________________________________________________
_ Mr. Coutras was an old Frenchman of great stature and
exceeding bulk. His body was shaped like a huge duck's egg;
and his eyes, sharp, blue, and good-natured, rested now and
then with self-satisfaction on his enormous paunch. His
complexion was florid and his hair white. He was a man to
attract immediate sympathy. He received us in a room that
might have been in a house in a provincial town in France, and
the one or two Polynesian curios had an odd look. He took my
hand in both of his -- they were huge -- and gave me a hearty
look, in which, however, was great shrewdness. When he shook
hands with Capitaine Brunot he enquired politely after
Madame et les enfants. For some minutes there was an
exchange of courtesies and some local gossip about the island,
the prospects of copra and the vanilla crop; then we came to
the object of my visit.
I shall not tell what Dr. Coutras related to me in his words,
but in my own, for I cannot hope to give at second hand any
impression of his vivacious delivery. He had a deep, resonant
voice, fitted to his massive frame, and a keen sense of the
dramatic. To listen to him was, as the phrase goes, as good
as a play; and much better than most.
It appears that Dr. Coutras had gone one day to Taravao in
order to see an old chiefess who was ill, and he gave a vivid
picture of the obese old lady, lying in a huge bed, smoking
cigarettes, and surrounded by a crowd of dark-skinned retainers.
When he had seen her he was taken into another room
and given dinner -- raw fish, fried bananas, and chicken --
que sais-je, the typical dinner of the indigene --
and while he was eating it he saw a young girl being driven
away from the door in tears. He thought nothing of it, but
when he went out to get into his trap and drive home, he saw
her again, standing a little way off; she looked at him with a
woebegone air, and tears streamed down her cheeks. He asked
someone what was wrong with her, and was told that she had
come down from the hills to ask him to visit a white man who
was sick. They had told her that the doctor could not be
disturbed. He called her, and himself asked what she wanted.
She told him that Ata had sent her, she who used to be at the
Hotel de la Fleur, and that the Red One was ill. She thrust
into his hand a crumpled piece of newspaper, and when he
opened it he found in it a hundred-franc note.
"Who is the Red One?" he asked of one of the bystanders.
He was told that that was what they called the Englishman, a
painter, who lived with Ata up in the valley seven kilometres
from where they were. He recognised Strickland by the
description. But it was necessary to walk. It was impossible
for him to go; that was why they had sent the girl away.
"I confess," said the doctor, turning to me, "that I
hesitated. I did not relish fourteen kilometres over a bad
pathway, and there was no chance that I could get back to
Papeete that night. Besides, Strickland was not sympathetic
to me. He was an idle, useless scoundrel, who preferred to
live with a native woman rather than work for his living like
the rest of us. Mon Dieu, how was I to know that one day
the world would come to the conclusion that he had genius?
I asked the girl if he was not well enough to have come down to
see me. I asked her what she thought was the matter with him.
She would not answer. I pressed her, angrily perhaps, but she
looked down on the ground and began to cry. Then I shrugged
my shoulders; after all, perhaps it was my duty to go, and in
a very bad temper I bade her lead the way."
His temper was certainly no better when he arrived, perspiring
freely and thirsty. Ata was on the look-out for him, and came
a little way along the path to meet him.
"Before I see anyone give me something to drink or I shall die
of thirst," he cried out. " Pour l'amour de Dieu, get me a
cocoa-nut."
She called out, and a boy came running along. He swarmed up a
tree, and presently threw down a ripe nut. Ata pierced a hole
in it, and the doctor took a long, refreshing draught.
Then he rolled himself a cigarette and felt in a better humour.
"Now, where is the Red One?" he asked.
"He is in the house, painting. I have not told him you were
coming. Go in and see him."
"But what does he complain of? If he is well enough to paint,
he is well enough to have come down to Taravao and save me
this confounded walk. I presume my time is no less valuable
than his."
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
verandah, 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 pauvre 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 of 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 verandah, 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
all 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 verandah. 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 Tiare 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 Tane, 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 Tane 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 Tane, 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 chiefess 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 cocoa-nuts, 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
verandah, 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 recognise the voice.
It had become hoarse and indistinct. Dr. Coutras raised his
eyebrows. He judged that the disease had already attacked the
vocal chords. 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 rejection 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. _
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