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Haven't you got a match, you fool?
“你没有火柴吗，你这笨蛋？”
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.
施特略夫惊叫起来。
Oh, my God, I thought you were dead.
“哎呀，上帝，我还以为你死了呢。”
I struck a match, and looked about for a candle. I had a rapid glimpse of a tiny apartment, half room, half studio, in which was nothing but a bed, canvases with their faces to the wall, an easel, a table, and a chair. There was no carpet on the floor. There was no fireplace. On the table, crowded with paints, palette-knives, and litter of all kinds, was the end of a candle. 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. It was obvious at a glance that he was in a high fever. Stroeve, his voice cracking with emotion, went up to him.
我划了一根火柴，四处看了看有没有蜡烛。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，面对墙放着的是一些画幅，一个画架，一张桌子和一把椅子。地板上光秃秃的没有地毯。室内没有火炉。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。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。一眼就能看出来，他正在发高烧。施特略夫走到床前，因为感情激动连嗓子都哑了。
Oh, my poor friend, what is the matter with you? I had no idea you were ill. Why didn't you let me know? You must know I'd have done anything in the world for you. Were you thinking of what I said? I didn't mean it. I was wrong. It was stupid of me to take offence.
“啊，可怜的朋友，你怎么啦？我一点也不知道你生病了。为什么你不告诉我一声？你知道为了你我什么事都会做的。你还计较我说的话吗？我不是那个意思。我错了。我生了你的气太不应该了。”
Go to hell, said Strickland.
“见鬼去吧！”思特里克兰德说。
Now, be reasonable. Let me make you comfortable. Haven't you anyone to look after you?
“别不讲理，好不好？让我使你舒服一些。没有人照料你么？”
He looked round the squalid attic in dismay. He tried to arrange the bed-clothes. Strickland, breathing laboriously, kept an angry silence.
他在这间邋里邋遢的小阁楼里四处张望着，不知从何下手。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。
