain." "Let them think so." "Everyone hates you and despises you, doesn't it matter to you at all?" "It doesn't matter." His impossibly short answer made my question (albeit a valid one) seem ridiculous.I thought about it for a minute or two. "I doubt whether a person can live with peace of mind if he knows that his relatives and friends are scolding him. Do you know that you are indifferent? No one can be without a little conscience. Sooner or later you will be condemned by conscience. If your wife dies, don't you feel any regret?"

He didn't answer my question, and I waited a while to see if he would speak.Finally I had to break the silence myself. "What do you have to say?" "All I have to say is: You're a big fool." "Anyway, the law can force you to support your wife and children," I retorted somewhat angrily. "I think the law will provide protection for them." "Can the law squeeze oil out of a stone? I have no money, but a hundred or so pounds." I'm more confused than ever.Of course, judging from the hotel where he was staying, his financial situation was very difficult.

"What are you going to do with the money?" "Go and earn a little more." He was dead calm, with that smirk in his eye the whole time, as if I was saying something stupidly stupid.I paused for a moment to consider what to say next.But this time he spoke first. "Why doesn't Ami remarry? She is not old, and she is still attractive. I can recommend: she is a good wife. If she wants to divorce me, I can give her the excuse she needs .” Now it's my turn to laugh.He is very cunning, but he can't hide it from anyone, this is his real purpose.For some reason he had to conceal his elopement with another woman, and he had taken every precaution to keep that woman's whereabouts concealed.I said categorically: "Your wife said that no matter what means you use, she will not divorce you. She has already made up her mind. I advise you to give up on it." He stared at me in great surprise, obviously not faking it.The smile faded from the corners of his mouth, and he said solemnly: "But, dear friend, I don't care what she does. I don't care if she divorces me or not." I laughed. "Oh, come on! Don't take us for such fools. We just happen to know that you went with the same woman." He froze for a moment, but immediately burst out laughing.He laughed so loudly that even the people sitting next to us turned their heads curiously, and a few even laughed along. "I don't see what's funny about that." "Poor May," he said with a smile on his face. Then, his face changed into one of contempt and disdain. "Women's brains are so poor! Love. They know love. They think that if a man leaves them it's because he has a new love. Do you think I'm such a fool to do it all over again? I've done it for a woman what happened?" "You mean you didn't leave your wife because of another woman?" "of course not." "Dare you swear?" I don't know why I asked him so.I asked this sentence without using my brain at all. "I swear." "Then why on earth did you leave her?" "I want to paint." I stared at him intently for a long time.I don't understand at all.I think this man must be crazy.The reader should remember that I was very young at the time, and I regarded him as a middle-aged man.I don't remember anything but my own astonishment. "But you are already forty." "That's why I thought, it's too late if we don't start now." "Have you ever painted?" "I wanted to be a painter when I was little, but my father told me to go into business because he didn't think art would make money. I started painting a little about a year ago. I've been taking evening classes for the last year." "Mrs. Strickland thinks you have lessons when you play bridge at the club?" "correct." "Why didn't you tell her?" "I think it's better not to let her know." "Can you draw?" "Not yet. But I'll be able to learn. That's why I've come to Paris. I can't get what I want in London. Maybe I'll get it here." "Do you think people at your age can do well when they start painting? Most people start at eighteen." "If I learned it at the age of eighteen, I would learn it faster than now." "How do you think you still have some talent for painting?" He didn't answer my question right away.His eyes rested on the passing crowd, but I don't think he saw anything.What he finally answered me was not an answer at all. "I must paint." "Are you doing it entirely by chance?" Then he turned his eyes to me.There was a strange look in his eyes that made me feel uncomfortable. "How old are you? Twenty-three?" I don't think his question has anything to do with what we're talking about.If I wanted to try my luck at something, it was perfectly natural; but his youth was long past, and he was a respectable stockbroker with a wife and two children.What seemed natural to me became absurd to him.But I still want to try to be fair to him. "Of course, a miracle might happen, and you might become a great painter. But you must admit that the chances are very remote. If in the end you have to admit that you made a mess of things, you will regret it." "I must paint," he repeated. "If you can only be a third-rate painter, do you think it's worth throwing everything away? Anyway, in other walks of life, it doesn't matter if you're not outstanding; as long as you get by, you You can live comfortably; but being an artist is a whole other thing." "You're a fucking fool," he said. "I don't know why you say that, unless I'm doing something stupid to say the most obvious." "I tell you I must paint. I can't help myself. If a man falls into the water, it doesn't matter how well he swims, but he has to struggle out or drown." There was a passion in his voice, and I couldn't help but be moved by him.I seem to feel a violent force struggling in his body; I feel that this force is very strong, overwhelming, as if against his own will, and holds him tightly in his hands.I can't understand.He does seem to be possessed by a demon, and I think he might be torn apart by that thing all at once.But on the surface, he is ordinary.My eyes fixed on him curiously, but he was not at all embarrassed.There he sat, in a battered Norfolk coat and a bowler hat long overdue for a brush, and I wondered what a stranger would take him for.His trouser legs are like two pockets, his hands are not very clean, his chin is full of red beard stubble, a pair of small eyes, a big nose, and his face is clumsy and rough.His mouth was large, with thick lips that gave the impression of lust.No, I can't tell what kind of person he is. "Aren't you going back to your wife?" I said at last. "Never going back." "She's willing to forget all that happened and start over. She won't reproach you a word." "Let her go to hell!" "Don't you care that people think you're a total badass? Don't you care that your wife and children go begging?" "I don't care at all." I was silent for a while, in order to give more force to what I said next.I deliberately pronounced each word clearly. "You're a real jerk." "It's done, you've said what's on your mind now, let's go to dinner."