Chapter 30 thirty

But the bed I made for myself was uncomfortable, and all night I did not sleep, but turned over and over the story the unfortunate Dutchman had told me.Blanche Stroeve's behavior is easy to explain, and I think she did it only by giving in to the temptation of the flesh.She had never had any affection for her husband, and what I thought her love for Stroeve in the past was really just a natural reaction in a woman to a man's caress and the comfort of life.Most women take this reaction as love.It is a passive affection for any one, as a vine can cling to any tree.Worldly opinion judges its power, because it can make a girl marry any man who wants her, and believe that in time she will love him.But what is this feeling after all?It is nothing more than the satisfaction of security, the pride of possession, the satisfaction of being wanted, and the satisfaction of having a family; Very rich in spiritual value.But it is defenseless against impulsive enthusiasm.I suspect that the reason why Blanche Stroeve disliked Strickland so much was the temptation of sex from the beginning, but the problem of sex is extremely complicated, and I have no right to try to unravel it What about the mystery?Perhaps Stroeve's enthusiasm for her only stimulated, but failed to satisfy this part of her nature. She hated Strickland because she felt that he had the power to meet her needs.I thought she was sincere when she tried to prevent her husband from bringing Strickland home; she was frightened by the man, though she herself did not know why.I also remember her prophesying that Strickland would bring disaster and misfortune.Her fear of Strickland, I think, is a strange graft of her fear of herself, for he bewilders and distracts her.Strickland's rough, unruly eyes, his sensual mouth, and his tall, muscular body all give the impression of passion and wildness.Perhaps she felt in him, as I did, a certain sinister air; an air which reminded me of those half-human, half-animal beings at the beginning of the universe, when the primordial connection between the universe and the earth was still maintained, though Matter, but still seems to have a spiritual nature.If Strickland aroused her affections, it was either love or hate, one or the other.What she felt at the time was hatred for Strickland.

Then I imagined that she must have developed a strange feeling during the days and nights she spent with the sick.She fed the sick man's head, which rested heavily on her hand; after he had eaten, she wiped his sensual lips and fiery beard.She wiped his limbs, his arms and thighs were covered with thick hair.When she wiped his hands she could feel their strength, though he was very sickly.His fingers were long, the able, moldable fingers of an artist.I cannot know what disturbed thoughts they aroused in her mind.He slept there very peacefully, motionless, almost dead, like a wild animal in the woods, lying resting after a hard hunt; and she wondered curiously what strange things he was going through. What about dreams?Had he dreamed that a nymph of the Linzer was galloping through the forests of Greece, pursued by Setur, the satyr?She ran away desperately, her legs flying, but Settle was getting closer and closer to her step by step, and she could even feel his hot breath on her neck.But still she flew forward without a word, and he pursued without a word; at last, when she was caught by him, was it terror or ecstasy that made her tremble all over?

Blanche Stroeve was relentlessly seized by the hunger and thirst of desire.Perhaps she still hated Strickland, but she longed for him, and all that had constituted her life before that was now worthless.She was no longer a woman, a complex woman—kind and surly, cautious and indiscreet; she was Maynard, lust incarnate. But perhaps this is all speculation on my part; perhaps she is simply bored with her husband, and has come to my Strickland out of curiosity (without any enthusiasm involved).Maybe she has no special feelings for him, and she succumbs to Strickland's desire only because they stay together day and night, because she is bored and bored, but once she gets close to him, she finds that she has fallen into a net woven by herself inside.How should I know what thoughts and feelings lurk behind her placid forehead and cold gray eyes?

Yet, although we can be sure of nothing when dealing with beings as elusive as man, there are still some explanations for Blanche Stroeve's behavior that are perfectly plausible.On the other hand, I knew nothing about Strickland.His behavior this time was incompatible with my usual understanding of him. I thought hard and couldn't explain it anyway.It is not surprising that he betrayed the trust of his friends heartlessly, and caused great pain to others for the sake of his own whim, because it was all part of his character.He is neither grateful nor compassionate.Those feelings which most of us share were not present in him; to blame him for not having them would be as absurd as to blame a tiger for being ferocious.What I can't explain is why he suddenly thought of Stroeve.

I cannot believe that Strickland is in love with Blanche Stroeve.I simply do not believe that this person is in love with a person.Tenderness is the main ingredient in the feeling of love, but Strickland knew no tenderness either to himself or to others.There is in love a sense of weakness, a need for tenderness, a desire to help and to please -- if not unselfishness, then at least a subtly concealed selfishness; there is a certain degree of shyness in love. .And these character traits are not what I can find in Strickland.Love takes up a lot of one's energy, it requires one to leave one's life to be a lover.Even the clearest mind, who may know in theory, would not admit in practice that love will one day come to an end.It gives body to what he knows is illusion, and he loves it far more than the truth, knowing it is nothing.It makes a man a little richer than his original self, and at the same time a little less than his original self.He ceased to be a person, he became a thing, an instrument for some end he did not understand.Love is never free from sentimentality, and Strickland was the least prone to it of anyone I ever knew.I do not believe that at any time he suffered from the common disease of love--drunkness and ecstasy; he never could bear any shackles thrown at him by the outside world.If anything interfered with his incomprehensible longing, which was constantly urging him to a goal which he himself did not know, I am sure he would not hesitate to put it away. Pull it out from the heart, even if you endure great pain and get bruised and bloody all over your body.If the mixed impressions of Strickland I have written down are correct, I think readers will not find it paradoxical to make the following assertion: I think Strickland is both great and small. Will not have love with other people.

But the concept of love, in the final analysis, varies from person to person; each person has a different understanding according to his or her own idiosyncrasies.Therefore, a man like Strickland must have his own unique way of loving.It would be useless to try to analyze his feelings.