Chapter 41 forty one

We walked to the house where I lived.I didn't want to say polite words like "Come in and sit down" to him, but walked up the stairs without saying a word.He followed, stepping on my heels into my house.He had never been to my place before, but he never even glanced at my well-decorated house.There was a tin tin of tobacco on the table, and he took out his pipe and filled it.Then he sat in an armless chair, leaning back and crossing the front legs of the chair. "If you want to be comfortable, why don't you sit in the easy chair?" I asked angrily. "Why are you so concerned about my comfort?"

"I don't care," I retorted, "I care about myself. I feel uncomfortable when I see someone else sitting in an uncomfortable chair." He giggled, but didn't change places.He smoked his pipe in silence, and paid no attention to me; he seemed to be brooding on his own business.I wonder why he came to my place. The writer's instinctive interest in the eccentricities which attracted him, despite his moral disapproval, was powerless to do anything about it; until habit had grown natural and his sensibility had dulled, and this instinct often discomfited him.He liked to observe this kind of evil human nature, which surprised him more or less, and he thought that this observation was to satisfy the requirements of art; but his sincerity forced him to admit that he was far less disgusted with certain actions than he was with reasons for them. curiosity is so strong.A villain, if perfectly and logically drawn, has a fascinating power over the creator, though from the point of view of law and order he should never have any admiration for the villain.I suspect that Shakespeare may have had more interest in creating Iago than he had conceived of Desdemona with moonlight and fantasies.Perhaps the writer, in creating his villains, is actually gratifying a deep-seated instinct in him which, in civilized society, the manners and manners force to hide in the most secret recesses of the subconscious; body, that is, to bring to life that part of his self that cannot be revealed.The satisfaction he gets is a thrill of freedom and liberation.

Writers are more concerned with understanding human nature than judging it. My soul was indeed terrified of Strickland, but it was accompanied by a chilling curiosity: I wanted to find out the motives of his actions.He baffled me, and I wondered how he felt about the tragedy he had made for those who cared so much for him.I boldly waved the scalpel. "Stroeve told me that your picture of his wife is your best work." Strickland took the pipe from his mouth, and a smile made his eyes shine. "I had a lot of fun painting that picture." "Why did you give it to him?"

"I've finished drawing. It's no use to me." "Did you know that Stroeve almost destroyed it?" "That picture is not at all satisfactory." He was silent for a moment, then took the pipe out of his mouth again, and laughed out loud. "Did you know that little fat man came to see me?" he said. "Didn't what he said moved you?" "No. I think his words are limp and very silly." "I think you probably forgot that you ruined his life," I said. He stroked his bearded chin thoughtfully. "He's a very bad painter."

"But he's a nice guy." "And a good cook," added Strickland mockingly. He was cruel to the point of inhumanity, and I was so angry that I didn't want to show him any mercy. "I thought you could tell me—I'm only asking this question out of curiosity—that you feel no conscience at all about the tragic death of Blanche Stroeve?" I watched his face to see if there was any change in his features, but his face remained expressionless. "Why should I feel guilty?" "Let me lay it out to you. You were sick and dying, and Dirk Stroeve took you into his own home and served you like your own parents. He sacrificed himself for you." time, money, and ease of living. He took you back from death."

Strickland shrugged his shoulders. "That funny little fat man likes to serve people. It's his habit." "Just say that you don't have to be grateful to him. Should you occupy his wife? Before you showed up at their door, they lived a very happy life. Why do you have to intervene?" "How do you know they're happy?" "Isn't that obvious?" "You see everything. Do you think she'll forgive him for what he did for her?" "What are you talking about?" "Don't you know why he married her?" I shook my head.

"She turned out to be a governess from a noble family in Rome. The young master of this family seduced her. She thought that the man would marry her as his wife, but she was kicked out by this family. She was about to give birth, and wanted to Suicide. That's when Stroeve found her and married her." "Stroeve is such a man. I never saw a man so chivalrous." I had always wondered how such a pair of people who were in no way compatible could get together, but it never occurred to me that it could be so.Perhaps this is the reason why Dirk's love for his wife was very different from that of ordinary couples.I found something more than enthusiastic about his approach to her.I also remember always suspecting that Blanche's prim silence might be hiding something I was not aware of.Now I see that what she was trying to hide was far more than a shameful secret.Her peaceful silence was like the desolate stillness that hangs over an island after a storm has struck.She sometimes showed a happy smile and a forced smile in despair.My meditations were interrupted by Strickland's voice, which surprised me by saying something so sharp.

"A woman can forgive a man for what he has done to her," he said, "but never for what he has done to her." "You are a man who will not be annoyed by women who know you. You can rest assured about that." I nodded at him. A smile formed on the corner of his mouth. "You're never afraid to sacrifice your principles to refute others," he replied. "What happened to that child?" "A miscarriage, three or four months after they got married." Then I asked the question that puzzled me the most. "Would you please tell me why you provoke Blanche Stroeve?"

He didn't answer for so long that I almost wanted to repeat my question again. "How do I know?" he said finally. "She hates me so much she can hardly see me, so I find it funny." "I understand." He suddenly burst into anger. "Fuck it, I need her." But he stopped being angry immediately, looked at me, and smiled. "She was absolutely terrified at first." "Have you explained it to her?" "No. She knew. I never said a word. She was very scared. Finally I got her." In the tone in which he told me this incident, I don't know something that expressed his strong desire at that time very strangely.It's unnerving, or even horrific.His daily lifestyle was peculiar, with no regard for his body's needs.But there were moments when his body seemed to take a terrible revenge on his spirit.The half-human, half-animal in him had taken him into his hands, and he was utterly powerless in the grasp of this instinct with the primordial power of nature.He was so firmly grasped that prudence and gratitude had no place in his soul.

