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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 it was a hymn to the beauty of the human form； male and
female； and the praise of Nature； sublime； indifferent； lovely； and cruel。
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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
cocoa…nuts； 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 forever 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； and yet apart from it。
They seemed to possess something of 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。 ； 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
civilisation； 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。〃
〃Destroyed？〃 I cried。
〃； did you not know？〃
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〃How should I know？ It is true I had never heard of this work； but I
thought perhaps it had fallen into the hands of a private owner。 Even
now there is no certain list of Strickland's paintings。〃
〃When he grew blind he would sit hour after hour in those two rooms
that he had painted； looking at his works with sightless eyes； and seeing；
perhaps； more than he had ever seen in his life before。 Ata told me that
he never complained of his fate； he never lost courage。 To the end his
mind remained serene and undisturbed。 But he made her promise that
when she had buried him did I tell you that I dug his grave with my own
hands； for none of the natives would approach the infected house； and we
buried him； she and I； sewn up in three joined together； under
the mango…tree he made her promise that she would set fire to the house
and not leave it till it was burned to the ground and not a stick remained。〃
I did not speak for a while； for I was thinking。 Then I said：
〃He remained the same to the end； then。〃
〃Do you understand？ I must tell you that I thought it my duty to
dissuade her。〃
〃Even after what you have just said？〃
〃Yes； for I knew that here was a work of genius； and I did not think we
had the right to deprive the world of it。 But Ata would not listen to me。
She had promised。 I would not stay to witness the barbarous deed； and it
was only afterwards that I heard what she had done。 She poured paraffin
on the dry floors and on the pandanus…mats； and then she set fire。 In a
little while nothing remained but smouldering embers； and a great
masterpiece existed no longer。
〃I think Strickland knew it was a masterpiece。 He had achieved what
he wanted。 His life was complete。 He had made a world and saw that it
was good。 Then； in pride and contempt； he destroyed； it。〃
〃But I must show you my picture；〃 said Dr。 Coutras； moving on。
〃What happened to Ata and the child？〃
They went to the Marquesas。 She had relations there。 I have heard
that the boy works on one of Cameron's schooners。 They say he is very
like his father in appearance。〃
At the door that led from the verandah to the doctor's consulting…room；
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he paused and smiled。
〃It is a fruit…piece。 You would think it not a very suitable picture for
a doctor's consulting…room； but my wife will not have it in the drawing…
room。 She says it is frankly obscene。〃
〃A fruit…piece！〃 I exclaimed in surprise。
We entered the room； and my eyes fell at once on the picture。 I looked
at it for a long time。
It was a pile of mangoes； bananas； oranges； and I know not what。
and at first sight it was an innocent picture enough。 It would have been
passed in an exhibition of the Post… Impressionists by a careless person as
an excellent but not very remarkable example of the school； but perhaps
afterwards it would come back to his recollection； and he would wonder
why。 I do not think then he could ever entirely forget it。
The colours were so strange that words can hardly tell what a troubling
emotion they gave。 They were sombre blues； opaque like a delicately
carved bowl in lapis lazuli； and yet with a quivering lustre that suggested
the palpitation of mysterious life； there were purples； horrible like raw and
putrid flesh； and yet with a glowing； sensual passion that called up vague
memories of the Roman Empire of Heliogabalus； there were reds； shrill
like the berries of holly one thought of Christmas in England； and the
snow； the good cheer； and the pleasure of children and yet by some
magic softened till they had the swooning tenderness of a dove's breast；
there were deep yellows that died with an unnatural passion into a green as
fragrant as the spring and as pure as the sparkling water of a mountain
brook。 Who can tell what anguished fancy made these fruits？ They
belonged to a Polynesian garden of the Hesperides。 There was something
strangely alive in them； as though they were created in a stage of the
earth's dark history when things were not irrevocably fixed to their forms。
They were extravagantly luxurious。 They were heavy with tropical
odours。 They seemed to possess a sombre passion of their own。 It was
enchanted fruit； to taste which might open the gateway to God knows what
secrets of the soul and to mysterious palaces of the imagination。 They
were sullen with unawaited dangers； and to eat them might turn a man to
beast or god。 All that was healthy and natural； all that clung to happy
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relationships and the simple joys of simple men； shrunk from them in
dismay； and yet a fearful attraction was in them； and； like the fruit on the