Ata did not speak, but with the boy followed him to the house. The girl who had brought him was by this time sitting on the veranda, and here was lying an old woman, with her back to the wall, making native cigarettes. Ata pointed to the door. The doctor, wondering irritably why they behaved so strangely, entered, and there found Strickland cleaning his palette. There was a picture on the easel. Strickland, clad only in a pareo, was standing with his back to the door, but he turned round when he heard the sound of boots. He gave the doctor a look of vexation. He was surprised to see him, and resented the intrusion. But the doctor gave a gasp, he was rooted to the floor, and he stared with all his eyes. This was not what he expected. He was seized with horror.
'You enter without ceremony', said Strickland. 'What can I do for you?'
The doctor recovered himself, but it required quite an effort for him to find his voice. All his irritation was gone, and he felt – eh bien, oui, je ne le nie pas – he felt an overwhelming pity.
'I am Dr Coutras. I was down at Taravao to see the chiefess, and Ata sent for me to see you.'
'She's a damned fool. I have had a few aches and pains lately and a little fever, but that's nothing; it will pass off. Next time anyone went to Papeete I was going to send for some quinine.'
'Look at yourself in the glass.'
Strickland gave him a glance, smiled, and went over to a cheap mirror in a little wooden frame that hung on the wall.
'Well?'
'Do you not see a strange change in your face? Do you not see the thickening of your features and a look – how shall I describe it? – the books call it lion-faced. Mon pauvie ami, must I tell you that you have a terrible disease?'
'I?'
'When you look at yourself in the glass you see the typical appearance of the leper.'
'You are jesting', said Strickland.
'I wish to God I were.'
'Do you intend to tell me that I have leprosy?'
'Unfortunately, there can be no doubt about it.'
Dr Coutras had delivered sentence of death on many men, and he could never overcome the horror with which it filled him. He felt always the furious hatred that must seize a man condemned when he compared himself with the doctor, sane and healthy, who had the inestimable privilege of life.
Strickland looked at him in silence. Nothing of emotion could be seen on his face, disfigured already by the loathsome disease.
'Do they know?' he asked at last, pointing to the persons on the veranda, now sitting in unusual, unaccountable silence.
'These natives know the signs so well', said the doctor. 'They were afraid to tell you.'
Strickland stepped to the door and looked out. There must have been something terrible in his face, for suddenly they burst out into loud cries and lamentation. They lifted up their voices and they wept. Strickland did not speak. After looking at them for a moment, he came back into the room.
'How long do you think I can last?'
'Who knows? Sometimes the disease continues for twenty years. It is a mercy when it runs its course quickly.'
Strickland went to his easel and looked reflectively at the picture that stood on it.
'You have had a long journey. It is fitting that the bearer of important tidings should be rewarded. Take this picture. It means nothing to you now, but it may be that one day you will be glad to have it.'
Dr Coutras protested that he needed no payment for his journey; he had already given back to Ata the hundred-franc note, but Strickland insisted that he should take the picture. Then together they went out on the veranda. The natives were sobbing violently.
'Be quiet, woman. Dry thy tears', said Strickland, addressing Ata. 'There is no great harm. I shall leave thee very soon.'
They are not going to take thee away?' she cried.
At that time there was no rigid sequestration on the islands, and lepers, if they chose, were allowed to go free.
'I shall go up into the mountain', said Strickland.
Then Ata stood up and faced him.
'Let the others go if they choose, but I will not leave thee. Thou art my man and I am thy woman. If thou leavest me I shall hang myself on the tree that is behind the house. I swear it by God.'
There was something immensely forcible in the way she spoke. She was no longer the meek, soft native girl, but a determined woman. She was extraordinarily transformed.
'Why shouldst thou stay with me? Thou canst go back to Papeete, and thou wilt soon find another white man. The old woman can take care of thy children, and Tiaré will be glad to have thee back.'
'Thou art my man and I am thy woman. Whither thou goest I will go too.'
