Strickland's voice, coming out of the darkness, harshly, made me start. 从黑暗里传来思特里克兰德的呵斥的声音，把我吓了一跳。

Stroeve cried out. Oh, my God, I thought you were dead. 施特略夫惊叫起来。“哎呀，上帝，我还以为你死了呢。”

I struck a match, and looked about for a candle. 我划了一根火柴，四处看了看有没有蜡烛。

I had a rapid glimpse of a tiny apartment, half room, half studio, in which was nothing but a bed, 匆猝间我看到的是一间很小的屋子，半做住房，半做画室，屋子里只有一张床，

canvases with their faces to the wall, an easel, a table, and a chair. 面对墙放着的是一些画幅，一个画架，一张桌子和一把椅子。

There was no carpet on the floor. There was no fireplace. 地板上光秃秃的没有地毯。室内没有火炉。

On the table, crowded with paints, palette-knives, and litter of all kinds, was the end of a candle. 桌子上乱堆着颜料瓶、调色刀和杂七杂八的东西，在这一堆凌乱的物品中间我找到半截蜡烛头。

I lit it. Strickland was lying in the bed, uncomfortably because it was too small for him, and he had put all his clothes over him for warmth. 我把它点上。思特里克兰德正在床上躺着，他躺得很不舒服，因为这张床对他说来显然太小了。为了取暖，他的衣服都在身上盖着。

It was obvious at a glance that he was in a high fever. 一眼就能看出来，他正在发高烧。

Stroeve, his voice cracking with emotion, went up to him. Oh, my poor friend, what is the matter with you? 施特略夫走到床前，因为感情激动连嗓子都哑了。“啊，可怜的朋友，你怎么啦？

I had no idea you were ill. Why didn't you let me know? 我一点也不知道你生病了。为什么你不告诉我一声？

You must know I'd have done anything in the world for you. 你知道为了你我什么事都会做的。

Were you thinking of what I said? I didn't mean it. I was wrong. 你还计较我说的话吗？我不是那个意思。我错了。

It was stupid of me to take offence. Go to hell, said Strickland. 我生了你的气太不应该了。”“见鬼去吧！”思特里克兰德说。

Now, be reasonable. Let me make you comfortable. “别不讲理，好不好？让我使你舒服一些。

Haven't you anyone to look after you? 没有人照料你么？”

He looked round the squalid attic in dismay. 他在这间邋里邋遢的小阁楼里四处张望着，不知从何下手。

He tried to arrange the bed-clothes. Strickland, breathing laboriously, kept an angry silence. 他把思特里克兰德的被子整了一下。思特里克兰德呼呼地喘着气，忍着怒气一语不发。