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a box of clothes and a few books。〃
〃I'm glad you're going home；〃 I said。
I felt that his chance was to put all the past behind him。 I hoped that
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the grief which now seemed intolerable would be softened by the lapse of
time； and a merciful forgetfulness would help him to take up once more
the burden of life。 He was young still； and in a few years he would look
back on all his misery with a sadness in which there would be something
not unpleasurable。 Sooner or later he would marry some honest soul in
Holland； and I felt sure he would be happy。 I smiled at the thought of the
vast number of bad pictures he would paint before he died。
Next day I saw him off for Amsterdam。
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Chapter XL
For the next month； occupied with my own affairs； I saw no one
connected with this lamentable business； and my mind ceased to be
occupied with it。 But one day； when I was walking along； bent on some
errand； I passed Charles Strickland。 The sight of him brought back to me
all the horror which I was not unwilling to forget； and I felt in me a sudden
repulsion for the cause of it。 Nodding； for it would have been childish to
cut him； I walked on quickly； but in a minute I felt a hand on my shoulder。
〃You're in a great hurry；〃 he said cordially。
It was characteristic of him to display geniality with anyone who
showed a disinclination to meet him； and the coolness of my greeting can
have left him in little doubt of that。
〃I am；〃 I answered briefly。
〃I'll walk along with you；〃 he said。
〃Why？〃 I asked。
〃For the pleasure of your society。〃
I did not answer； and he walked by my side silently。 We continued thus
for perhaps a quarter of a mile。 I began to feel a little ridiculous。 At last
we passed a stationer's； and it occurred to me that I might as well buy
some paper。 It would be an excuse to be rid of him。
〃I'm going in here；〃 I said。 〃Good…bye。〃
〃I'll wait for you。〃
I shrugged my shoulders； and went into the shop。 I reflected that
French paper was bad； and that； foiled of my purpose； I need not burden
myself with a purchase that I did not need。 I asked for something I knew
could not be provided； and in a minute came out into the street。
〃Did you get what you wanted？〃 he asked。
〃No。〃
We walked on in silence； and then came to a place where several
streets met。 I stopped at the curb。
〃Which way do you go？〃 I enquired。
〃Your way；〃 he smiled。
〃I'm going home。〃
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〃I'll come along with you and smoke a pipe。〃
〃You might wait for an invitation；〃 I retorted frigidly。
〃I would if I thought there was any chance of getting one。〃
〃Do you see that wall in front of you？〃 I said； pointing。
〃Yes。〃
〃In that case I should have thought you could see also that I don't want
your company。〃
〃I vaguely suspected it； I confess。〃
I could not help a chuckle。 It is one of the defects of my character
that I cannot altogether dislike anyone who makes me laugh。 But I pulled
myself together。
〃I think you're detestable。 You're the most loathsome beast that it's
ever been my misfortune to meet。 Why do you seek the society of
someone who hates and despises you？〃
〃My dear fellow； what the hell do you suppose I care what you think of
me？〃
〃Damn it all；〃 I said； more violently because I had an inkling my
motive was none too creditable； 〃I don't want to know you。〃
〃Are you afraid I shall corrupt you？〃
His tone made me feel not a little ridiculous。 I knew that he was
looking at me sideways； with a sardonic smile。
〃I suppose you are hard up；〃 I remarked insolently。 〃I should be a
damned fool if I thought I had any chance of borrowing money from you。〃
〃You've come down in the world if you can bring yourself to flatter。〃
He grinned。
〃You'll never really dislike me so long as I give you the opportunity to
get off a good thing now and then。〃
I had to bite my lip to prevent myself from laughing。 What he said
had a hateful truth in it； and another defect of my character is that I enjoy
the company of those； however depraved； who can give me a Roland for
my Oliver。 I began to feel that my abhorrence for Strickland could only
be sustained by an effort on my part。 I recognised my moral weakness；
but saw that my disapprobation had in it already something of a pose； and
I knew that if I felt it； his own keen instinct had discovered it； too。 He
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was certainly laughing at me up his sleeve。 I left him the last word； and
sought refuge in a shrug of the shoulders and taciturnity。
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Chapter XLI
We arrived at the house in which I lived。 I would not ask him to
come in with me； but walked up the stairs without a word。 He followed me；
and entered the apartment on my heels。 He had not been in it before； but
he never gave a glance at the room I had been at pains to make pleasing to
the eye。 There was a tin of tobacco on the table； and； taking out his pipe；
he filled it。 He sat down on the only chair that had no arms and tilted
himself on the back legs。
〃If you're going to make yourself at home； why don't you sit in an arm…
chair？〃 I asked irritably。
〃Why are you concerned about my comfort？〃
〃I'm not；〃 I retorted； 〃but only about my own。 It makes me
uncomfortable to see someone sit on an uncomfortable chair。〃
He chuckled； but did not move。 He smoked on in silence； taking no
further notice of me； and apparently was absorbed in thought。 I
wondered why he had come。
Until long habit has blunted the sensibility； there is something
disconcerting to the writer in the instinct which causes him to take an
interest in the singularities of human nature so absorbing that his moral
sense is powerless against it。 He recognises in himself an artistic
satisfaction in the contemplation of evil which a little startles him； but
sincerity forces him to confess that the disapproval he feels for certain
actions is not nearly so strong as his curiosity in their reasons。 The
character of a scoundrel； logical and complete； has a fascination for his
creator which is an outrage to law and order。 I expect that Shakespeare
devised Iago with a gusto which he never knew when； weaving
moonbeams with his fancy； he imagined Desdemona。 It may be that in
his rogues the writer gratifies instincts deep…rooted in him； which the
manners and customs of a civilised world have forced back to the
mysterious recesses of the subconscious。 In giving to the character of his
invention flesh and bones he is giving life to that part of himself which
finds no other means of expression。 His satisfaction is a sense of
liberation。
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The writer is more concerned to know than to judge。
There was in my soul a perfectly genuine horror of Strickland； and
side by side with it a cold curiosity to discover his motives。 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。 I
applied the scalpel boldly。
〃Stroeve told me tha