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paint ideas which were more suitable to literature。
Strickland at this time must have been nearly forty…seven。
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Chapter XLV
I have said already that but for the hazard of a journey to Tahiti I
should doubtless never have written this book。 It is thither that after
many wanderings Charles Strickland came； and it is there that he painted
the pictures on which his fame most securely rests。 I suppose no artist
achieves completely the realisation of the dream that obsesses him； and
Strickland； harassed incessantly by his struggle with technique； managed；
perhaps； less than others to express the vision that he saw with his mind's
eye； but in Tahiti the circumstances were favourable to him； he found in
his surroundings the accidents necessary for his inspiration to become
effective； and his later pictures give at least a suggestion of what he sought。
They offer the imagination something new and strange。 It is as though in
this far country his spirit； that had wandered disembodied； seeking a
tenement； at last was able to clothe itself in flesh。 To use the hackneyed
phrase； here he found himself。
It would seem that my visit to this remote island should immediately
revive my interest in Strickland； but the work I was engaged in occupied
my attention to the exclusion of something that was irrelevant； and it was
not till I had been there some days that I even remembered his connection
with it。 After all； I had not seen him for fifteen years； and it was nine since
he died。 But I think my arrival at Tahiti would have driven out of my
head matters of much more immediate importance to me； and even after a
week I found it not easy to order myself soberly。 I remember that on my
first morning I awoke early； and when I came on to the terrace of the hotel
no one was stirring。 I wandered round to the kitchen； but it was locked；
and on a bench outside it a native boy was sleeping。 There seemed no
chance of breakfast for some time； so I sauntered down to the water…front。
The Chinamen were already busy in their shops。 The sky had still the
pallor of dawn； and there was a ghostly silence on the lagoon。 Ten miles
away the island of Murea； like some high fastness of the Holy Grail；
guarded its mystery。
I did not altogether believe my eyes。 The days that had passed since I
left Wellington seemed extraordinary and unusual。 Wellington is trim
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and neat and English； it reminds you of a seaport town on the South Coast。
And for three days afterwards the sea was stormy。 Gray clouds chased
one another across the sky。 Then the wind dropped； and the sea was calm
and blue。 The Pacific is more desolate than other seas； its spaces seem
more vast； and the most ordinary journey upon it has somehow the feeling
of an adventure。 The air you breathe is an elixir which prepares you for
the unexpected。 Nor is it vouchsafed to man in the flesh to know aught
that more nearly suggests the approach to the golden realms of fancy than
the approach to Tahiti。 Murea； the sister isle； comes into view in rocky
splendour； rising from the desert sea mysteriously； like the unsubstantial
fabric of a magic wand。 With its jagged outline it is like a Monseratt of
the Pacific； and you may imagine that there Polynesian knights guard with
strange rites mysteries unholy for men to know。 The beauty of the island
is unveiled as diminishing distance shows you in distincter shape its lovely
peaks； but it keeps its secret as you sail by； and； darkly inviolable； seems
to fold itself together in a stony； inaccessible grimness。 It would not
surprise you if； as you came near seeking for an opening in the reef； it
vanished suddenly from your view； and nothing met your gaze but the blue
loneliness of the Pacific。
Tahiti is a lofty green island； with deep folds of a darker green； in
which you divine silent valleys； there is mystery in their sombre depths；
down which murmur and plash cool streams； and you feel that in those
umbrageous places life from immemorial times has been led according to
immemorial ways。 Even here is something sad and terrible。 But the
impression is fleeting； and serves only to give a greater acuteness to the
enjoyment of the moment。 It is like the sadness which you may see in
the jester's eyes when a merry company is laughing at his sallies； his lips
smile and his jokes are gayer because in the communion of laughter he
finds himself more intolerably alone。 For Tahiti is smiling and friendly； it
is like a lovely woman graciously prodigal of her charm and beauty； and
nothing can be more conciliatory than the entrance into the harbour at
Papeete。 The schooners moored to the quay are trim and neat； the little
town along the bay is white and urbane； and the flamboyants； scarlet
against the blue sky； flaunt their colour like a cry of passion。 They are
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sensual with an unashamed violence that leaves you breathless。 And the
crowd that throngs the wharf as the steamer draws alongside is gay and
debonair； it is a noisy； cheerful； gesticulating crowd。 It is a sea of brown
faces。 You have an impression of coloured movement against the
flaming blue of the sky。 Everything is done with a great deal of bustle； the
unloading of the baggage； the examination of the customs； and everyone
seems to smile at you。 It is very hot。 The colour dazzles you。
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Chapter XLVI
HAD not been in Tahiti long before I met Captain Nichols。 He came
in one morning when I was having breakfast on the terrace of the hotel and
introduced himself。 He had heard that I was interested in Charles
Strickland； and announced that he was come to have a talk about him。
They are as fond of gossip in Tahiti as in an English village； and one or
two enquiries I had made for pictures by Strickland had been quickly
spread。 I asked the stranger if he had breakfasted。
〃Yes； I have my coffee early；〃 he answered； 〃but I don't mind having a
drop of whisky。〃
I called the Chinese boy。
〃You don't think it's too early？〃 said the Captain。
〃You and your liver must decide that between you；〃 I replied。
〃I'm practically a teetotaller；〃 he said； as he poured himself out a good
half…tumbler of Canadian Club。
When he smiled he showed broken and discoloured teeth。 He was a
very lean man； of no more than average height； with gray hair cut short
and a stubbly gray moustache。 He had not shaved for a couple of days。
His face was deeply lined； burned brown by long exposure to the sun； and
he had a pair of small blue eyes which were astonishingly shifty。 They
moved quickly； following my smallest gesture； and they gave him the look
of a very thorough rogue。 But at the moment he was all heartiness and
good…fellowship。 He was dressed in a bedraggled suit of khaki； and his
hands would have been all the better for a wash。
〃I knew Strickland well；〃 he said； as he leaned back in his chair and lit
the cigar I had offered him。 〃It's through me he came out to the islands。〃
〃Where did you meet him？〃 I asked。
〃In Marseilles。〃
〃What were you doing there？〃
He gave me an ingratiating smile。
〃Well； I guess I was on the beach。〃
My friend's appearance suggested that he was now in the same
predicament； and I prepared myself to cultivate an agreeable acquaintance。
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