Chapter XLVIII

by William Somerset Maugham

　　It is here that I purposed to end my book. My first idea wasto begin it with the account of Strickland's last years inTahiti and with his horrible death, and then to go back andrelate what I knew of his beginnings. This I meant to do,not from wilfulness, but because I wished to leave Stricklandsetting out with I know not what fancies in his lonely soulfor the unknown islands which fired his imagination. I likedthe picture of him starting at the age of forty-seven,when most men have already settled comfortably in a groove,for a new world. I saw him, the sea gray under the mistral andfoam-flecked, watching the vanishing coast of France, which hewas destined never to see again; and I thought there wassomething gallant in his bearing and dauntless in his soul.I wished so to end on a note of hope. It seemed to emphasisethe unconquerable spirit of man. But I could not manage it.Somehow I could not get into my story, and after trying onceor twice I had to give it up; I started from the beginning inthe usual way, and made up my mind I could only tell what Iknew of Strickland's life in the order in which I learnt the facts.Those that I have now are fragmentary. I am in the positionof a biologist who from a single bone must reconstruct notonly the appearance of an extinct animal, but its habits.Strickland made no particular impression on the people whocame in contact with him in Tahiti. To them he was no morethan a beach-comber in constant need of money, remarkable onlyfor the peculiarity that he painted pictures which seemed tothem absurd; and it was not till he had been dead for someyears and agents came from the dealers in Paris and Berlin tolook for any pictures which might still remain on the island,that they had any idea that among them had dwelt a man of consequence.They remembered then that they could have bought fora song canvases which now were worth large sums, and theycould not forgive themselves for the opportunity which hadescaped them. There was a Jewish trader called Cohen, who hadcome by one of Strickland's pictures in a singular way.He was a little old Frenchman, with soft kind eyes and a pleasantsmile, half trader and half seaman, who owned a cutter inwhich he wandered boldly among the Paumotus and the Marquesas,taking out trade goods and bringing back copra, shell, and pearls.I went to see him because I was told he had a large blackpearl which he was willing to sell cheaply, and when Idiscovered that it was beyond my means I began to talk to himabout Strickland. He had known him well."You see, I was interested in him because he was a painter,"he told me. "We don't get many painters in the islands, and Iwas sorry for him because he was such a bad one. I gave himhis first job. I had a plantation on the peninsula, and Iwanted a white overseer. You never get any work out of thenatives unless you have a white man over them. I said to him:`You'll have plenty of time for painting, and you can earn abit of money.' I knew he was starving, but I offered him good wages.""I can't imagine that he was a very satisfactory overseer,"I said, smiling."I made allowances. I have always had a sympathy for artists.It is in our blood, you know. But he only remained a fewmonths. When he had enough money to buy paints and canvaseshe left me. The place had got hold of him by then, and hewanted to get away into the bush. But I continued to see himnow and then. He would turn up in Papeete every few monthsand stay a little while; he'd get money out of someone orother and then disappear again. It was on one of these visitsthat he came to me and asked for the loan of two hundredfrancs. He looked as if he hadn't had a meal for a week, andI hadn't the heart to refuse him. Of course, I never expectedto see my money again. Well, a year later he came to see meonce more, and he brought a picture with him. He did notmention the money he owed me, but he said: `Here is a pictureof your plantation that I've painted for you.' I looked at it.I did not know what to say, but of course I thanked him, andwhen he had gone away I showed it to my wife.""What was it like?" I asked."Do not ask me. I could not make head or tail of it. I neversaw such a thing in my life. `What shall we do with it?'I said to my wife. `We can never hang it up,' she said.`People would laugh at us.' So she took it into an attic andput it away with all sorts of rubbish, for my wife can neverthrow anything away. It is her mania. Then, imagine toyourself, just before the war my brother wrote to me fromParis, and said: `Do you know anything about an Englishpainter who lived in Tahiti? It appears that he was a genius,and his pictures fetch large prices. See if you can lay yourhands on anything and send it to me. There's money to bemade.' So I said to my wife. `What about that picture thatStrickland gave me?' Is it possible that it is still in theattic?' `Without doubt,' she answered, ` for you know that Inever throw anything away. It is my mania.' We went up to theattic, and there, among I know not what rubbish that had beengathered during the thirty years we have inhabited that house,was the picture. I looked at it again, and I said:`Who would have thought that the overseer of my plantation onthe peninsula, to whom I lent two hundred francs, had genius?Do you see anything in the picture?' `No,' she said, `it does notresemble the plantation and I have never seen cocoa-nuts withblue leaves; but they are mad in Paris, and it may be thatyour brother will be able to sell it for the two hundredfrancs you lent Strickland.' Well, we packed it up and we sentit to my brother. And at last I received a letter from him.What do you think he said? `I received your picture,' he said,`and I confess I thought it was a joke that you had played on me.I would not have given the cost of postage for the picture.I was half afraid to show it to the gentleman whohad spoken to me about it. Imagine my surprise when he saidit was a masterpiece, and offered me thirty thousand francs.I dare say he would have paid more, but frankly I was so takenaback that I lost my head; I accepted the offer before I wasable to collect myself.'"Then Monsieur Cohen said an admirable thing."I wish that poor Strickland had been still alive. I wonderwhat he would have said when I gave him twenty-nine thousandeight hundred francs for his picture."