Chapter 48 four eight

This is the end of the book I was going to write.My original plan was to begin with an account of how Strickland spent the last years of his life in Tahiti and his tragic death, and then return to describe what I knew of his early life.It was not from caprice that I prepared to do this, but because I wanted to close the book with Strickland's voyage; The strange desert island set off.I like the picture of him living to the age of forty-seven (the age at which most people have already fallen into the trough of comfortable life) and setting off to the ends of the earth to find a new world; Foaming everywhere, he gazed bewilderedly at the French coast, which was fading away, never to be seen again.I thought there was something heroic in his conduct, a dauntless courage in his soul.I had wanted the book to end with a glimmer of hope.I think this might highlight Strickland's invincible spirit.But I can't write well; I don't know why I can't write this down, and after a try or two I give up such a structure.I followed the old path and started from the beginning.I have resolved to give what I know of Strickland's life in the order of the facts I have learned.

The facts I have are only fragments.I am in a position much like that of a paleontologist who, from a single bone, must not only reconstruct the appearance of a long-extinct creature, but also infer its habits.Strickland made no particular impression on those who came into contact with him in Tahiti.In the eyes of these people, he is just a tramp who is always short of money. The only difference is that he likes to paint some paintings that they think are inexplicable.It was not until many years after his death that art dealers in Paris and Berlin successively sent several agents to search for Strickland's posthumous works that might have been lost on the island, that they more or less realized that there was once lived a great man among them. figure.At this time, they remembered that they could buy famous paintings that are already priceless today for only a little money, and they let the opportunity slip away from their noses in vain.There was a Jewish merchant in Tahiti named Cohan who had a painting by Strickland in his possession; the circumstances of his acquisition of it were a little unusual.Cohan is a little French old man, with a pair of gentle and kind eyes, always with a smile on his face; he is half a businessman, half a sailor, he owns a speedboat, and often travels bravely to and from the Baumotus Islands Between , Marquesas and Tahiti Islands, the goods needed by the local area were transported, and the dried coconuts, mussel shells and pearls were carried back.I went to see him because I was told he had a big black pearl for sale.When I found out later that he was asking for more than I could afford, I began to speak to him about Strickland.He knew Strickland well.

You know, I'm interested in him because he's a painter, and he said to me that very few painters come to our islands, and I pity him because I think his pictures are bad.I gave him his first job.I have a plantation on the peninsula and need a white overseer.These natives won't work for you unless a white man is watching over them.I said to him: You have enough time to paint, and you can earn some money.I know he's starving, but I pay him well. I don't think he's a satisfactory overseer.I said with a smile. I am not harsh on him.I have always had sympathy for artists.Our family was born that way, you know.But he only worked for a few months.When he saved enough money to buy oil paints and canvases, he wanted to leave this place and go into the wild forest.But I still see him constantly.Every few months he would come to Papeete for a few days; he would get some money from anybody and disappear again.It was during one of his visits that he came to my house and asked me to borrow two hundred francs.He looked like he hadn't eaten a full meal in a week, and I couldn't bear to refuse him.Of course, I know I will never get that money back.Guess what, a year later, he came to see me again, with a painting.He didn't mention borrowing money from me, he just said: This is a painting of your plantation, which I painted for you.I looked at his paintings.I do not know what to say.Of course, I still thank him.After he left, I showed the painting to my wife.

How is he drawing?I asked. Don't ask me this, I don't understand at all.I have never seen such a painting in my life.What shall we do with this painting?I asked my wife to say.Can't hang out at any time, she said, people will laugh out loud.So she took it to the attic, where it was piled up with all kinds of rubbish.My wife doesn't want to throw anything away, it's her habit.Picture yourself, some years later, just before the outbreak of the Great War, my brother wrote me a letter from Paris saying: Have you ever heard of an Englishman who lived in Tahiti?It seems that this man is a genius, and his paintings can sell for a lot of money now.See if you can get hold of any of his drawings and send them to me.This thing is very profitable.So I said to my wife: Do you still have that picture that Strickland gave me?Will it still be in the attic?That's right, she replied, and you know, I don't throw anything away.This is my fault.The two of us went up to the attic, which was piled with assorted junk that had accumulated over the thirty years since our first days in the house.The painting is in these junk piles that I don't even know what they are.I took a closer look.I said: Who would have thought that a foreman on my peninsula plantation, a man who had lent me two hundred francs, was a great genius.Can you see what's good about this picture?No way, she said, nothing like our plantation, and besides I've never seen a coconut tree with blue leaves.They Parisians are crazy, and maybe your brother can sell that painting for two hundred francs, just enough to cover the debt Strickland owes us.Anyway.We still packed the painting and sent it to my brother.Finally I got a reply from him.Guess what he said in his letter?The painting has been received, he said, and I must admit that at first I thought you were joking with me.I really shouldn't pay the postage.I hardly had the guts to show it to the gentleman with whom I had talked about it.You can imagine my surprise when he told me it was a masterpiece and offered thirty thousand francs for it.I guess he's willing to pay more.But to tell you the truth, the incident was so unexpected at the time that it made me dizzy.Before I came to my senses, the deal was done.

Then, Mr. Kouhan said a few words that were really admirable. I wish poor Strickland was alive, and I wondered what he would say when I handed him twenty-nine thousand eight hundred francs for the painting.