For a moment Strickland's fortitude was shaken, and a tear filled each of his eyes and trickled slowly down his cheeks. Then he gave the sardonic smile which was usual with him.
'Women are strange little beasts', he said to Dr Coutras. 'You can treat them like dogs, you can beat them till your arm aches, and still they love you.' He shrugged his shoulders. 'Of course, it is one of the most absurd illusions of Christianity that they have souls.'
'What is it that thou art saying to the doctor?' asked Ata suspiciously. 'Thou wilt not go?'
'If it please thee I will stay, poor child.'
Ata flung herself on her knees before him, and clasped his legs with her arms and kissed them. Strickland looked at Dr Coutras with a faint smile.
'In the end they get you, and you are helpless in their hands. White or brown, they are all the same.'
Dr Coutras felt that it was absurd to offer expressions of regret in so terrible a disaster, and he took his leave. Strickland told Tané, the boy, to lead him to the village. Dr Coutras paused for a moment, and then he addressed himself to me.
'I did not like him, I have told you he was not sympathetic to me, but as I walked slowly down to Taravao I could not prevent an unwilling admiration for the stoical courage which enabled him to bear perhaps the most dreadful of human afflictions. When Tané left me I told him I would send some medicine that might be of service; but my hope was small that Strickland would consent to take it, and even smaller that, if he did, it would do him good. I gave the boy a message for Ata that I would come whenever she sent for me. Life is hard, and Nature takes sometimes a terrible delight in torturing her children. It was with a heavy heart that I drove back to my comfortable home in Papeete.'
For a long time none of us spoke.
'But Ata did not send for me,' the doctor went on, at last, 'and it chanced that I did not go to that part of the island for a long time. I had no news of Strickland. Once or twice I heard that Ata had been to Papeete to buy painting materials, but I did not happen to see her. More than two years passed before I went to Taravao again, and then it was once more to see the old chiefess. I asked them whether they had heard anything of Strickland. By now it was known everywhere that he had leprosy. First Tané, the boy, had left the house, and then, a little time afterwards, the old woman and her grandchild. Strickland and Ata were left alone with their babies. No one went near the plantation, for, as you know, the natives have a very lively horror of the disease, and in the old days when it was discovered the sufferer was killed; but sometimes, when the village boys were scrambling about the hills, they would catch sight of the white man, with his great red beard, wandering about. They fled in terror. Sometimes Ata would come down to the village at night and arouse the trader, so that he might sell her various things of which she stood in need. She knew that the natives looked upon her with the same horrified aversion as they looked upon Strickland, and she kept out of their way. Once some women, venturing nearer than usual to the plantation, saw her washing clothes in the brook, and they threw stones at her. After that the trader was told to give her the message that if she used the brook again men would come and burn down her house.'
'Brutes', I said.
'Mais non, mon cher monsieur, men are always the same. Fear makes them cruel... I decided to see Strickland, and when I had finished with the chief
ess asked for a boy to show me the way. But none would accompany me, and I was forced to find it alone.'
When Dr Coutras arrived at the plantation he was seized, with a feeling of uneasiness. Though he was hot from walking, he shivered. There was something hostile in the air which made him hesitate, and he felt that invisible forces barred his way. Unseen hands seemed to draw him back. No one would go near now to gather the coconuts, and they lay rotting on the ground. Everywhere was desolation. The bush was encroaching, and it looked as though very soon the primeval forest would regain possession of that strip of land which had been snatched from it at the cost of so much labour. He had the sensation that here was the abode of pain. As he approached the house he was struck by the unearthly silence, and at first he thought it was deserted. Then he saw Ata. She was sitting on her haunches in the lean-to that served her as kitchen, watching some mess cooking in a pot. Near her a small boy was playing silently in the dirt. She did not smile when she saw him.
'I have come to see Strickland', he said.
'I will go and tell him.'
