There was in my soul a perfectly genuine horror of Strickland, and side by side with it a cold curiosity to discover his motives. 我的灵魂对思特里克兰德确实感到恐怖，但与恐怖并存的还有一种叫我心寒的好奇心：我想寻找出他行为的动机。

I was puzzled by him, and I was eager to see how he regarded the tragedy he had caused in the lives of people who had used him with so much kindness. 他使我困惑莫解，他对那些那么关怀他的人制造了一出悲剧，我很想知道他对自己一手制造的这出悲剧究竟抱什么态度。

I applied the scalpel boldly. 我大胆地挥舞起手术刀来。

"Stroeve told me that picture you painted of his wife was the best thing you've ever done." “施特略夫对我说，你给他妻子画的那幅画是你的最好的作品。”

Strickland took his pipe out of his mouth, and a smile lit up his eyes. 思特里克兰德把烟斗从嘴里拿出来，微笑使他的眼睛发出亮光。

"It was great fun to do." “画那幅画我非常开心。”

"Why did you give it him?" “为什么你要给他？”

"I'd finished it. It wasn't any good to me." “我已经画完了。对我没有用了。”

"Do you know that Stroeve nearly destroyed it?" “你知道施特略夫差点儿把它毁掉吗？”

"It wasn't altogether satisfactory." “那幅画一点儿也不令人满意。”

He was quiet for a moment or two, then he took his pipe out of his mouth again, and chuckled. 他沉默了一会儿，接着又把烟斗从嘴里拿出来，呵呵地笑出声来。

"Do you know that the little man came to see me?" “你知道那个小胖子来找过我吗？”他说。

"Weren't you rather touched by what he had to say?" “他说的话没有使你感动吗？”

"No; I thought it damned silly and sentimental." “没有。我觉得他的话软绵绵的非常傻气。”

"I suppose it escaped your memory that you'd ruined his life?" I remarked. “我想你大概忘了，是你把他的生活毁了的，”我说。

He rubbed his bearded chin reflectively. 他沉思地摩挲着自己长满胡须的下巴。

"He's a very bad painter." “他是个很蹩脚的画家。”

"But a very good man." “可是他是个很好的人。”

"And an excellent cook," Strickland added derisively. “还是一个手艺高超的厨师，”思特里克兰德嘲弄地加添了一句。

His callousness was inhuman, and in my indignation I was not inclined to mince my words. 他心肠冷酷到没有人性的地步，我气愤得要命，一点儿也不想给他留情面。

"As a mere matter of curiosity I wish you'd tell me, have you felt the smallest twinge of remorse for Blanche Stroeve's death?" “我想你可以不可以告诉我——我问这个问题只是出于好奇——你对勃朗什·施特略夫的惨死良心上一点儿也不感到内疚吗？”

I watched his face for some change of expression, but it remained impassive. 我瞅着他的脸，看他的面容有没有什么变化，但是他的脸仍然毫无表情。