Chapter 58 five eight

The day has come for me to leave Tahiti.According to the island's hospitable habits, all people who I met by chance and I knew a little bit gave me some gifts such as baskets woven from coconut leaves, mats woven from pandanus leaves, and fans when they parted.What Tiare gave me were three little pearls and three jars of guava jam, which she made herself with her fat hands.Finally, when the Wellington-to-San Francisco cruise ship was moored for twenty-four hours at the wharf, with its siren beeping to welcome the passengers aboard, Tiare hugged me in her big bosom (I had a kind of fall on feeling in rough seas), with teardrops in her eyes, pressing her red lips to mine.As the ship sailed slowly out of the lagoon, and cautiously sailed through a passage in the coral reef to the open sea, a burst of sadness suddenly hit my heart.The air is still filled with the intoxicating aroma from the land, but Tahiti is very far away from me.I know I'll never see it again.Another page in the history of my life was turned; I felt that I was one step closer to the death from which no one can escape.

A month and a few days later, I was back in London.Having settled some urgent matters, I wrote to Mrs. Strickland, thinking that she might wish to know what had become of her husband's last years.We hadn't seen each other for a long time before the war. I didn't know where she lived at this time, so I had to look in the phone book to find her address.In her reply she appointed a day on which I should pay her a visit to her new home, a tidy little house in Campden Hill.Mrs. Strickland was at this time nearly sixty years old, but she did not look old at all, and no one would believe that she was over fifty.Her face was thinner and less wrinkled, the kind of face that age hardly marks, and you would think she must have been a beauty when she was young, much more beautiful than she really was.Her hair was not completely gray, but it was combed to suit her status, and the black gown on her body was very fashionable.I seem to have heard it said that her sister, Mrs. MacAndrew, died a few years after her husband's, leaving Mrs. Strickland some money.From the tidy appearance of her present lodgings and the maid who opened the door for us, I guessed that this sum was sufficient to keep the widow in a comfortable life.

I did not realize until I was shown into the living room that there was another guest in the room.When I learned the identity of this visitor, I guessed that Mrs. Strickland's invitation to come at this time was not without purpose.This visitor is Fan.Giving.Mr. Taylor, an American; Mrs. Strickland, showing him a lovely smile apologetically, gave me a detailed introduction to his situation. You know, we Brits are terribly narrow-minded.You must forgive me if I have to explain something.Then she turned to me and said, "Van.Giving.Mr. Taylor is the most famous critic in America.If you have not read him, your education is lacking; you must immediately set about making up for it.Mr. Taylor is writing something now, about dear Charles.He came to me specifically to see if I could help him.

Fan.Giving.Mr. Taylor was very thin, with a large bald head, bristly and glistening; beneath the broad brow was a yellow, wrinkled, dry and thin face.His demeanor was quiet and courteous, and he spoke with a New England accent.This man strikes me as very rigid and unenthusiastic; I don't know how he ever thought of studying Charles.Here comes Strickland.Mrs. Strickland spoke of her dead husband with such tenderness that I amused myself.While the two were talking, I surveyed the living room in which we were sitting.Mrs. Strickland was a fashionista.Gone were the interiors of her former home in Ashley Gardens, the Morris wallpaper no longer pasted on the walls, the homely prints no longer covering the furniture, the pictures of Arundel that used to adorn the walls of the drawing room. They were also withdrawn.Now this drawing-room is full of wild colors, and I doubt whether she knows that her fashion of adorning the house is the result of the dreams of a poor painter on an island in the South Sea.She answered my question herself.

These cushions of yours are truly amazing.Fan.Giving.Mr Taylor said. How do you like it?She laughed and said, Baxter designed it, you know. 【Note】Leon.Nikolaevich.Baxter: (1866︱1924), Russian painter and stage designer. But there are also several colored reproductions of Strickland's best paintings hanging on the walls; this is attributed to an ambitious printer in Berlin. You are looking at my paintings, seeing where my eyes are, she said, of course, I can't get his original paintings, but these are enough.It was offered to me by the publisher.It was a great comfort to me. It is really a great pleasure to enjoy these paintings every day.Fan.Giving.Mr Taylor said.

Not bad at all.These paintings are extremely decorative. This is also one of my most basic views, Van.Giving.Mr. Taylor said that great art has always been the most decorative value. Their eyes fell on a naked woman nursing a child, and beside her a young girl knelt and handed a flower to a child, who paid no attention.A wrinkled, skinny old woman watched them.This is Strickland's painting of the Holy Family.I guessed that the people in the painting were his sojourners in the house near the village of Tarawa, and that the nursing woman and the baby in her arms were Ata and their first child.I wondered if Mrs. Strickland knew a thing or two about these things.