She went to the house, ascended the few steps that led to the veranda, and entered. Dr Coutras followed her, but waited outside in obedience to her gesture. As she opened the door he smelt the sickly sweet smell which makes the neighbourhood of the leper nauseous. He heard her speak, and then he heard Strickland's answer, but he did not recognize the voice. It had become hoarse and indistinct. Dr Coutras raised his eyebrows. He judged that the disease had already attacked the vocal cords. Then Ata came out again.
'He will not see you. You must go away.'
Dr Coutras insisted, but she would not let him pass. Dr
Coutras shrugged his shoulders, and after a moment's
reflection turned away. She walked with him. He felt that
she too wanted to be rid of him. 'Is there nothing I can do at all?' he asked. 'You can send him some paints', she said. 'There is
nothing else he wants.' 'Can he paint still?' 'He is painting the walls of the house.' 'This is a terrible life for you, my poor child.' Then at last she smiled, and there was in her eyes a look
of superhuman love. Dr Coutras was startled by it, and
amazed. And he was awed. He found nothing to say. 'He is my man', she said. 'Where is your other child?' he asked. 'When I was here
last you had two.' 'Yes; it died. We buried it under the mango.' When Ata had gone with him a little way she said she
must turn back. Dr Coutras surmised she was afraid to go
farther in case she met any of the people from the village.
He told her again that if she wanted him she had only to
send and he would come at once.
56
Then two years more went by, or perhaps three, for time passes imperceptibly in Tahiti, and it is hard to keep count of it; but at last a message was brought to Dr Coutras that Strickland was dying. Ata had waylaid the cart that took the mail into Papeete, and besought the man who drove it to go at once to the doctor. But the doctor was out when the summons came, and it was evening when he received it. It was impossible to start at so late an hour, and so it was not till next day soon after dawn that he set out. He arrived at Taravao, and for the last time tramped the seven kilometres that led to Ata's house. The path was overgrown, and it was clear that for years now it had remained all but untrodden. It was not easy to find the way. Sometimes he had to stumble along the bed of the stream, and sometimes he had to push through shrubs, dense and thorny; often he was obliged to climb over rocks in order to avoid the hornet-nests that hung on the trees over his head. The silence was intense.
It was with a sigh of relief that at last he came upon the little unpainted house, extraordinarily bedraggled now, and unkempt; but here too was the same intolerable silence. He walked up, and a little boy, playing unconcernedly in the sunshine, started at his approach and fled quickly away: to him the stranger was the enemy. Dr Coutras had a sense that the child was stealthily watching him from behind a tree. The door was wide open. He called out, but no one answered. He stepped in. He knocked at a door, but again there was no answer. He turned the handle and entered. The stench that assailed him turned him horribly sick. He put his handkerchief to his nose and forced himself to go in. The light was dim, and after the brilliant sunshine for a while he could see nothing. Then he gave a start. He could not make out where he was. He seemed on a sudden to have entered a magic world. He had a vague impression of a great primeval forest and of naked people walking beneath the trees. Then he saw that there were paintings on the walls.
'Mon Dieu, I hope the sun hasn't affected me', he muttered. A slight movement attracted his attention, and he saw that Ata was lying on the floor, sobbing quietly.
'Ata', he called. 'Ata.'
She took no notice. Again the beastly stench almost made him faint, and he lit a cheroot. His eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and now he was seized by an overwhelming sensation as he stared at the painted walls. He knew nothing of pictures, but there was something about these that extraordinarily affected him. From floor to ceiling the walls were covered with a strange and elaborate composition. It was indescribably wonderful and mysterious. It took his breath away. It filled him with an emotion which he could not understand or analyse. He felt the awe and the delight which a man might feel who watched the beginning of a world. It was tremendous, sensual, passionate; and yet there was something horrible there too, something which made him afraid. It was the work of a man who had delved into the hidden depths of nature and had discovered secrets which were beautiful and fearful too. It was the work of a man who knew things which it is unholy for men to know. There was something primeval there and terrible. It was not human. It brought to his mind vague recollections of black magic. It was beautiful and obscene.
'Mon Dieu, this is genius.'
The words were wrung from him, and he did not know he had spoken.
