Chapter 14 fourteen

On the journey back to London I thought a lot about Strickland again.I tried to make sense of what I was going to tell his wife.It wasn't going well, and I could imagine that she wouldn't be happy with me, and I wouldn't be happy with myself.Strickland puzzled me.I don't understand his motives for acting.When I asked him why he thought of learning painting in the first place, he couldn't tell me clearly, maybe he didn't want to tell me at all.I can't figure it out at all.I try to explain it this way: A vague sense of rebellion gradually arose in his dull mind.But this explanation was refuted by one indisputable fact: he had never shown any sign of boredom with the monotony of his past life.If he just couldn't bear the boring life and decided to become a painter in an attempt to break free from the shackles of boredom, it is understandable and very common; but the problem is that I think he is definitely not an ordinary person.In the end, romantic perhaps, I imagined an explanation which, though far-fetched, was the only one that satisfied me.That is: I doubt whether there is buried deep in his soul some desire to create, which, though concealed by the circumstances of his life, has been swelling and growing relentlessly, like a tumor in organic tissue. It's like growing up, until finally completely controlling him, forcing him to take action, without the ability to resist.The cuckoo lays its eggs in other birds' nests, and when the chick is hatched, it crowds out its half-brothers, and finally destroys the nest that sheltered it.

But it is strange that this creative urge should take hold of a somewhat dull stockbroker, and may lead to his ruin and misfortune to those who depend on him for a living.But it is not surprising if it is compared with the mysteries of God that people sometimes grasp this.These people are rich and powerful, but God pursues them with great vigilance, until at last he conquers them completely, when they abandon worldly pleasures and women's love, and go to the monastery to live in misery and desolation. life.Refuge can appear in different forms and can be achieved through different paths.Some people, through cataclysmic changes, smash the stones into powder like a torrent of anger;Strickland has the directness of a fanatic and the fanaticism of an apostle.

But in my practical eye, it remains to be seen whether the passion that fascinated him will produce worthwhile work.When I asked him how his evening school classmates evaluated his paintings when he was studying painting in London, he smiled and said: "They thought I was joking." "Have you started any painting school since you got here?" "Come in. That fool was at my place this morning--I mean the teacher, you know; and when he saw my picture, he just cocked his eyebrows and left without saying a word. " Strickland giggled.He didn't seem discouraged at all.Other people's opinions have no influence on him.

It was this that made me miserable in my dealings with him.Some people also say that he doesn't care what others think of him, but this is mostly self-deception.Generally speaking, they are able to go their own way because they believe that others will not see their weird ideas; what is more, they dare to act against the opinions of the majority because they have the support of a few close neighbors and acquaintances.It is not difficult for a man to be unconventional in the presence of the world, if it is actually the norm for his class to be unconventional.On the contrary, he will be complacent about it.He could flaunt his courage without taking any risks.But I always feel that it is perhaps the most deeply rooted nature of civilized human beings to ask for approval from others.Once an unconventional woman violates the rules of etiquette and attracts sharp criticism, no one will rush to find a dignified asylum as quickly as she does.I don't believe people who tell me they don't care what other people think of them.This is nothing more than an ignorant bluff.What they mean is that they believe that others will not find their small flaws at all, so they are even less afraid of being condemned for these small mistakes.

But here is a person who really doesn't care what others think of him, so the traditional etiquette can't do anything to him.He is like a wrestler with oil on his body, you can't catch him at all.This gives him a freedom that makes you feel pissed off.I still remember saying to him: "Listen to me, if everyone did what you did, the world wouldn't be able to go on." "It's stupid of you to say that. Not everyone is going to be like me. Most people are content with the ordinary things they do." I want to make a sarcasm of him. "There is a maxim that you obviously don't believe: Every man should act in such a way that every act can be an example to all people."

"I've never heard of it, but it's bullshit." "You don't know, that's what Kant said." "Whoever says it is nonsense anyway." With such a man it is in vain to appeal to his conscience.It's like trying to see your own reflection without the help of a mirror.I regard conscience as the guard in a person's soul, and it depends on it to supervise the implementation of a set of etiquette rules that society has formulated for its survival.Conscience is the sentry post in each of us. It is on duty there, watching us not to do illegal things.It is the spy in the central stronghold of the ego.Because people pay too much attention to other people's opinions on him, and are too afraid of public opinion's accusations against him, so they themselves introduce the enemy into the gate; so it watches there, guarding the interests of its master with high vigilance. The idea of ​​leaving Daliuer was immediately severely criticized by it.It forces everyone to put social interests above personal interests.It is a strong chain that binds the individual to the whole.People convince themselves that a certain interest is greater than their own, and they are willing to serve it, and they become slaves to this master.He lifted him up on a throne of honor.At last, like a courtier fawning on the royal stick which is laid about his shoulders, so he prided himself on the sensitiveness of his conscience.At this point he finds it not too much to scold those who refuse to be restrained by conscience, for he is already a member of society, and he knows very well that he has absolutely no power to rebel against him.When I saw Strickland's genuine indifference to the reprimands his conduct must have evoked, I shrank back in horror as from a strange monster.

The last words he said to me that night when I said goodbye to him were: "Tell Amy that it's no use coming here to find me. I'm moving anyway, and she won't find me." "My opinion is that it's a good thing she got rid of you," I said. "Dear friend, I just hope you can make her see this clearly. It's a pity that women have no brains."