The conversation goes on.I admire Fan very much.Giving.Mr. Taylor's sophistication; any embarrassing subject, he completely avoided.I was also very much struck by Mrs. Strickland's tact; though she said nothing untrue, she gave ample hints that she and her husband were on very good terms, and never had any quarrels.Finally, Van.Giving.Mr. Taylor rose to take his leave, shook the hand of his hostess, and left us with a long, beautiful, if not too artificial, thank you. I hope this man has not bored you, when the door is in the van.Giving.Mrs. Strickland said after Tyler's back was closed.Of course, sometimes it is really annoying, but I always feel that if someone comes to know about Charles, I should try to provide them with what I know.As a widow of a great genius, this should be an obligation.

She looked at me with her lovely eyes, which were very sincere and kind, exactly the same as they were more than twenty years ago.I kind of wondered if she was playing tricks on me. Your typing office must have closed down long ago, right?I said. Ah, of course, she said carelessly, I opened that typing office mainly for fun, and there was no other reason.Later, my two children persuaded me to sell it to others.They thought it was too much of a drain on my spirits. I found that Mrs. Strickland had forgotten the disgraceful history of having to support herself.Like any decent woman, she genuinely believed that the only proper behavior was to depend on others for support.

They're all at home, she said, and I think they'd love to hear you tell them about their father.Do you remember Robert?I'm glad to be able to tell you that his name has been put up and he's on the verge of receiving the Army Cross. She went to the door to greet them.In came a tall man in khakis with a priest's collar around his neck.The man was tall, with a robust beauty, and his eyes were still as sincere and open as they had been in his childhood.Behind him came his sister; she must have been about the same age as when I first saw her mother.She looked very much like her mother, and gave the impression that as a child she must have looked more beautiful than she really was.

I don't think you remember them at all, said Mrs. Strickland, smiling proudly.My daughter is now Mrs. Donaldson, and her husband is a major in the artillery regiment. He's a real soldier from a soldier's side, Mrs. Donaldson said cheerfully, so he's just now a major. I remembered my prophecy a long time ago: she will definitely marry a soldier in the future.It seems that this matter has long been doomed.She had the demeanor of a soldier's wife.She is genial and gracious, but on the other hand she makes little secret of her inner conviction that she is different from other people.Robert's spirits were running high.

What a coincidence, you are here just as I am in London, he said, I only have three days off. He wanted to go back as soon as possible.his mother said. Ah, I admit it, I had a lot of fun at the front.I have made many friends.Life there is really top notch.Of course, war is terrible, and everyone knows those things very well.But war can indeed show the excellent nature of a person, and no one can deny this. After that, I put what I heard about Charles.Strickland told them all about Tahiti.I did not think it necessary to mention Ata and her child, but the rest I have told the truth.After I finished talking about the circumstances of his tragic death, I didn't say any more.No one spoke for a minute or two.Later Robert.Strickland struck a match and lit a cigarette. God's millstone turns slowly, but grinds very finely.said Robert, quite sanctimoniously. Mrs. Strickland and Mrs. Donaldson bowed their heads reverently.I have no doubt at all that the mother and daughter acted so piously because they both thought that Robert had just quoted a sentence from the Bible.To be honest, I am not sure whether even Robert himself is absolutely free from this delusion.For some reason I suddenly thought of the child Ata had borne to Strickland.According to others, this is a lively, cheerful, happy young man.In my imagination, I seem to see a brig, and this young man is working on the ship, naked, except for a piece of coarse blue cloth around the waist; it is dark, the ship is blown by the breeze, Gliding briskly on the sea, the sailors gathered on the upper deck, and the captain and a cargo officer sat on canvas chairs and smoked their pipes freely.The Strickland boy danced with another lad, and they danced wildly to the hoarse accordion.Above the head is a blue sky, the stars are shining, and the Pacific Ocean is vast and vast. 【Note】Many foreign poets and scholars have said the phrase "God's millstone" that Robert said.The American poet Longfellow also wrote a similar verse, which is not from the Bible. Another sentence from the Bible came to my lips, but I restrained myself from uttering it, because I knew that priests did not like laity encroaching on their domain, which they considered blasphemy.My Uncle Henry, who was vicar for twenty-seven years in the parish of Witterstable, would say at such occasions that the devil always quotes the Bible when he wants to do evil.He never forgot the time when he could buy thirteen oysters for a shilling. (End of the book)