But the bed I made up for myself was sufficiently uncomfortable to give me a wakeful night, and Ithought a good deal of what the unlucky Dutchman had told me. I was not so much puzzled byBlanche Stroeve's action, for I saw in that merely the result of a physical appeal. I do not supposeshe had ever really cared for her husband, and what I had taken for love was no more than thefeminine response to caresses and comfort which in the minds of most women passes for it. It is apassive feeling capable of being roused for any object, as the vine can grow on any tree; and thewisdom of the world recognizes its strength when it urges a girl to marry the man who wants herwith the assurance that love will follow. It is an emotion made up of the satisfaction in security,pride of property, the pleasure of being desired, the gratification of a household, and it is only byan amiable vanity that women ascribe to it spiritual value. It is an emotion which is defencelessagainst passion. I suspected that Blanche Stroeve's violent dislike of Strickland had in it from thebeginning a vague element of sexual attraction. Who am I that I should seek to unravel themysterious intricacies of sex? Perhaps Stroeve's passion excited without satisfying that part of hernature, and she hated Strickland because she felt in him the power to give her what she needed. Ithink she was quite sincere when she struggled against her husband's desire to bring him into thestudio; I think she was frightened of him, though she knew not why; and I remembered how shehad foreseen disaster. I think in some curious way the horror which she felt for him was atransference of the horror which she felt for herself because he so strangely troubled her. His
appearance was wild and uncouth; there was aloofness in his eyes and sensuality in his mouth; hewas big and strong; he gave the impression of untamed passion; and perhaps she felt in him, too,that sinister element which had made me think of those wild beings of the world's early historywhen matter, retaining its early connection with the earth, seemed to possess yet a spirit of its own.If he affected her at all, it was inevitable that she should love or hate him. She hated him.
经典片段
Blanche Stroeve was in the cruel grip of appetite. Perhaps she hated Strickland still, but shehungered for him, and everything that had made up her life till then became of no account. Sheceased to be a woman, complex, kind and petulant, considerate and thoughtless; she was aMaenad. She was desire.
I could not believe that Strickland had fallen in love with Blanche Stroeve. I did not believe himcapable of love. That is an emotion in which tenderness is an essential part, but Strickland had notenderness 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 selfishnesswhich marvellously
conceals itself; it has in it a certain diffidence. These were not traits which Icould imagine in Stricklan
d. 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 heknows is illusion, and, knowing it is nothing else, he loves it better than reality. It makes a man alittle more than himself, and at the same time a little less. He ceases to be himself. He is no longeran individual, but a thing, an instrument to some purpose foreign to his ego. Love is never quitedevoid of sentimentality, and Strickland was the least inclined to that infirmity of any man I haveknown. I could not believe that he would ever suffer that possession of himself which love is; hecould never endure a foreign yoke. I believed him capable of uprooting from his heart, though itmight be with agony, so that he was left battered and ensanguined, anything that came betweenhimself and that uncomprehended craving that urged him constantly to he knew not what. If I havesucceeded at all in giving the complicated impression that Strickland made on me, it will not seemoutrageous 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 itis different with every different person. A man like Strickland would love in a manner peculiar tohimself. It was vain to seek the analysis of his emotion.