"But why did you kidnap her?" I asked. "I didn't," he said, frowning. "I was almost as surprised as Stroeve when she said she was going to follow me. I told her she had to go away when I didn't need her any more." No, she said she was willing to take the risk." Strickland paused. "Her body is very beautiful, and I just need to paint a nude painting. After I finish the painting, I will not be interested in her." "She loves you with all her heart." He jumped up from his seat and walked around my little room. "I don't need love. I don't have time for love. It's a human weakness. I'm a man, and sometimes I need a woman. But once my lust is fulfilled, I'm ready for something else. I can't Overcome my desires, I hate it, it imprisons my spirit. I hope there will be a day in the future when I will be free from desires, and will be able to give myself wholeheartedly to my work without any hindrance. Because women Talking about love does nothing else, so they make it ridiculously important. They also try to convince us that the whole of human life is love. In fact, love is an insignificant part of life. Part of it. I only understand lust. It’s normal and healthy. Love is a disease. Women are tools for my enjoyment, and I hate their demands for career assistants and life partners.”

Never before had Strickland talked so much to me at once.He spoke with anger.But neither here nor anywhere else do I wish to pass off what I have written as his own.Strickland had a small vocabulary and no ability to form sentences, so his exclamations, his facial expressions, his gestures had to be connected with banal phrases to make sense of him . "You should live in a time when women were slaves and men masters," I said. "It just so happens that I was born a perfectly normal man." He said this seriously, and I couldn't help but make me laugh again.He just went on talking indifferently, walking up and down the room.But despite his preoccupied efforts to express what he felt, he couldn't get it right. "If a woman loves you, she won't be satisfied until she has your soul in her possession. Because women are weak, they have a very strong desire to dominate and not have you completely in their hands. Not reconciled. Women are narrow-minded, and they are very disgusted with abstract things that she cannot understand. They are full of material things in their minds, so they are very jealous of spirit and ideals. Men's souls invite But women try to lock it up in the accounts of the household income and expenses. Do you remember my wife? I noticed that Blanche was doing my wife's tricks little by little. She was ready with infinite patience. I snare and bind my hands and feet. She wants to bring me down to her level; she doesn't care about me at all, the only thing she wants is to make me dependent on her. For me, she will do everything in the world. Willing to do, except for one thing: don't bother me." I was silent for a while. "Have you thought of what she will do when you leave her?" "She could have gone back to Stroeve," he said angrily. "Stroeve would have liked her to go back." "You're not human," I replied. "It's no use talking to you about these things, like trying to describe colors to a blind man." He stopped in front of my chair, and looked down at me; I saw in his face a mixture of contempt and amazement. "Whether Blanche Stroeve is alive or dead, do you really care so much?" I thought about the question he asked, because I wanted to answer it truthfully, in any case it must be my true thought. "If it doesn't matter to me that she died, then I would be too heartless. Life can give her a lot. I think it is a very terrible thing for her to be deprived of her life in such a cruel way. But I'm ashamed too, because honestly, I don't really care." "You don't have the courage to confess what you really think. Life is worthless. Blanche Stroeve killed herself not because I abandoned her, but because she was stupid, because she was insane. But we talk about There's enough of her, she's such an insignificant character. Come on, I'll show you my drawing." He talked as if I was a child and needed him to distract me.I was mad as hell, but not so much at him as at myself.I recalled the happy life that this couple, Stroeve and his wife, lived in a comfortable studio in the Montmartre district, simple, kind, and hospitable, and this life was actually due to It seems to me very cruel that a heartless accident should be smashed to pieces; but the cruelest thing is that it has no effect on others.People went on living and no one was made worse by this tragedy.I suspect that even Dirk will forget about it before long, because despite the intensity of his reaction and momentary grief, there is no depth of emotion.As for Blanche herself, whatever wonderful hopes and dreams she had first entered into life with, would it be any different after she died than if she hadn't come to this world at all?Everything is empty and meaningless. Strickland took up his hat and stood looking at me. "are you coming?" "Why are you hanging out with me?" I asked him. "You know I hate you and despise you." He giggled, not at all annoyed. "You're quarreling with me because I really don't care what you think of me." I felt my cheeks flush with anger.You can't make him understand that his cruelty and selfishness can drive people into a rage.I wish I could pierce the armor of his indifference.But I also knew that, in the final analysis, there was some truth to what he said.Although we are not clearly aware of it, maybe we still attach great importance to whether others value our opinions and whether we have influence on others; if our views on a person are valued by him, we are complacent, This kind of opinion is ignored in the slightest, and we hate him.I think this is the worst wound in self-esteem.But I didn't want Strickland to see my annoyance. "Is it possible for a person to ignore other people at all?" I said, not so much to him as to myself. It's a ridiculous idea. Sooner or later you'll be sick, you'll grow old, and then you'll have to crawl back to your mates. Aren't you ashamed when you need comfort and sympathy? You It's an impossible thing to do now. Sooner or later, there's a human in you that craves connection with other human beings." "Go and see my painting!" "Have you thought about dying?" "Why think of death? What does death matter?" I stare at him.He stood before me motionless, with a mocking smile in his eyes.But despite the look on his face, I seemed for a moment to see a tormented, fiery soul chasing something far greater than flesh and blood could imagine.What I glimpsed was an ardent pursuit of something indescribable.I gazed at the man standing before me, ragged, with a big nose and glowing eyes, a fiery red beard, and unkempt hair.I had a strange feeling that it was all just a shell, and that what I was really seeing was a soul out of the body. "Okay, let's go and see your paintings." I said.