Then his eyes fell on the bed of mats in the corner, and he went up, and he saw the dreadful, mutilated, ghastly object which had been Strickland. He was dead. Dr Coutras made an effort of will and bent over that battered horror. Then he started violently, and terror blazed in his heart, for he felt that someone was behind him. It was Ata. He had not heard her get up. She was standing at his elbow, looking at what he looked at.
'Good Heavens, my nerves are all distraught', he said, 'You nearly frightened me out of my wits.'
He looked again at the poor dead thing that had been man, and then he started back in dismay.
'But he was blind.'
'Yes; he had been blind for nearly a year.'
57
At that moment we were interrupted by the appearance of Madame Coutras, who had been paying visits. She came in, like a ship in full sail, an imposing creature, tall and stout, with an ample bust and an obesity girthed in alarmingly by straight-fronted corsets. She had a bold hooked nose and three chins. She held herself upright. She had not yielded for an instant to the enervating charm of the tropics, but contrariwise was more active, more worldly, more decided than anyone in a temperate clime would have thought it possible to be. She was evidently a copious talker, and now poured forth a breathless stream of anecdote and comment. She made the conversation we had just had seem far away and unreal.
Presently Dr Coutras turned to me.
'I still have in my bureau the picture that Strickland gave me', he said. 'Would you like to see it?'
'Willingly.'
We got up, and he led me on to the veranda which surrounded his house. We paused to look at the gay flowers that rioted in his garden.
'For a long time I could not get out of my head the recollection of the extraordinary decoration with which Strickland had covered the walls of his house', he said reflectively.
I had been thinking of it too. It seemed to me that here Strickland had finally put the whole expression of himself. Working silently, knowing that it was his last chance, I fancied that here he must have said all that he knew of life and all
that he divined. And I fancied that perhaps here he had at last found peace. The demon which possessed him was exorcized at last, and with the completion of the work, for which all his life had been a painful preparation, rest descended on his remote and tortured soul. He was willing to die, for he had fulfilled his purpose.
'What was the subject?' I asked.
'I scarcely know. It was strange and fantastic. It was a vision of the beginnings of the world, the Garden of Eden, with Adam and Eve – que sais-jel – it was a hymn to the beauty of the human form, male and female, and the praise of Nature, sublime, indifferent, lovely, and cruel. It gave you an awful sense of the infinity of space and of the endlessness of time. Because he painted the trees I see about me every day, the coconuts, the banyans, the flamboyants, the alligator pears, I have seen them ever since differently, as though there were in them a spirit and a mystery which I am ever on the point of seizing and which for ever escapes me. The colours were the colours familiar to me, and yet they were different. They had a significance which was all their own. And those nude men and women. They were of the earth, the clay of which they were created, and at the same time something divine. You saw man in the nakedness of his primeval instincts, and you were afraid, for you saw yourself.'
Dr Coutras shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
'You will laugh at me. I am a materialist, and I am a gross, fat man – Falstaff, eh? – the lyrical mode does not become me. I make myself ridiculous. But I have never seen painting which made so deep an impression upon me. Tenez, I had just the same feeling as when I went to the Sistine Chapel in Rome. There too I was awed by the greatness of the man who had painted that ceiling. It was genius, and it was stupendous and overwhelming. I felt small and insignificant. But you are prepared for the greatness of Michael Angelo. Nothing had prepared me for the immense surprise of these pictures in a native hut, far away from civilization, in a fold of the mountain above Taravao. And Michael Angelo is sane and healthy. Those great works of his have the calm of the sublime; but here, notwithstanding beauty, was something troubling. I do not know what it was. It made me uneasy. It gave me the impression you get when you are sitting next door to a room that you know is empty, but in which, you know not why, you have a dreadful consciousness that notwithstanding there is someone. You scold yourself; you know it is only your nerves – and yet, and yet... In a little while it is impossible to resist the terror that seizes you, and you are helpless in the clutch of an unseen horror. Yes: I confess I was not altogether sorry when I heard that those strange masterpieces had been destroyed.'